William Bernhardt - Nemesis - The Final Case of Eliot Ness

“It’s a Horatio Alger story.”

“Uh… yeah. I guess. Jiggs was an Irish immigrant, a bricklayer, till he wins a fortune in a sweepstakes. His snob wife and daughter keep trying to ‘bring him up,’ you know, teach him how to live the good life. Be rich. Socialize with the swells.”

Merylo squinted. “But Jiggs just wants to live like he did back in simpler times. Eat the food his Irish mama cooked. Run around with the lads.”

“Exactly! So you have read it.”

“No. But I’ve seen the musical, The Rising Generation. And I’m betting the guy who writes Bringing Up Father has, too.”

“What d’ya mean?”

“Never mind. The question is, why would anyone tattoo this character on his leg?” He paused. “Or perhaps a better question is, why would this make anyone want to kill him?”

“You think he was killed because of his tattoo?”

“Probably not.” Merylo hesitated again. “Still… is this comic derogatory of the Irish?”

“Not really.”

“Anybody else? Italians? Mobsters? Rich people?”

“Not so much.”

Merylo sighed heavily. “Then maybe we should focus on the letters. They could be initials.”

“For who?”

“For about a million people, I suspect. But it’s something. I want you to start running those initials through every list we’ve got. Criminal records. The phone book. Public agencies.”

“But that could take-”

“Then you’d better get started, hadn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” Zalewski made a small salute, then skittered off.

“One other thing.”

Zalewski stopped. “Yes?”

“Tell Pearce I want him to clean that head up real nice-then put it on display.”

“What?”

“You heard me. In the morgue. Front office.”

“But-isn’t that kind of-”

“Yes, it is. But we can’t solve this case unless we identify more of these victims. You run with the letters. We’ll tell the papers the head is on display and people are welcome to take a look.”

“Who would want to do that?”

“You might be surprised. People are attracted to the grotesque.”

“What if Pearce says no?”

“He won’t. He’ll love the idea. All those people coming to his office, like he’s the center of the investigation. Sherlock Holmes with a medical degree. He’ll probably sit out front and sign autographs.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. So get to it, Zalewski. I want that head out as soon as possible. Drive as fast as you can.” He held up a finger. “But of course, pay close attention to our safety director’s traffic lights. We don’t want anything dangerous to happen.”

Zalewski departed. Merylo turned back to the headless corpse lying among the weeds and sticks. Something about this bothered him, and it wasn’t just that cigar-chomping cartoon character, either. The head had been neatly wrapped in the trousers and carefully-almost tenderly-placed under the willow tree, just as Flo Polillo’s body parts had been wrapped in newspaper and burlap bags, then placed in baskets. At the same time, the body, only a short walk away-assuming this was the body that went with the head-had been carelessly, almost disdainfully dumped among the tallgrass weeds and bramble. Two entirely differently methods.

Could there be two different killers? Or more? That would explain a lot, but Merylo didn’t believe it. His gut told him that was wrong- and his brain did as well. If there had been more than one person involved, by this time, someone would have talked. No, they were looking for one man.

One man-with two completely different personalities. Was such a thing possible? He remembered what Pearce had said, back when he was talking about that British nut and his friend the alienist, the guy who could explain crazy behavior. There was definitely something weird about this case…

No, he told himself, rising, there was an explanation for all this. A logical explanation. He might not have the slightest idea what that explanation was. But he knew it existed. And given enough time, he would figure it out.

Ness wrapped his overcoat tightly around himself and strode toward the front door of The Harvard Club. The men watching could only marvel at his bravado. After what had happened the night before, it would take extreme courage for any law enforcement officer to make his way to that door. And Ness was particularly recognizable, with his camel-hair coat, fedora, and Scandinavian good looks.

He held up his badge and knocked. “Eliot Ness. Safety Director.”

The door slot flew open. A beefy scarred face appeared on the other end. “Blow off, copper. Anyone comes in here gets their f-”

“Yes, I’ve heard. But I’ve got a warrant, and I’m coming in.”

The man sneered. “I got three men with heaters trained on your head.”

Ness smiled pleasantly. “I’ve got forty-two armed men positioned all around the building. We’ve got four trucks ready to carve out a new doorway, if we can’t use the one you’re currently blocking. Plus there are about a dozen reporters with cameras standing behind my officers, and something like a hundred or so spectators behind them.” Ness took a deep breath. “You can’t escape. You’re spending the night in jail.”

The man’s bushy eyebrows knitted. Ness got the impression that thinking was not his forte.

“Ask your boss what he wants to be charged with. Operating a gambling parlor, ten years with a chance of parole-or killing a police officer, mandatory death penalty.”

The beefy head began to flush. Anger or indecision? Ness couldn’t be sure. But he got the distinct impression the man wished he’d let someone else get the door.

“Step aside, Manny.”

Ness knew the voice. A moment later, Shimmy Patton appeared in the slot.

“Whatsa problem, Mr. Safety Director? This is private property.”

The man was already free on bail, awaiting trial. Sometimes the law made Ness crazy. “I have a warrant to search for evidence of illegal activities.”

“Hey, maybe you haven’t heard. That Prohibition thing-it’s over. We can drink now.”

“That depends on where you get your hooch. And gambling is still illegal.”

Patton pressed a hand against his chest. “Gambling? Who-me? I wouldn’t dream of it. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Then you have no reason not to let me in, do you?”

Patton glanced over his shoulder. At first, Ness had thought Pat-ton’s appearance at the door was a sign of his enormous overconfidence. Now he realized it was just a stalling tactic. He was buying time for his assistants to hide all the gambling paraphernalia.

Ness heard sounds of scuffling and movement in the background. After a few more moments, Patton answered. “Well, geez, Mr. Safety Director. Since you put it like that. Come on in.”

He closed the slot. A moment later, the door opened.

Ness stepped inside. The front room was jam-packed with patrons, mostly well dressed, mostly swilling drinks, pretending he didn’t exist. The servers were dressed in low-cut outfits that bordered on public indecency, and the bouncers looked nearly naked themselves now that they’d stashed their weapons.

“As you can see, Mr. Safety Director, we’re clean as a whistle.”

“Are you now?” There was no trace of gambling apparatus. These men were good. And fast.

Patton waved expansively. “No gambling in here. No sirree.”

“Not now.”

“Don’t be a sore loser.”

“The only loser is you, Patton.” Ness leaned out the door. “Chamberlin! Bring in the men.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Patton jumped into the doorway. “That ain’t right. You ain’t got nothing’ on me! Look around, blind boy. There’s no gambling.”