Max Collins - Butcher's dozen

But discovering that victims Andrassy and Polillo had known each other-a fact that had eluded investigators for over a year-prompted Ness to stick with the nameless bar; and he had taken this room in a nearby two-story brick rooming house to better become an inconspicuous part of the local landscape.

He and Wild had continued pursuing their routine at other taverns in the areas bordering the Run, particularly the Roaring Third, but only from late morning till around six. Evenings, Ness-alone-would spend leaning against the rail in the seedy joint near Central and Twentieth. The canvassing has slowed down accordingly.

"Look, Sam," Ness said, bending to tie the laces of his heavy work boots, "I have three good suspects in that bar- and I've struck up conversations with all of 'em. In fact one of them lives right here in this rooming house."

"Jesus!" Wild said.

Ness, standing back up, raised a finger to his lips.

Wild went to the window and sent his cigarette trailing sparks out into the night. Then he turned to Ness, now fully dressed in his threadbare apparel, and said, "You're going to get yourself fucking killed."

Ness smiled dismissively.

Wild went to him and stared him down. "You don't even have a goddamn gun."

"I don't need a gun."

"Oh, yeah, you know all about that jujitsu stuff. That'll work swell against some crazy asshole with a butcher knife."

"Nobody knows me around here."

"Sure, sure. You're in disguise-just like Sherlock Holmes."

Ness had to wince at that; he'd been an avid Holmes reader since he was a kid. He didn't like to think he was acting out some childhood fantasy here. He preferred to consider this good, solid undercover police work.

"You got stubble on your face," Wild said evenly, "and you washed the Vitalis out of your hair. You put some gunk on your teeth, and you slouch, and you swear. But somebody who knows you will make you, my friend."

"Who would know me down here?"

"The Butcher."

Ness moved toward the door. "Merlo's waiting, Sam…"

Wild was patting the air with one hand, gently. "Eliot, let's not forget that you and the Butcher have something in common."

Ness laughed shortly. "Such as?"

"You're both publicity hounds. Now don't give me that look! I'm all for you getting headlines-I've helped out enough, in that line. And I know, I know, it's part of your job to make the papers. It's something you do well. But so does the Butcher."

The truth of that jabbed sharply at Ness, but he said nothing.

"He leaves these bodies out in the open, where they are bound to be found eventually," Wild went on, "when he could be disposing of them in such a way that they wouldn't be found-like the heads and hands aren't found, when he doesn't want them to be."

"Make your point," Ness said.

"My point is, this guy probably has a goddamn scrapbook of what he's been up to-he may even bump another victim off, or at least pull a body out of his fridge and dump it, when he's stopped getting as much play in the papers as he'd like. See, he likes being the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run-not just for the butchering, either. For the celebrity."

"Well, you may have something there."

"Of course I do. And if he's collecting his press clippings, and believe me he is, he knows all about you declaring private war on him. He hasn't just seen your mug in the papers-he's likely memorized it. He ain't no fool, but you, my friend, are bordering on that condition."

"If he recognizes me," Ness said, "maybe he'll come to me."

"Oh, yeah, and cut your head off and go steady with you, till the next idiot comes along."

"Sam…"

Wild sighed in frustration, then gave Ness a look so earnest and concerned it surprised them both. "You may also spook your boy. Have you considered that? You might make him take a powder."

Ness shrugged matter-of-factly. "If he's one of the suspects I've narrowed in on, then he'll give himself away if he runs."

Wild shook his head, rolled his eyes. "It's like trying to reason with a fucking brick wall."

Ness took Wild by the arm and led him to the door. "Then why don't you go on your well-meaning way before that brick wall falls on you."

Now Wild put a sarcastic grin on his face. "It's your funeral, buddy boy. I'll see you tomorrow morning, round ten at that joint on East Forty-ninth, to do our vaudeville act… if you're still breathing."

And he left.

Ness waited five minutes, or what felt like five minutes at least, and soon was approaching the black Buick parked on a residential side street that was shady in several senses of the word, where more rooming houses, some frame, some brick, huddled like conspirators. He slid in on the rider's side.

Merlo, who hadn't seen Ness in his undercover attire, started for a moment, then smiled and shook his head.

"Hell," Merlo said. "For a minute there, I thought you were the Butcher."

Ness, shutting the door, killing the dome light, said, "Sam Wild thinks I'm an easy target-thinks the Butcher will see right through this."

"Maybe," Merlo said, "but I doubt it."

Actually, Merlo didn't look much like a cop tonight, either. He wore a checkered sportshirt and slacks and no hat. But then Merlo didn't ever look much like a cop with his scholarly glasses and thin, dour face, though tonight he seemed less dour. He was smiling, in fact.

"You look like the bearer of glad tidings," Ness said.

"That I am," Merlo said. "Your notion about checking the patient records of that dead colored dentist with appropriate Missing Persons reports, well… it paid off in spades, if you'll pardon the expression."

Merlo handed Ness a manila file folder and passed him a pocket flash. Ness opened the file and lit up the face in the photo: a black woman, attractive if slightly heavyset, about forty.

"Mrs. Rose Wallace," Merlo said. "Lived on Scoville Avenue-that's not far from where the skeleton was discovered. Been missing since August twenty-first of last year."

Ness studied the picture: the face seemed somehow both good-natured and hard. "Do you have anything besides matching the Missing Persons report to her name on the dentists list?"

"We sure do," Merlo said. "You were right on that account, too. We showed the bridgework to her son and he broke out crying. It was pretty distinctive-three gold teeth and all. He recognized it as hers, all right."

"Good, good," Ness said. "Any rap sheet on her?"

"No. But talking to her son and neighbors, it's clear she ran with a rough crowd-and in the same lowlife parts of town as Edward Andrassy and Florence Polillo. She worked in taverns. Maybe hustled. Heavy drinker."

An old car rumbled by; Ness clicked off the pen flash and the men sat in near darkness.

"Nice work, Sergeant." Ness smiled over at the detective, glad that he'd trusted his instincts and kept the dogged Merlo on the job. "You got right on top of this. I appreciate it. Hell, I admire it."

"Mr. Ness," Merlo said, "I eat, sleep, and drink this case. I go to sleep thinking about it-when I finally do go to sleep-and when I wake up, I'm still thinking about it."

"I know the feeling." Ness lifted a finger to one eye. "These aren't bloodshot for effect."

Merlo laughed shortly, then said, "I also have some preliminary info on your three suspects."

Ness had relayed the names to Merlo through Wild.

"Good," Ness said. "Anything interesting?"

"Nothing on the bartender, this guy Steve Fabian, other than some busts back in speakeasy days. He does own the place. What makes you suspect him?"

"Just that that saloon is his little world. A world where at least two victims-Andrassy and Polillo-did a lot of living before they died. He has relationships with all his regulars-they trust him. And he's pretty cold."

"Cold?" '