Max Collins - Butcher's dozen

He shook his head and took off his suit coat and folded it neatly over the edge of the tub. Then he took a small penknife from one pocket and two tiny manila evidence envelopes from another. With the penknife, kneeling again, he took a small but sufficient scraping of the black-stained wood of the floor and baseboard. He reached an arm way in under the bathtub and took a small but sufficient scraping of the apparent rust and filth collected around one clawed foot of the tub.

He tucked the knife and the two evidence packets in his pocket and rose and put his suit coat back on.

He was exiting the bathroom into the outer room when the door opened and the deputy came in.

"The sheriff says I shouldn't oughta let you out of my sight," McFarlin said.

"Then you're going to have to ride over to my office with me," Ness said, brushing by the man, "because that's where I'm headed."

The deputy followed Ness out in the hall. Called after him. "The sheriff said to tell you we got this case under control. He's going to have a signed confession by morning."

Ness whirled and stared the deputy down. "How can he know that?"

"Well… he's just confident we got the right man."

"A little third degree'll do the trick, is that it?"

"He's bein' questioned," McFarlin shrugged. He pointed back into the apartment. "We got bloodstains in there. Human blood."

"Has a chemist checked it already? Identified it as human?"

McFarlin smiled and nodded smugly.

"Too fast," Ness said, almost to himself. "You're moving too goddamn fast."

"Look," McFarlin said impatiently, "he's the guy. You oughta to know."

"I oughta to know? And why is that?"

The deputy looked away. "Just go about your business, why don't you?"

Ness snapped his fingers. "You were in the tavern the other day. You stood right next to me."

The deputy flushed. "What are you talkin' about…"

Ness pointed his finger at him. "You spotted me. You've been following me ever since."

"Don't be silly."

Ness grabbed the bigger man by the front of his khaki shirt. "You stole my case from me, you son of a bitch."

"Hey, take it easy!"

Ness let go of him, pushed him hard with the flat of a hand into the wall.

The deputy was trembling with rage or fear or maybe both. With one hand he smoothed the front of his shirt; with the other he pointed toward the stairs. "You just better get out of here. You better get out.

Ness thrust a finger in his face. "Don't louse my case up. Tell your boss. You stole it from me, well, fine. Just don't louse it up."

He turned and went quickly down the steps, making a lot of noise on the rickety boards, and was out on the street. He gestured to Curry, seated in the black Ford across the way, and Curry put his newspaper down and joined his chief.

"What's up?"

"Interlopers," Ness said disgustedly. "Go around back and get Merlo. I don't want to have to tell this story twice."

When Curry came back, Ness was seated in the car, on the rider's side. Merlo got in back and Curry got behind the wheel. The three men sat there and Ness told the story.

"It's my own damn fault," he said. "The son of a bitch made me. He was in that tavern and recognized me."

"What was he doing there in the middle of the afternoon?" Curry asked.

"Probably collecting graft," Ness said. "He's one of the sheriff's bagmen, no doubt. This is one area of the city we haven't cleaned up, you know."

Merlo, in the back, was in shock. Curry seemed confused.

Ness set in silence, trying to fight off the gloom.

Finally Merlo said, "I don't believe it. I don't believe it."

They were still sitting there at a quarter to six when Sam Wild showed up. He noticed them clustered in the car and leaned in the window on Ness's side.

"I know I'm early," Wild said, wryly apologetic, straw fedora pushed back on his head, "but I'll keep out of the way. I got a photographer in the car to take the pic when you haul him out in cuffs. This is gonna be a big moment, gentlemen."

"I don't think so," Merlo said.

Wild looked hard at Ness and knew at once it was scratched. "What the fuck happened?"

Ness, without looking at the reporter, said, "Off the record?"

"Yeah, yeah. Off the record."

"The sheriff made saps out of us," Ness told him. "Me especially." And, despite his best efforts, he found himself telling the story a second time.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Wild said. "They're going to muck it up."

"I know," Ness said. "They don't have the evidence yet. And they don't have the wherewithal to gather it, either."

"Well," Wild said with a humorless smirk, "they had the wherewithal to gather your suspect."

Ness said nothing.

"You gotta give me something," Wild said, some desperation in his voice. "I promised my boss a big story."

"Get out your notepad," Ness told him.

Wild did.

"The sheriff is to be commended for his investigation," Ness said. "The leads he has uncovered will, of course, be followed up to see what possible connection the suspect may have with other homicides."

Wild got that, then said, "Which means you're still on the case."

"Yes, it does. Now ask Sergeant Merlo for a quote."

Wild looked toward the backseat.

Merlo looked toward Ness, who glanced back at him and said, "Say what you feel."

Merlo smiled and nodded and said to Wild, "I consider the sheriff's actions an intrusion into a case that was well under way and well under control. The suspect, Dolezal, is known to me and has been under my surveillance for some time. We were waiting for the right moment to slam down on him. Now the sheriff's office has spoiled it."

Writing furiously, Wild got that, too. Then he grinned at Ness. "Between the two of you," he said, "you covered everything-including your own ass."

Ness managed to grin back. "That was the point of the exercise." Then the grin faded and he said, "Now if you'll excuse us, Sam, we have to be getting back to work. I have some evidence to process."

And they left the reporter there, smiling and scratching his head.

Frank Dolezal sat in a wooden chair in a large concrete room in the basement of the Cuyahoga county jail. The chair was the only furniture in the room. A single window, high up at right, was barred; beyond the bars was wire and night. A single lamp descended from vague darkness, hanging rather low over the chair, providing a cone of blinding bright light.

Dolezal slumped in the chair, his ruddy face wet with tears and rough with stubble, eyes burning from the light, feet dancing without rhythm, fingertips on knees drumming to no cadence. His blue cotton workshirt was perspiration soaked, and soiled. He was a mess. But even more than a shave and a change of clothes, Frank Dolezal needed a drink.

He didn't know how long he had been in this room. He figured it was hours, but how many, he couldn't guess; he could barely remember not being in this place, this cold, vast, gloomy bunker. Relays of deputies and county detectives, occasionally the sheriff himself, had been trading off questioning him, in pairs. They hadn't hit him yet, but he sensed that was coming. He wished he could tell them what they wanted to know. But the truth was, he couldn't remember.

And he was beginning to think the truth was not what these men wanted to hear.

He grabbed at his stomach; if only it would stop clutching. Every thirty seconds or so a spasm would hit him. He knew what would stop it: a beer. One tiny little beer. Or better, a shot. Or a double; that would do it. Then he'd be calm. He'd be able to relax. His head would stop aching. His mouth wouldn't feel dry. As it was, he felt helpless. He felt tired. He felt weak.

Despite this, he got up and began pacing the room, though he had been told not to leave the chair. He just couldn't quit moving. He avoided the bright pool of light where the chair waited and wandered the dark outskirts of the large room.