William Bernhardt - Nemesis - The Final Case of Eliot Ness

“Maybe it was some kind of sordid love triangle that went bad.” His voice dropped. “Seriously bad.” Problem was, even as Ness said it, he didn’t believe it. Just didn’t sound right. There had been jilted and betrayed lovers since the dawn of time. But he’d never heard of one responding by hacking up bodies. He’d never heard of anyone doing anything like this in his entire life. No matter how he tried to think it through, it just didn’t make any sense. “With all the science we have at our disposal, surely we can come up with some kind of useful lead.”

“Not so far. And we’ve got a pretty smart coroner. He’s a college man.” Matowitz made a sniffing noise. “Like you. You’re welcome to talk to him. He’ll be back in his office this afternoon.”

Ness checked his watch. “Not possible. I’ve got about two hundred traffic lights to get up and running. And a training session for the Accident Prevention Squad that starts at-”

There was a knocking at the door. He hoped it wasn’t a reporter. He wasn’t in the mood.

The door opened and Chamberlin poked his head through. “Boss?”

Ness held up his hand. “Can it wait? I’m busy.”

“It’s about last night’s raid. I wanted to tell you what happened.”

“Another midnight raid?” Matowitz looked at Ness. “And you didn’t go yourself? What has the world come to?”

Ness frowned. “I had an… engagement. With my wife.”

Matowitz’s thin lips spread. “I understand. There are bosses, and then there are bosses.”

Ness did his best to hide what he was feeling.

Chamberlin cut through the silence, alleviating the tension, at least temporarily. “Can I tell you about The Harvard Club?”

Matowitz’s eyebrows rose. The Harvard Club was a notorious gambling and booze joint in Mayfield Heights run by one of the top men in the Mayfield Road Mob, “Gameboy” Miller. Now that The Thomas Club was closed, it was probably the top joint in the city.

“Did they know you were coming?” Ness asked.

“No. But they were ready, just the same. Bouncers met us at the door, armed with submachine guns. Refused to honor the warrant. Then Miller himself came to the door and said, and I quote, ‘Anybody comes in gets their-um-their head knocked off Deleting the colorful adjective.”

“And you showed him the warrant?”

“Twice. I didn’t want a bloodbath. I decided to retreat.”

Ness laid his hand on his shoulder. “You did the right thing. You didn’t have enough men. We’ll go back tonight.”

Matowitz rose. “I can’t order my men to get mowed down by those tommy-gun-toting thugs.”

“Then I’ll ask for volunteers. There are still some officers who don’t like seeing duly appointed officers of the law get pushed around by mob punks.”

“I don’t know if I can allow that.”

“Are you kidding?” Ness gripped the edges of the man’s desk. “This is the most brazen defiance of the law I’ve ever seen. If you let something like this go unchecked, soon there won’t be any law at all. We have to show them we mean business. We have to show them there’s still law in this town.” He turned back to his assistant. “You understand what I’m saying?”

A boyish grin spread across Chamberlin’s face. “I’ll begin rounding up volunteers immediately.”

“Good man. We’ll go tonight.” Ness followed him to the door.

Matowitz did not appear particularly sorry to see him go. “And the Torso Murderer?”

“Get your men out there pounding the streets for clues. Let me know if they find anything.” Ness grabbed his fedora. “I’ve got a job to do.”

Merylo stared down at the filthy head protruding from the right trouser leg. It was lying on its left side, lips parted, as if the victim died in a moment of surprise-or terror. Its eyes were closed, and he silently thanked God for that small favor.

He had really hoped it was over. He would rather have caught the filthy killer, but he was willing to settle for having the murders come to an end. The papers had ceased running their lurid panic-inducing stories filled with more speculation than fact. Cleveland was gearing up for the convention season, the Great Lakes Exposition, the American Legion, and all the others. Some people had forgotten about the murders.

But not Merylo. He had never forgotten, and he had never stopped tracking down any lead he thought might possibly pay off. Yes, he had hoped that the killer had given it up, or moved on, or been rubbed out.

But he doubted it. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself, he had never been able to make himself believe it. His gut told him this butcher would kill again. And his gut had been right.

His reverie was interrupted when he heard a sentence that had become all too familiar since this case began.

“We found the rest of him.”

Zalewski beamed as if he had won a Kewpie doll at the county fair. “It’s not far. And it’s intact.”

“Show me.” They began to walk north of the willow tree, in the general direction of Jackass Hill. “Have the men found anything else?”

“Two shirts, both bloody, one torn at the shoulder.”

“Two?”

“Right.”

“Like… the victim might’ve been wearing two shirts at once?”

“Not really, no. One’s casual, one’s a dress shirt.”

“Oh.” Merylo didn’t need a detailed explanation to tell him what that implied. “What else?”

“Pair of men’s shorts. Oxford shoes, size seven and a half, laces tied together and a pair of socks stuffed inside, striped and orange at the top.”

“Orange?”

“It’s fashionable these days, sir.”

“Maybe in your neighborhood. Anything else?”

“A leather belt. A dirty cap. Seems like it’s been soaked in something oily.”

“Like maybe the motor oil we found with the other corpse?”

“Maybe, yeah.”

“Anything that might lead us to the killer?”

“Well, the Bertillon boys want to run tests, but…”

Merylo gave him a look. Zalewski had been working with him long enough now to have a sense of when they had something and when they didn’t.

“No,” Zalewski said quietly. “Probably not. But the corpse is interesting.”

“In what way?”

They reached a spot perhaps a thousand feet from where the head had been discovered, just east of the 55th Street Bridge. Merylo could see part of the body lying on its side, partially obscured by twigs. “It’s illustrated.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know. Tattooed.”

Merylo took a step closer, even thought the stench made him want to move in the opposite direction. “How many?”

“We found six.”

Sure enough, Merylo spotted two flags tattooed on the left arm, not far from a heart, an anchor, and perhaps more interestingly, the letters. W.C.G. On the left shoulder, he discovered a full-color butterfly, wings unfurled.

“Nice,” Merylo muttered. “But I only count five.”

“You missed Jiggs.”

“Would you please speak English?”

“Jiggs. You know, from the comics. Bringing Up Father.”

“Never read it.”

“You don’t read the comics?”

“I don’t read newspapers at all. They depress me. Especially when I notice how much they get wrong. So show me this… what was it?”

“Jiggs. And it’s not an it. It’s a he.” Zalewski used a twig to subtly move the lie of the corpse’s leg to reveal the final tattoo, on the left calf. It was a cartoon drawing of a middle-aged man wearing a checkered vest and tie, his hair sticking up and a cigar in his mouth.

“That’s Jiggs?”

“Yup.”

“Why would anyone want Jiggs tattooed on their calf?”

“Beats me. Guess they like him. Maybe they… you know, sympathize with him. He brought himself up from nothing to something, you know.”