Ричард Деминг - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 6, June, 1953

He clicked off, and I leaned back and lit a cigarette. Pat picked up one of the baby’s photos and studied it glumly.

“When they get him, they should cut off his...”

“He’ll get the chair,” I said. “That’s for sure.”

“I’ll pull the switch. Personally. Just ask me. Just ask me and I’ll do it.”

I nodded. “Except one thing, Pat.”

“What’s that?”

“We got to catch him first.”

The baby was stretched out on the long white table when I went down to see Doc Edwards. A sheet covered the corpse, and Doc was busy filling out a report. I looked over his shoulder:

Date: June 12, 1953

From: Commanding Officer, Charles R. Brandon, 37 th Precinct

To: Chief Medical Examiner

SUBJECT: DEATH OF Baby girl (unidentified)

1. Please furnish information on items checked below in connection of death of the above named. Body was found on June 12, 1953 at Church of the Holy Mother, 1220 Benson Avenue, Bronx, New York.

Autopsy performed: examination made Yes.

By: Dr. James L. Edwards, Fordham Hospital Mortuary

Date: June 12, 1953

Where? Bronx County

Cause of death: Broken neck.

Doc Edwards looked up from the typewriter.

“Not nice, Dave.”

“No, not nice at all.” I saw that he was ready to type in the “Result of chemical analysis ” space. “Anything else on her?”

“Not much. Dried tears on her face. Urine on her abdomen, buttocks and genitals. Traces of a zinc oxide ointment, and petroleum jelly there, too. That’s about it.”

“Time of death?”

“I’d put it at about three a.m. last night.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You want a guess?”

“Sure.”

“Somebody doesn’t like his sleep to be disturbed by a crying kid. That’s my guess.”

I said, “Nobody likes his sleep disturbed, Doc. What’s the zinc oxide and petroleum jelly for? That normal?”

“Yeah, sure. Lots of mothers use it. Mostly for minor irritations. Urine burn, diaper rash, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“This shouldn’t be too tough, Dave. You know who the kid is yet?”

“We’re working on that now.”

“Well, good luck.”

“Thanks.”

I turned to go, and Doc Edwards began pecking at the typewriter again, completing the autopsy report.

There was good news waiting for me back at the precinct. Pat came over with a smile on his face, and a thick sheet of paper in his hands.

“Here’s the ticket,” he said.

I took the paper, and looked at it. It was the photostat of a birth certificate.

This certifies that Louise Ann Dreiser was born to Alice Dreiser in this hospital at 4:15 P.M. on the tenth day of November, 1952 . Weight 7 lbs. 6 ozs. In witness whereof, the said hospital has caused this certificate to be issued, properly signed and the seal of the hospital hereunto affixed.

Gregory Freeman, LTJG MC USN

attending physician

Frederick L. Mann, CAPTAIN MG

commanding officer USN

“Here’s how they got it,” Pat said, handing me another stat. I looked at it quickly. It was the reverse side of the birth certificate.

Baby’s footprint

(Permanent Evidence of Identity)

Left foot     Right foot

Sex of child female

Weight at birth 7 lbs. 6 ozs.

Certificate of birth should be carefully preserved as record of value for future use.

1 — To identify relationship

2 — To establish age to enter school

There were several more good reasons why a birth certificate should be kept in the sugar bowl, and then below that:

Official registration at 148-15 Archer Avenue, Jamaica, L. I ., N. Y.

“Alice Dreiser,” I said.

“That’s the mother. Prints and all. I’ve already sent a copy down to Cappy to check against the ones they lifted from the pew.”

“Fine. Pick one of the boys from the list the Old Man gave us, Pat. Tell him to get whatever he can on Alice Dreiser and her husband. They have to be sailors or relations to get admitted to a naval hospital, don’t they?”

“Yeah. You’ve got to prove dependency.” He nodded.

“Fine. Get the guy’s last address and we’ll try to run down the woman, or him, or both. Get whoever you pick to call right away, will you?”

“Right. Why pick anyone? I'll make the call myself.”

“No, I want you to check the phone book for Alice Dreisers. In the meantime, I’ll be looking over the baby’s garments.”

“You’ll be in the lab?”

“Yeah. Buzz me, Pat.”

“Right.”

Caputo had the garments separated and tagged when I got there.

“You’re not going to get much out of these,” he told me.

“No luck, huh?”

He held out the pink blanket. “Black River Mills. A big trade name. You can probably buy it in any retail shop in the city.” He picked up the small pink sweater with the pearl buttons. “Toddlers Inc . — ditto. The socks have no markings at all. The undershirt came from Gilman's here in the city. It’s the largest department store in the world, so you can imagine how many of these they sell every day. The cotton pajamas were bought there, too.”

“No shoes?”

“No shoes.”

“What about the diaper?”

“What about it? It’s a plain diaper. No label. You got any kids, Dave?”

“One.”

“You ever see a diaper with a label?”

“I don’t recall seeing any.”

“If you did, it wasn’t in it long. Diapers take a hell of a beating, Dave.”

“Maybe this one came from a diaper service.”

“Maybe. You can check that.”

“Safety pins?”

“Two. No identifying marks. Look like five and dime stuff.”

“Any prints?”

“Yeah. There are smudged prints on the pins, but there’s a good thumb print on one of the pajama snaps.”

“Whose?”

“It matches the right thumb print on the stat you sent down. Mrs. Dreiser’s.”

“Uh-huh. Did you check her prints against the ones from the pew?”

“Nothing, Dave. None are hers, anyway.”

“Okay, Cappy. Thanks a lot.”

Cappy shrugged. “I get paid,” he said. He grinned and waved as I walked out and headed upstairs again. I met Pat in the hallway, coming down to the lab after me.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I called the Naval Hospital. They gave me the last address they had for the guy. His name is Carl Dreiser, lived at 831 East 217th Street, Bronx, when the baby was born.”

“How come?”

“He was a yeoman, working downtown on Church Street. Lived with his wife uptown, got an allotment, you know the story.”

“Yeah. So?”

“I sent Artie to check at that address. He should be calling in soon now.”

“What about the sailor?”

“I called the Church Street office, spoke to the Commanding Officer, Captain...” He consulted a slip of paper. “Captain Thibot. This Dreiser was working there back in November. He got orders in January, reported aboard the U.S.S. Hanfield, DD 981 at the Brooklyn Navy Yard on January 5th of this year.”

“Where is he now?”

“That’s the problem, Dave.”

“What kind of problem?”