“What is your point, Mister Riis?” Falconer said.
“You were up there, too, detective,” Riis said. “You would have noticed that there was blood on Frenchy’s door. Did you see it, detective?”
Falconer paused, looking around at all the activity on the street—food vendors loudly announcing their inventory, wagons rolling by, people walking silently every which way down the sidewalks. Then he looked back at Riis. “Well, the fact is, Mister Riis,” he said, “I don’t recall seeing any of the blood near his room, either. But maybe I just wasn’t looking hard enough. It was quite a busy scene up there, as you recall.”
“Really, detective?” Riis said. “Do you think you would have missed it?”
“What are you trying to say to me, Mister Riis?” Falconer asked pointedly. “Are you saying that this department trumped up the blood evidence?”
“I’m not sure what to think, detective,” Riis answered. “But I did want your opinion. I saw you back there in Byrnes’ office when he was talking about the blood, and how Ali was the actual killer, and let’s just say that you didn’t appear to be with him on that one.”
“Well, I’m not leading this investigation, Mister Riis,” Falconer said. “I just do my part, and it looks like my part is over. They’re going after the Algerian now, and there’s not much I can do about it. If you have questions about the investigation, you’ll have to take it up with Byrnes and his men. Have a good day, Mister Riis.”
Falconer then turned and strolled off, leaving Riis standing alone on the sidewalk. As he walked, he pondered what Riis had said to him. It was true: like the reporters who had scrambled up to the murder scene early on the morning of April 24, he had not noticed any blood leading from Room 31 to Room 33 when he first got there, so he was puzzled to hear of the announcement of the new blood findings. Furthermore, he could not understand why a man like Ameer Ben Ali would viciously kill a prostitute just down the hallway and then go back to his own room, thereby leaving telltale blood evidence leading to and directly inside his own personal space. Finally, why would the woman’s killer linger in the neighborhood the very next evening and allow himself to be openly observed and arrested by police just blocks from the murder scene? Surely a brutal killer, even one as apparently simple minded as Ali, would have run as far as he could from the scene of his bloody handiwork and then would have tried to conceal himself from the obviously vigorous investigations of Byrnes and his men.
The accusation against Frenchy simply did not make sense to him, but he was unfortunately not close enough to Byrnes and his men at Mulberry Street to know why they had suddenly settled back on the French Algerian as the killer. And, to make matters worse, he realized that he was no longer necessary to the investigation and was now being slowly shut out of the decision-making. And so, like the rest of the city, he would have to wait for the coroner’s inquest to see the full case against Ali set out in detail.
He wandered down towards Oak Street, pensive and questioning, and he thought of Ameer Ben Ali, the man who sat in the Tombs awaiting word of an indictment. Though, as he walked, the streets were full of people and activity, he did not hear the noises around him, or see the people; he thought only of Ali, and of the blood—the mysterious blood.
18
Friday, May 8
Falconer walked into the main entrance of the Astor Library on Lafayette Street and beheld the great, bustling interior reading room that was full of people and clerks surrounded by stacks and stacks of volumes as high as the eye could see. Higher above all the shelves and people, an enormous array of skylight windows allowed the sunlight to drape across the thousands of bound books resting within.
Impressive.
He went over to the librarian’s desk and waited in line. Soon, after the last befuddled visitor had made a plaintive inquiry for the location of a certain book, he stepped up to the desk and asked for directions to find any histories of the Whitechapel killings from three years earlier in London.
“Ah, yes, there are several,” the bespectacled young man informed Falconer from behind the counter after taking a moment to search several drawers of records. “Take the stairs up to the second floor and turn left. British history is all through that section and you’ll find the books that we have at this number.” The man handed over a slip of paper with a strange notation of numbers and letters on it, and Falconer took it with an expression of thanks and was off before the librarian could respond. Moments later, he was carefully scouring the stacks of volumes high up over the grand central room of the library.
Because the Astor did not allow for circulation, he intended on sitting down for several hours and taking down notes for possible use in the investigation—or, short of that, simply taking notes so that he could at least become more familiar with the London killings.
After several minutes of searching the long aisles walled with books, he finally came upon three slim volumes pertaining to the London killings: “Leather Apron; Or the Horrors of Whitechapel London,” by Samuel Hudson; “The History of the Whitechapel Murders: A Full and Authentic Narrative of the Above Murders, With Sketches,” by Richard Fox; and finally, “The Whitechapel Killings: A Balanced View of the Evidence,” by Professor Eli Benjamin Levine of Columbia College Law School. Grabbing all three, he found a seat at a long table on the second floor and settled into a long stretch of reading concerning the series of killings that struck the Whitechapel district in 1888 and 1889.
As he read, the names from that period in the summer and fall of 1888 came back to him like a bad memory that had been buried for a very long time: Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, Mary Jane Kelly. He read on and on, about the women who were found lying dead in the street or in their bed, strangled and disfigured by the maniac who was never caught.
Who was he? Where did he go?
He closed the last of the books that he had been perusing all that afternoon and glanced out of a window in the distance up on the second floor of the library. The newspapers had had a time of it with the Ripper angle the past few weeks, flooding their headlines in boldfaced ink with those titillating words: The Ripper…Jack…the Whitechapel Murderer. They floated theories about the London serial killer’s presence in New York, but Byrnes and the Central Office men were having none of it. Ameer Ben Ali the Algerian was their focus now and it was clear where the investigation and inquest were headed: to Ali’s prosecution in court as the killer of Carrie Brown. And yet, something was troubling about it all. Something did not seem right about this latest direction taken by the Mulberry Street headquarters.
He looked down at the books on the table. He loved books—like his father had—and could sit in a place like this for hours and learn about the world outside the windows, away from the stinking alleys and the dead bodies lying in the puddles of booze on the Bowery. Something caught his eye: Professor Levine wrote about how he had studied the Whitechapel killings closely from his lofty perch in academia up on 49th Street and Madison, and then had traveled to London and interviewed witnesses and stood on the very spots of the killings. This man clearly knew as much as there was to be known about the unknown Whitechapel murderer, and he was here in New York, teaching law students, and he could be a very useful source of information in a hunt for a copycat killer like the Ripper.
Falconer grabbed the books and returned them to their rightful place on the shelves, threw on his coat and bowler, and ran downstairs and out into the street, thinking of the closest location from which to send a telegraph to Columbia College Law School.
19
Riis stood outside Byrnes’ office with several other reporters waiting for the chief inspector to appear. It had been several days since the Central Office had made any announcements concerning the investigation, and Riis was determined to get more information from the chief inspector. Byrnes was still delaying the coroner’s inquest, however, apparently in the hopes of solidifying any evidence that might link the knife to the prisoner, Ameer Ben
Ali.
Riis stood outside the door, ruminating on the latest rumor working its way through the newsrooms: that three men who had been fellow prisoners with Ali at the Queens County Jail in Long Island City just prior to the murder reported that they had seen Ali with a knife in jail that was very similar to the one found in Room 31 of the East River Hotel. One of the men, John Duffy, alleged that Ali had even tried to stab him with it, while the other two, David Gilloway and Edward Smith, who had both been housed in the same tier of cells as the suspect, insisted to investigators that they had seen Ali eating with the knife. The sheriff in charge of the facility had refused to comment on these reports.
Byrnes suddenly appeared outside his office with Clubber Williams and McLaughlin by his side.
“Chief inspector,” Riis said from his position in the front of the group of reporters, “can you tell us if these men from the Queens County Jail have shed any light on the connection between Ali and the knife found in the woman’s room?”
“I understand,” Byrnes replied, “that they thought they could identify the knife, and when the detectives displayed it before them they stated that they thought that it was the knife or one very much like it. That is about all I have on the identification of the knife.”
“Was the knife one that had been used in prison?” another reporter asked.
“I can’t say positively as to that,” the chief answered, “but my impression was that it was Frenchy’s personal knife. When the assault was attempted, I understand the man Duffy did not report that fact to prison authorities. I don’t think the warden knew anything about it, and it is hardly probable that an investigation was made.”
Another reporter quickly followed up: “Don’t you think it strange that a prisoner could have a knife in his possession without the knowledge of his keepers?”
“Well,” Byrnes said, appearing unfazed, “that may be explained in the fact that when a man like Frenchy is arrested on a charge of vagrancy the utmost care perhaps is not made in searching him. The offense might be considered trifling, and a prisoner might easily bring a knife in with him. Now if you’ll excuse me gentlemen, I have an important meeting to make. You can rest assured that we will have more information for you as it becomes available.”
Riis and the others moved aside as the chief walked down the hallway with Williams and McLaughlin, and then the other reporters, too, headed off for the staircase, to return to their respective papers to type out the latest developments in the case.
Riis stood alone in the hallway, smiling.
Some answer, he thought. They’re grasping.
20
Assistant Professor Eli Levine stood at the end of a large lecture hall and watched as the group of second-year law students filed noisily out of his classroom on criminal law at the Columbia College Law School. It was the second week of May, and the spring term was ending.
After the last few students had exited, he gathered his belongings at his desk and strolled down to his small office on the first floor of the building. There, Edna Brittle, a secretary for Levine and several of his colleagues, handed him a telegraph that had just come in from downtown. He glanced down and read it quickly:
Professor Levine:
I am a detective involved in the investigation of the East River Hotel murder occurring April 24 and have reviewed your book on the Whitechapel murders. I believe that you could be of assistance to me and was wondering if I might have a moment with you when convenient. Please advise when you are able.
Sincerely.
R. Falconer, Detective, NYPD, Oak Street station
Levine paused for a moment, then slowly looked up at his secretary.
“Miss Brittle, could you please take down a reply for me?”
Prosecution
21
On Wednesday, May 13, Riis took his seat in the crowded second floor courtroom adjoining the office of Coroner Schultze and watched as the coroner’s inquest finally began. He looked over to the side as officers led the handcuffed Ali slowly into the packed room where twelve jurors, men picked from the community, sat waiting in silence surrounded by dozens of other gawking onlookers, reporters, and government officials. Ali was smiling and appeared to be very pleased with the new trousers that he had been given, along with a smart black necktie with large, red polka dots that draped down the front of his shirt.
Riis looked back over at Coroner Schultze, who was getting up out of his chair at the head of the room. Schultze walked forward, announced the commencement of the proceedings, and swore the jurors in. Assistant District Attorney Wellman then immediately called his first witness, Mary Corcoran, another housekeeper at the East River Hotel. Riis pulled his notepad out of his jacket and listened intently as the woman sat down and proceeded to testify that she had seen Carrie Brown drinking in the ladies’ drinking room of the hotel on the night she had been murdered, and then had seen her body in her room after Eddie Fitzgerald ran downstairs and alerted her about it.
The case against Ameer Ben Ali had begun.
22
Falconer did not attend the first day of the coroner’s inquest. Instead, he arranged to meet with Professor Eli Levine down at the East River Hotel. Walking up the sidewalk along Water Street, Falconer saw a young, sturdily built, bearded man of medium height wearing eyeglasses standing alone outside the front entrance of the hotel. This must be him. “Professor?” he said to the man, who then wheeled around and looked back at him. “Yes,” Levine said. “Detective Falconer?”
“That’s me,” Falconer said, shaking Levine’s hand. “Thanks for agreeing to meet.”
“Certainly, detective,” Levine said. “This is rather exciting for me, I must say.”
“You’re younger than I expected,” Falconer remarked. “I thought a professor would be a little older, no offense.”
“None taken—I’ll take that as a compliment,” Levine replied. “I’m thirty-one…been practicing for almost a decade now, actually.”
“Well, congratulations on getting on with the law school,” Falconer said. “Pretty impressive, if you ask me.”
“Thank you, detective,” Levine said. “And I must say, I’m equally if not more impressed with your position as a ward detective on the police force—it must be fascinating work.”
Falconer chuckled. “Hardly fascinating, I’m afraid,” he said. “But it beats slinging fish down on the wharf, right? Let’s go in, shall we?”
The two then walked into the entrance of the hotel. There was no one behind the front counter, but to their right, they saw a bartender cleaning some glasses behind the bar. The man looked up at them and immediately came around the bar to where they were standing near the front counter.
“May I help you, sirs?” he asked, wiping his hands on a dishrag.
Falconer showed his badge. “Detective Falconer with Oak Street, and this is my assistant, Professor Levine from Columbia College School of Law. He’s a consultant to us in the Brown murder investigation, being an expert in…in…what’s your area again, professor?”
Levine looked up, appearing surprised by the question. “I, uh…yes,” he said haltingly, “I am…uh…an occasional consultant in the field of criminology.”
“Criminology?” the bartender said, looking confused. “Never heard of that before. What’s that?”
Levine was about to open his mouth, but Falconer interrupted him. “It doesn’t matter. He helps to solve difficult crimes occasionally. And what is your name, sir?”
“Sam Shine,” the man answered. “I bartend here.”
“Right,” Falconer said. “Well, Mister Shine, we’re still investigating the murder, and so we’d like to take another look at Room 31. Is it occupied?”
“Uh…I thought they got the guy already and he’s locked up,” Shine said.
“They’re presenting evidence to the coroner today,” replied Falconer without missing a beat, “but there’s no indictment yet. So, we’d like to look at the room, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m with the police, Shine,” Falconer said with a hint of menace in his voice. “I’d like to see the room—now.”
“I…um…yes, sure thing, detective,” Shine stammered after a few seconds. “Let me just go get the key.”
As the bartender ambled back to his bar, Falconer glanced over at Levine and smiled.
“Here we are, detective,” Shine said coming back into the hotel’s foyer. “Shall we?”
The three men then walked up to the fifth floor in silence, with only the constant creaking of the worn staircase and the distant murmur of drunken voices bellowing somewhere in the neighborhood piercing the quiet ambience of the moment. At the top of the stairs, as they reached the short hallway leading down to the death room, Falconer grabbed Levine’s arm and gestured with a nod of his head up towards the closed scuttle just a few feet above them. Levine looked up briefly, and then the two men followed Shine down the dimly lit hallway. As they walked, Falconer looked intently at the floor and walls around Room 33 and noticed signs of the wood having been chipped away by some sort of sharp implement.
Shine stopped at the door to Room 31. “Shall I?” he asked.
Falconer nodded and Shine then unlocked the door and swung it open slowly.
“You should stay here, if you can,” Falconer stated to the bartender. “Just so you can reassure anyone that we didn’t mess with the room, all right?”
Shine nodded and moved over to the right just inside of the doorway, and Falconer and Levine entered behind him. The room looked different from when Falconer had last seen it on the morning of the 24th—the bloody sheets and the beer pail were now gone and the bed had been stripped bare. Although it appeared that the room had been scrubbed in some fashion, he could still see the faint remnants of bloodstains on the floor beneath the side of the bed. He walked slowly into the center of the room and knelt near to the edge of the bed. Then he gestured for Levine to follow him.
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