William Bernhardt - Nemesis - The Final Case of Eliot Ness

“I’m gonna burn a hole right through your hand.”

“Gosh willikers. I’m a-tremblin’.”

“You sure you’re ready?”

Jimmy cracked a smile. “Give me everythin’ you got, champ.”

Peter did. He threw the baseball as hard as he could-right over Jimmy’s head.

“Aw geez.”

He knew they shouldn’t have been playing on Jackass Hill. It was great for sledding, when there was snow, but a stupid place to play catch. The ball sailed over the crest of the hill down a sixty-foot slope and into a gully.

“No way I’m goin’ down there,” Jimmy said.

“Well, I’m not goin’.”

“You threw it.”

“You missed it!”

Jimmy sighed. This was a bum deal, but it was his only baseball and he didn’t want to lose it.

“All right,” Jimmy shouted. “You’re probably too puny to make it down there and back up again.”

“Am not!”

“Prove it.”

“Why should both of us go?”

“Because it’s a race. Whoever’s toughest gets the ball first. Go!”

Both boys tore into action, barreling down the hill as if their shoes were on fire. Jimmy was closest, so he took an early lead, which only got wider as the race proceeded. He still had the advantage of age, not to mention at least fifteen pounds. Despite the fact that it was a cold day, sweat dripped down the side of his face as he ran at his very best speed. He was panting and short of breath, but that didn’t matter. His manhood was at stake. He couldn’t be beaten by a kid four years younger. Couldn’t even let him come close.

Jimmy blazed his way through the bushes and tall grass and weeds till he hit the gully, well ahead of Peter.

“No fair!” Peter cried. “You had a head start!”

Jimmy cackled. “Wimpy!” He adopted a fake, high-pitched British voice. “I’d gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today!”

He scanned the gully, searching for the baseball. The weeds and bushes were mostly stomped down, but it could still be a chore to find something as small as a baseball, particularly one that had already lost most of its cover and was more brown than white.

He started toward the north, tracing the length of the gully, hoping that no matter where the ball went it would eventually roll back to the lowest point. He pushed aside some weeds and something caught his eye-

Jimmy froze, chilled to the bone. His lips parted, but no words came out. He wanted to make a noise, a really loud noise, but he couldn’t do it.

Couldn’t move, either. And he really truly desperately wanted to move.

Finally, a toe at a time, he managed to get his body working again. He raced back up the hill, twice as fast as he had come down, his eyes wide and his face wild.

He practically collided with Peter. “Don’t go down there!”

Peter stared at him, confused. “What? Did you find the ball?”

Jimmy slowly shook his head. “Something else.”

“Like what?”

Jimmy grabbed Peter’s arm. His hands were ice cold. “Like, a man.”

“A man? What kinda man?”

Jimmy could barely form the words. “A man with no head.”

From the front page of the December 12, 1935, Cleveland Plain Dealer:

“… when this reporter learned that Eliot Ness, formerly an agent for the Treasury Department, has been appointed by Mayor Burton to be the new Safety Director, filling the position vacated by the unpopular Martin J. Lavelle. Apparently Ness had a brief meeting with the mayor yesterday morning, then less than an hour later was sworn in to office. Ness will receive an annual salary of seven thousand five hundred dollars and will have authority over the entire police, fire and traffic control departments…”

– -

Ness stepped outside the Central Police Station at 21st and Payne on Cleveland ’s East side, a four-story sandstone edifice with an imposing façade. He was carrying a large stack of files.

Six reporters were waiting for him on the front steps.

With his free hand, he buttoned his tan camel-hair topcoat, bracing himself against the December chill.

One of the reporters stepped forward. “I’m Jim Crawford of the Courier. Are you Eliot Ness?”

Ness nodded. “Guess I’m not as famous as some of the people inside seem to think.”

“We heard you were here. It’s just-well, you don’t look much like a copper.”

“Why not?”

“ ’Cause you’re…” He hemmed and hawed, searching for the word.

“Good lookin’?” one of reporters suggested. “Not just another mug?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, not that I care what men look like-”

“Of course not,” Ness said.

“But you’re dressed nice and you got a soft voice and you look…” He scratched his head. “Exactly how old are you?”

“Older than I look.”

“And that is?”

Ness grinned. “You members of the fourth estate are relentless. I’m a little past thirty.”

The reporter whistled. “Youngest safety director this city has ever had.”

“Sometimes youth can be a good thing.”

“Is it true you brought down Al Capone?”

Ness shrugged. “My department did its part, sure. But the tax investigators were the ones who put Capone in prison. My work just got more press, that’s all. A midnight raid is a good deal more sensational than an accounting ledger.”

“Are you going to start an Untouchables squad here in Cleveland?”

Another big grin. “We’ll see.”

“What was the first thing you did after the mayor appointed you safety director?”

“I told my wife, naturally.”

“What was her reaction?”

For the first time, Ness hesitated before answering. “Edna has always been very supportive of me and my career. She’s a fine woman.”

Another reporter, with a press pass stuck in the band of his boater and a Brownie camera dangling from his neck, thrust himself forward. “Bill Dowling of the Cleveland News. Can you tell us what you were doing here at the police station?”

“Getting to know the people I’m going to be working with. I met the chief of police, George Matowitz.”

“What did you think of him?”

“I thought he was tall.” The reporters laughed. True, Matowitz was six feet, but then, so was Ness.

What Ness really thought was that Matowitz was lazy and uninspired. He might not be corrupt himself, but he was negligent enough to allow corruption to fester. He would never be of any real use, but Ness was careful not to make an enemy. He would need the support of the chief once he started demanding resignations.

“Do you anticipate any problems working with Chief Matowitz?”

“Of course not. Why would there be? We both want the same thing. A clean police department and a safe city.”

“The previous safety director never stepped out of his office. Some people see it as a political appointment that never does anyone any good.”

“Those days are over,” Ness said firmly, his jaw set. “I’m not the supervisor type. I’ll be right on the front lines. But first I need to become a little more familiar with the police force and the local crime scene. I need to know this city, inside out.” He glanced at the materials he was carrying. “That’s what all this is. Homework. City charter. Crime statistics. Maps. You name it.”

“That’s a lot to bite off.”

“I’ve always been a good student. I’ll know more tomorrow and a lot more than that the next day. Goodbye, gentlemen.”

Ness started down the stone steps toward his black Ford, but the reporter held out a hand to stop him.

“Here’s the thing I don’t get, Mr. Ness. Why would a Fed like you want to get involved in a city’s dirty problems? Mobsters, murder, prostitution-seems like it never ends. You can’t win. This city never runs out of criminals.”