Max Collins - Butcher's dozen

Ness said nothing, his expression an understated scowl.

"I know you care deeply about this case," Burton said. "I'm well aware that you, personally, arranged to have those 'death masks' shown at the expo. At a midway attraction, no less…"

Ness bristled. "Hundreds of thousands of people-maybe millions of people-will walk by those dead faces. And maybe one of those people will make an identification."

"But Eliot-a carnival tent?"

"I tried eleswhere, Ness said tightly." Don't think I didn't. I was blocked at every turn-even the U.S. government building, with their crime prevention section, where I thought I had connections, turned me away. The display was found too… unpleasant. Bad for the image of the expo, of the city. Well, having that son of a bitch at large is bad for the image of the city, too."

Burton smiled gently, touched the shoulder of the younger man. "Son of a bitch" was about as rough as the safety director's language got; the expression was a gage of how deep his concern really ran.

"I've taken some heat," Burton admitted, "for the damage you've done the city's 'image.' The movers and shakers in our community hardly find a display of death masks of the victims of the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run a positive contribution to the public's perception of our fair city. On the other hand, I agree with your decision to have the masks shown."

"You do?"

"I do. I only wish you had spoken to me-I might have been able to arrange a more… dignified exhibition hall."

"I'm sorry, I-"

"Never mind. But you have to understand the displeasure of our financial 'angels.' Attendance at the expo this year has fallen off drastically. Shopping downtown is similarly well below last year's mark. This new discovery of yet another Butcher casualty, just a month after the last such discovery, is hardly going to help pull people our way, either."

A twitch of irritation tugged Ness's cheek. "It's silly," he said. "The Butcher strikes exclusively at the poor homeless bastards of the Run, of the worst sections of the Flats. The average expo attendee hardly has any-"

"Eliot, you're looking at it like a policeman. Look at it as if you were still living in Chicago. Let's say you're in the insurance business. You're looking for someplace to take mom and the kids for a summer holiday. You start thumbing through the Sunday paper, to look for travel ideas, and you come across a story about the discovery of victim number nine of the mad headhunter who is stalking Cleveland's streets."

Ness smirked humorlessly, shrugged. "I guess I wouldn't be taking the next bus here, at that."

"Exactly. That's why I have to ask-propose-that you consider taking this risk.

"Whatever it is, ask."

"I want you to take over."

"Take over?"

"The investigation. I want you to turn your desk over to your executive assistant and make the Butcher your top personal priority."

Ness grinned. "Hot damn! Is that what this is about? Why do you think I made the appointment with you? I wanted to request this goddamn case!"

Ness was laughing and shaking his head, but Burton smiled uneasily and patted the air with his palms.

"Eliot-it's not that simple. We would enter this arena with the same fanfare as before. We would put you and your reputation on the line. The man who got Capone sets out to become the man who gets the Butcher. That sort of thing."

Ness, still smiling, nodded. "I see no problem with that."

"You don't? What if you fail?"

"Fail?" he said. As if the possibility had never occurred to him.

Burton shook his head woefully. "If I lose the primary-or if I win but then lose the election that follows- there's very little chance my successor would hold you over. Not if you go on the line by making the Butcher your personal meat, as it were, only to have the killings continue."

Ness nodded matter-of-factly.

"And frankly," Burton said, "even if I do win, I might be pressured to get a new safety director. If you've been made to look.. well…"

"Stupid?" Ness was grinning. "Ineffective?"

"Well, yes. Pick your own disparaging adjective, if you like."

"I'll tell you what I'd like," Ness said, and his grin was gone. "I'd like to stop the killing. I'd like to stop fishing arms and legs out of rivers, to stop finding the remains of human beings scattered like so many cuts of beef across the godforsaken landscape of the Run. I'd like to put that evil bastard, whoever he is, in the electric chair."

Burton laughed shortly. "When would you like to start trying?"

"I already have," Ness said, and began walking down the gentle slope to the edge of the river where Merlo, Curry, and the uniformed cop, and two dismembered arms awaited.

The Torso Clinic, as the press came to call it, met at seven the next evening in the ballistics lab on the second floor of the Central Police Station. Shortly before seven, grave-looking men began filing into the stark, high-ceilinged room. Work desks with comparison microscopes had been moved to one side, as had various file and card cabinets, to make room for rows of folding chairs; an aisle had been left to allow the slide projector its path to the screen set up before them. Few of the men were taking their seats as yet; they were studying in churchlike silence the wall of torso-murder photos the coroner had arranged for his guests. Coroner Samuel Gerber had also set a table, just in front of the large bulletin board where the photos were thumb-tacked, a table covered by a white cloth as if a meal were about to be served; but rather than china and silverware, the coroner provided an arrangement of human bones, including several skulls. The photos, and bones as well, were clearly labeled as to which victim or victims were represented.

Ness had stood in the hallway greeting the clinic attendees, shaking hands, thanking them for coming at such short notice. Among them were Dr. G. Clifford Watterson, professor of anatomy at Western Reserve University medical school; Dr. Louis A. Williamson, superintendent of the Newburg state hospital for the insane; Police Chief George Matowitz; County Prosecutor Frank T. Cullitan; Sergeant Hogan, head of the homicide squad; several other doctors, including a psychiatrist in the probation department of criminal courts; and various detectives, including Merlo and Curry, all of whom had worked one or more of the individual killings.

A brace of reporters had also been invited, to give evenhanded coverage to all the papers. The representative of the Plain Dealer was the last to show.

"You sure you know what you're doing?" Sam Wild, lighting up a Lucky Strike, asked Ness.

"Yes."

Wild was a tall, pale, bony-looking man in his mid-thirties. His hair was dark blond and curly and his features were pointed, giving him a pleasantly satanic look. He wore a white seersucker suit and a blue bow tie and a straw fedora with a blue band.

"Your self-confidence is an example to us all," Wild said, exhaling smoke, smiling, looking like a happy cadaver. "But you're putting more on the line than just your good name, you know. Like your ass, for instance."

"Sam, I'm just doing my job here."

"Bullshit. Your job is to be an administrator. Your hobby is chasing crooks down. But I'm not complaining. You always do right by me where the headlines are concerned, and this is sure as hell no exception."

Wild had been exclusively attached to City Hall, specifically to cover the activities of the safety director, for well over a year now.

"I'll get you your headlines," Ness said.

Wild laughed. "Christ, you're a smug son of a bitch! Well, I'm with you, pal. Only, you lead the way. I'll be right behind you- watching behind you."

"With my 'ass' on the line like it is," Ness said with a quiet smile, "that'll come in handy."