The ride from City Hall began on Lakeside Avenue, then moved quickly to West Third, which jogged through the respectable heart of the city, turned into a hill, and fell to the Flats, where West Third leveled out, as did the respectability. The sleek black limo glided like an apparition of affluence through the shabby assembly of warehouses and saloons in the Flats, the bottomland area that was home to the crazily winding Cuyahoga River and the steel mills and factories that crouched there.
Faded brick buildings gave way to an open, overgrown field, alongside of which the limo pulled up. The uniformed police driver got out and was about to open the door for his passenger, but, as usual, that passenger beat him to it.
Mayor Harold Burton did things for himself.
He was a powerfully built, fifty-year-old, wedge-shaped man of medium height, whose broad brow, this sunny Monday morning, was creased in concern, his gray eyes half-circled with sleeplessness as he stood and contemplated the gray shimmer of the Cuyahoga, visible beyond the field. Beyond the river, beyond the industrial valley, fifty-two-story Terminal Tower loomed like a reminder of pre-Depression optimism. With a tight smile and a hand gesture, he indicated to his police driver to stay with the car. Then he started toward the river.
Burton wore a light brown suit, rather rumpled, and a battered gray hat; his wardrobe looked not remotely mayoral, with the possible exception of his dark brown tie and the gold stickpin, the latter presented him by the American Legion. He crossed the field quickly, the earth giving under his feet, still damp from the several days of rain that had let up just before dawn. The land here managed to look predominantly brown, despite patches of green weeds and wildflowers. The sun beat down harshly, though Burton-who had once done both farm work and lumber-jacking-did not mind it, in fact barely noticed it. His feet crunched the gravel and glass around the railroad tracks, which he stepped over, beginning down the very gentle incline toward the river's edge, where four men stood around a wicker basket.
One of the men was a middle-aged fellow in overalls and an engineer's cap; another was a young uniformed police officer. The other two, wearing suits and ties, might have been businessmen. Burton recognized one of them as Detective Albert Curry, who despite his youthful looks was ranked among the best investigators on the department and had for almost a year now been attached to the safety director's office.
The other man, a deceptively mild-looking individual in a smartly cut, dark gray suit and a blue and gray tie, was the director of public safety himself, Eliot Ness. Burton owed this man much-which, at the moment, made the mayor feel uneasy, even guilty, about the job ahead.
Working his way through the brush and the garbage-littered shore, Burton approached Ness, and the two men exchanged tight smiles and shook hands with a certain ceremony. Curry, nervous in the mayor's presence, smiled a little when Burton offered a hand to shake.
"Sorry I had to cancel our appointment," Ness said to the mayor. "But this came up…"
"Think nothing of it," Burton said, waving it off.
In the midst of the small gathering of men, like a fire they might warm their hands at, was a wicker basket; in the basket was a human arm, obviously male, gray and somewhat decomposed, cut cleanly just above the elbow. The hand rested at the edge of the basket, as if about to grip it.
"Beautiful morning for such a grim task," Burton said.
Ness glanced at the sky as if the beauty of the day hadn't occurred to him, nodded, and introduced the man in overalls to Burton.
"This is John Haggerty," Ness said, gesturing to the man. "He's the bridge tender who spotted the torso and the leg Friday morning."
"Pleased to meet you, Your Honor," the man said as he and Burton shook hands. Haggerty's face held a haunted look; the circles under his eyes made Burton look well-rested.
"Your alertness is appreciated," Burton said, not exactly knowing how to commend an individual for spotting body parts floating down the river.
"It's been horrible," Haggerty admitted, clearly shaken, "just horrible. Yesterday some more of him floated by-rest of his torso, they said-stuck in a burlap bag. Then another leg. Then today an arm.. it's enough to make a man call in sick."
"I can understand that," Burton said, patting the fellow on the shoulder.
"What's it gonna be tomorrow?" Haggerty asked, his eyes a window on the horror he'd seen. "The damn head?"
"I wouldn't worry about that," Ness said coolly. "The head almost never turns up."
This seemed scant consolation for Haggerty, who touched his own head with a trembling hand. "If you gents don't need me… I… I better be getting back to work."
Burton glanced at Ness, who shrugged a little.
"Go right ahead," Ness said.
Haggerty walked along the pilings at the river's edge, where the gray Cuyahoga gently lapped, and moved quickly toward the low-slung drawbridge off to the left, retreating to the safety of his watchtower.
"This is a pretty lucky catch," Ness said, smiling, referring to the "fish" in the wicker basket. "The Butcher usually keeps the head and hands, you know. With fingerprints to work with, we may identify this one."
"That would be helpful," Burton said.
Out on the river a Coast Guard launch cruised; against the gray surface of the river with its oily yellow splotches, the white launch trimmed red and blue was an incongruously cheerful and colorful presence. Two sailors in crisp Coast Guard whites were aboard, one guiding the launch, the other watching the water; also on board was a thin man in shirtsleeves.
"That's Merlo," Ness explained.
"He's been on this case from the beginning," Burton said.
"Yes he has. He's a top-notch investigator."
"But he hasn't got the job done," Burton added.
"I believe in Merlo. No way I want him off the case. He knows more about the Butcher than anyone outside of the Butcher himself. But he needs support." Ness lifted an eyebrow, put it back down. "And the investigation could stand some fresh blood, if you'll forgive the expression."
"I agree," Burton said.
The sun went under a cloud and turned the Flats even grayer. It was cooler here, by the river. Oddly peaceful. Birds chirped and cawed; insects buzzed lazily; taller weeds, violet wildflowers, swayed. The wind in the weeds made a shimmering sound, like the soft riffle of playing cards.
"There's the other one!"
It was Merlo, standing in the motorboat, pointing.
Burton looked out toward the reflecting surface of the river, didn't see anything.
Ness said, "There." He pointed.
Now Burton saw it, something floating like white-gray driftwood. The launch cut its speed even further and eased over to it. One of the sailors, his sleeve rolled up, eased out beyond the edge of the boat and reached.
Then he pulled back into the boat and stood and held the severed limb in his hand and yelled, "Got it!"
The sailor was young and even at a distance you could see he was grinning. He lifted his prize in the air and waved with it. From here it looked like an extension of his own arm, as if a hand at the end of a grotesquely long limb was waving a greeting.
Ness was not pleased. "Put that thing down!" he called. "Be careful with it!"
Within the boat, Merlo was apparently making similar admonitions.
The young safety director seemed quietly outraged. "Doesn't anybody have a clue as to how evidence is handled or preserved?" He gestured to the wicker basket and its grisly contents. "That should be in a rubber evidence bag, zipped tight, kept away from the elements."
Curry and the uniformed cop exchanged glances, wondering if this question/accusation applied to them.
Burton said, "I've heard similar complaints from the coroner."
"We have little enough meaningful evidence in this case as it is," Ness said, "let alone handle it carelessly."
"Something definitely has to be done," Burton said.
"I agree."
"Let's talk," Burton said, and gestured toward the gentle slope of land behind them.
Ness followed the mayor to the edge of the train tracks. "About our appointment…" Ness began.
"No apologies necessary," Burton said. "I admit, though, that I was glad to find you'd made an appointment for this morning. I needed to talk to you. But when you canceled… well, let me say I was relieved to hear where you were."
"Relieved?"
Burton had to turn away from the frank, even naive gaze of his younger associate. Ness was perhaps the most intelligent, tirelessly hardworking, and cold-bloodedly fearless man Burton had ever encountered in his many years of public service; but the man would never understand politics. Ness would, Burton feared, always be unaware of the forces that shaped things; would, for all his experience in criminal justice, remain in this one way an innocent.
"I have to ask you to take a risk," Burton said.
"That's what I'm paid for."
"Eliot. Keep your enthusiasm in check for a moment. My conscience requires that I spell this out to you. I can't let you commit to this blindly, rashly."
"Commit to what?"
Burton sighed. "When you came aboard, I had to ask you to take a career risk that few men would have put up with."
Ness nodded matter-of-factly, as if to say, "So?"
Burton laughed, shook his head. How could he hope to get through to Ness on this subject?
When Burton had asked Ness to become his director of public safety, in December of '35, it had been with the condition that Ness would enter the office to much fanfare about his background as "the man who got Capone," the former G-man whose squad of "untouchables" had brought Chicago's mob to its financial knees. Burton, an independent who had been elected on a law-and-order platform, had faced a factionalized city council, much of which opposed him. In order to get his police and fire department budgets passed by this hostile group, he needed glowing press and had accordingly played upon Ness's reputation-and put that reputation on the line-by promising an immediate cleanup of the rackets, particularly of Cleveland's impossibly corrupt police force. Ness would have only a matter of months to accomplish the job.
If Ness had failed, after coming in to such fanfare, it would have been career suicide; but he had taken on the job eagerly.
And he got the headlines, putting dents in the local gambling and policy rackets while exposing a network of corrupt cops, specifically nailing the "outside chief," the high-ranking officer who oversaw this venal "department within the department." A score of other corrupt officers, exposed in a graft report personally assembled by Ness, were successfully prosecuted shortly after.
And Mayor Burton got his budgets passed.
"I swore to myself," Burton told Ness, "that I would never put you in that sort of spot again."
Ness said nothing; his head was moved forward, however, eyes slitted.
"Now I have to ask you to do much the same thing again, and I have no right to. You can say no. I won't hold it against you. Not in the least."
"Say no to what?" There was more than a hint of impatience in Ness's voice.
Burton gestured in a conciliatory manner. "You have to understand, Eliot, that while we've accomplished much, there is much yet to accomplish."
"I know," Ness nodded with a sour smile. "There's still corruption on the force. We still have gambling, policy… labor racketeering. None of it is gone."
"Strides have been made," Burton said. "Remarkable strides. And your deams of modernizing the force, of putting a patrol car within a half-minute of any home in the city, of reorganization of the traffic bureau, of instituting a juvenile delinquency unit… we need to make them come true. I have a great belief in your theories, and their practical application, Eliot."
"I appreciate that, sir."
"But the sad truth is, we have an election coming up."
Ness smiled. "You'll take that in a walk."
"It's not that simple. I'm running on the Republican ticket, but I'm perceived, correctly, as an independent. I'm going to be up against four challengers in the primary race, Eliot."
"Well, if there's anything I can do…"
"We'll get to that. You have to understand that for me to win I need more than just the support of the people. I need the support of the business community."
"You've had that in the past," Ness said. "I probably know that better than anybody."
"Yes, you do. The industrialists, the merchants, who came through with private funding for so much of the work you've accomplished, who've kept our slush fund full, have to be convinced that we're still worth backing. That we're not going to embarrass them and the community."
Ness frowned. "I don't understand… our successes have gotten us attention all over the country. The world! I've got clippings in my scrapbook from as far away as…"
Burton lifted a hand, gently. "Yesterday's news, as your friend Mr. Wild might say."
Ness thought about that, darkly.
"The Butcher," Ness said.
"The Butcher," Burton agreed, sighing. "What the world knows about Cleveland right now is that we have America's answer to Jack the Ripper stalking our streets. And our police department can't seem to do a thing about it."
"We're being made to look ineffectual by this maniac."
"You haven't been tarnished by it, personally. Everyone knows you have your own staff of investigators, that you've hired outside investigators"-that was one of the major reasons for seeking slush-funding from the business community-"that from time to time you do your own investigating. You've managed to stay aloof from the… embarrassment."
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.