William Bernhardt - Nemesis - The Final Case of Eliot Ness

“Just give me another day.”

“Sorry, can’t.” He removed his surgical apron and hung it on a coat hook. “But I can do this. The head is in good enough condition to make a plaster cast-a death mask. You can put that up anywhere you like. Perhaps someplace that gets more traffic than my office.”

Merylo pondered a moment. “Got any suggestions?”

“Well, I doubt if the Republican National Convention would have it. But I read in the paper today that attendance at the Great Lakes Exposition is waning. They’re afraid they may have to close early.”

Zalewski frowned. “Why is that good? Don’t we want to put it somewhere there’s lots of people?”

Merylo smiled patiently. “Yes, we do. I think what the good doctor is suggesting is that if the Exposition needs to boost attendance, what could be better than an exhibit that brought two thousand people to a coroner’s office in the seedy side of downtown?”

“You-you really think they’d want it?”

“I think they might be willing to lower their standards a bit. As a public service.” He smirked. “And to keep the backers from taking a bath on this stupid Exposition.” He tipped his fedora. “Nice going, Doctor.”

“Always like to help out when I can.” He patted his pockets, searching for a cigarette.

“What else have you got?”

“Nothing much, unfortunately. This is the freshest corpse we’ve discovered. He was killed less than forty-eight hours before you found him. Age around twenty, twenty-five. Reddish hair, brown eyes, five missing teeth.”

“A fighter.”

“Or a malnourished vagrant. His head was severed just at the axis between the chin and the body. Oh-here’s something different. This time, there were several hesitation marks.”

“Sign of a conscience developing?”

“Or a struggle. Maybe the victim wasn’t well-secured. Maybe he tried to resist. Escape.”

“You’re giving me too many maybes, Doctor. Not enough answers.”

“I don’t give answers, Detective. I give information. Answers are your department.”

The front door to the morgue swung open. Merylo expected to see more gawkers, but instead, it was Officer Cromsky from the Fifth. He was breathless.

“Detective Merylo!” He was unable to catch his breath, practically hyperventilating. “We’ve-we’ve-”

Merylo laid a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down, man. What is it?”

Cromsky inhaled deeply, then tried again. “We’ve-we’ve found something. This guy-guy at a bar. John Moessner. On Fulton Road. Tall guy, photographer, likes to give discounts to women who-”

“Get to the point, man!”

“He saw the picture in the Courier. Of the head. He thinks he recognizes him. And he thinks the guy knew Andrassy.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Merylo grabbed his hat, his teeth clenched tightly together. At long last, the break he had been waiting for. “Let’s go, Zalewski. And this time, you can ignore the blasted traffic lights!”

“You’ve got pictures of Andrassy!”

Despite being a tall man talking to someone almost a foot shorter, John Moessner was not the dominant player in the conversation. He clung to the bar between them, using it as a barricade.

“They were just for fun.”

“Why him?”

“Because he said yes. Along with dozens of other people.”

“So you’ve been fooling around taking pictures of lowlifes just because it amuses you! Like, it’s your hobby?”

Moessner’s head twitched. “It is my avocation. And it’s not just fooling around. It’s an art form.”

“Taking pictures of lowlifes?”

“Photography. Notice how I’ve artfully arranged the scene, the placement of the chair, the head. I’ve observed the rule of threes-”

“Don’t give me that college crap. Have you been to art school?”

Moessner sniffed. “I took a correspondence course.” He was a lean man with a weak, indecisive face. His mustache was wispy, barely there, as if the entire project had been an afterthought.

“Why didn’t you tell the police about this sooner?”

“I didn’t see how I could help. They’re just pictures.”

In truth, Merylo didn’t see how he could help, either. But Moessner still should’ve reported the potential evidence.

“And you think you’ve seen this new victim before?”

“I think so. I mean, I can’t be sure. He was alive then. But he had that same prominent forehead, broad nose.”

“And you saw this guy with Andrassy?”

“Yes. At least once. They talked for a long time.”

“About what?”

“Sorry. I’ve tried to remember-but I just don’t. Don’t have any idea.”

“And you don’t know his name?”

“Do you have any idea how many people come through here?” He shrugged. “Andrassy was a regular. This other guy, he came in once, maybe twice, tops.” His head turned slightly, as if trying to recall something. “You know-I think he was a sailor.”

Merylo recalled the anchor tattoo on the man’s arm. “Why?”

“Said something about catching his boat or… something.”

“What else?”

He shook his head. “That’s all I remember.”

“The initials W.C.G. mean anything to you?”

“Sorry.”

“Could this guy have been called William? Or Walter?”

“I’m sorry. I would help you if I could. I want this butcher stopped just as much as anybody. But I don’t remember anything else. I don’t think I ever really knew anything to remember.”

Merylo pressed his fists against the bar. “Listen to me, mister. You remember anything else about this man, or Andrassy, or Flo Polillo, you call me immediately. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“You know how quickly I could shut you down?”

“Yes.”

“I could search your place. I bet I might find some photos the police would be real interested in.”

Moessner held up his hands. “No-I-”

“So if you hear anything-anything at all-you let me know.”

“I will. I swear to God. I will.”

Merylo stomped out of the bar. Had he done any good? Impossible to know. But this was a killer he was looking for, not the Invisible Man. Someone out there must’ve seen him. Must’ve seen something.

He just had to find that someone. And he would. Even if he had to harass everyone in Cleveland in the process.

JULY 22, 1936

Marie Barkley loved her new dress. It was stylish, fashionable, and most important: She looked good in it. She wasn’t being immodest, just realistic. She’d had enough experience to make a fair appraisal of when she looked good and when she didn’t. And right now, walking south down West 73rd in a black-and-white print with brand-new silk stockings, she looked like a million bucks.

Her mother would never approve of this purchase. It wasn’t the cost, though that wasn’t inconsiderable, especially in these times, with her poor father working two jobs to make ends meet. No, her mother would be worried by the same thing that delighted Marie-she looked good in it. Men are wolves, she had told Marie, time and again. Don’t let yourself be fooled. They’re only after one thing. And if they get it, you’ll never see them again.

Marie couldn’t help but wonder how much her mother’s personal history shaped her opinions about men. She would never know. Her mother never talked about her past and she probably never would. Didn’t matter. Marie was smart enough to calculate her own age versus the date on her parents’ marriage license and draw her own conclusions.

Marie’s mother hated her new young man, Barry Trussell. He was much too sharp-looking for her. Pity that a man’s good looks could be held against him. But her mother was afraid she would run off with him and get married, now, when she was only seventeen. Or worse, that she would have to run off and get married to him, now, when she was only seventeen. She might be able to stretch her father’s income to a new dress every now and again, but a Mexican abortion? That was just not going to happen.