Here

by Sean Moynihan

  “Professor,” Penwill said as he leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette, “let me ask you: do you think that this man is, in fact, the Whitechapel killer?”

  Levine shifted in his chair and thought for a moment, then finally spoke. “We saw how the Whitechapel killer may, or may not, have sent messages to your Scotland Yard, inspector,” he stated. “This message is obviously of a different tenor and was clearly written by someone with a greater command of the English language. At least that’s the way I see it. I can’t say that it is the London killer because the message is so dramatically different from the Jack the Ripper letters. But, frankly, I never thought the true Whitechapel killer was sending those cheeky, misspelled messages; I believed that the actual killer was a much more refined and educated man. I’m not sure why I felt that, but in any event, it seems that we don’t have enough right now to make that connection. It’s true that Miss Brown was murdered in a very similar fashion, but this letter here gives us no clue about the Whitechapel killings. We would need more, something else, to connect this person to London.”

  “And I suppose the way to do that is to reply to him via the Tribune, as he wants?” Falconer asked. “Maybe try and trick him into revealing something?”

  “That would be a start,” Levine answered, “but I’m really not sure what to say in the reply.”

  “What about a little taunt of our own?” Penwill asked. “Point out that the Mallory girl got away from him. It may serve to draw him out into the open again.”

  “That’s would be risky,” Falconer said. “It may incite him, antagonize him to the point that he makes sure he kills another girl just to show us that he can do it.”

  “Might I suggest that you simply try and engage him?” Levine inquired. “Ask him why he’s doing what he’s doing—try and elicit some information that helps to identify him.”

  “You think that would work?” Falconer asked.

  “As I said,” Levine answered, “he seems to want to communicate with you, detective. He may get to a point where he trusts you and allows you into his world, albeit only through a simple lost and found entry in the paper.”

  “I guess it’s worth a try,” Falconer said. “Meanwhile, we have to figure out what to do with this message. I just can’t see us withholding this from Mulberry—it’s too damned important.”

  “Agreed,” Penwill said. “They need to see this—it may change their whole view of the case.”

  Falconer and Penwill looked at Levine, who was nursing his coffee. “Absolutely,” he said to them, placing his cup on the table. “It should be presented to them.”

  “All right, then,” Falconer said, “I’ll take care of that. In the meantime, let’s figure out what to say in our reply to our little letter writer. Any ideas?”

  42

  Falconer sat in a chair in Chief Inspector Byrnes’ inner sanctum at Mulberry Street. Around him sat Clubber Williams, Captain O’Connor, Detective Sergeant Crowley, and, behind his great desk, the chief himself, quietly scanning the letter that Falconer had recently received at the Oak Street station. The men waited for some time as Byrnes read and re-read the letter.

  “Bit of a tussle you had there, Falconer?” Williams asked Falconer, pointing to his bruised face.

  “A gang fight over in the Tenderloin,” Falconer replied. “I should’ve known it was a bad idea to intervene. But it’s okay.”

  Williams smiled. “That’s why I always said, ‘Do it to him first before he can do it to you.’” He winked at the other men, who chuckled gamely with him.

  Byrnes then looked up from his chair and eyed Falconer. “So, you received this when, Falconer?”

  “A couple of days ago,” Falconer answered. “Down at Oak Street.”

  “Well, it’s quite a piece of work, I’d say,” Byrnes said, looking down at the letter again. “Here, pass it around.”

  Byrnes handed the letter to O’Connor, who briefly read it, and then handed it to Williams, who in turn, read it and handed it to Crowley. After the three men had finished reading and Crowley had placed the letter back on Byrnes’ desk, Byrnes leaned back in his chair and folded his arms in front of him. “So, he’s basically saying that he killed Miss Brown, and he’s threatening to do another job soon. The question is, do we believe him, or do we think he’s just another con man having a little fun?”

  “I’d say we have to take it seriously, sir,” Falconer replied as the other men sat quietly in their seats. “There’s a risk in dismissing it.”

  “Well, I agree with you there, Falconer,” Byrnes said, “but chances are, this is just another bothersome attempt by an interloper to cause a stir. Captain?”

  Falconer looked over at O’Connor as the big precinct captain sat up straighter in his chair, appearing uncomfortable with the attention placed on him. “We can keep an eye on it, chief,” he finally said. “If the writer has any more letters for Falconer here, he’ll probably address them to our station, so we’ll bring them to you as they arrive, if they do, in fact, arrive.”

  “Yes, I’m inclined to agree,” Byrnes said. “I can’t say that this is new evidence exonerating Ali, Falconer—let’s face it, we get strange letters like this all the time regarding cases—but it is something that we will have to take under consideration. I thank you for bringing it to our attention.”

  Falconer felt like protesting, but then decided against it and stood up out of his chair, frustrated with the way things had gone. As he turned to head out of the room, Byrnes spoke up again. “I just don’t understand why he addressed it to you, Falconer,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Why you out of all the detectives in the department, and why not send it to our offices here? And what about this way he signs it? ‘Personal Adverts, New York Daily Tribune’—what’s the story there, I wonder?”

  “I don’t know why the writer sent it to me, chief,” Falconer replied. “I guess he just figured out that I worked the case for a bit down in the precinct where the murder occurred, and he picked my name at random. As for the personals thing, I’m thinking that he may want me to reply to him for some reason, and a good way of having that happen without him getting caught would be for me to post some sort of a message in the personal ads sections of the paper directed at him.”

  “A message?” Byrnes asked. “What sort of a message?”

  “I’m not sure,” Falconer answered. “But that’s the only thing I could think of.”

  “Well, we won’t be corresponding with this letter writer right now, whoever he is. I’ll hold onto this, and as I said, we will take it under consideration, Falconer. And do get us any other similar messages that may come to you, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Falconer replied.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Byrnes announced as he stood up behind his desk. “That will be all.”

  Falconer walked out of Byrnes’ office and into a long hallway that housed a string of other offices. He moved down the hallway, skillfully maneuvering his tall frame between young clerks and stern-faced patrolmen who scuttled between offices and cubicles with their latest written reports or telegrams received from distant parts of the city. Reaching the main staircase, he headed down through a further multitude of policemen, lingering reporters, and city staffers, finally walking out the front entrance of the great stone building that served as headquarters and nerve center for the police force. Turning left, he headed downtown to his desk at the old Oak Street police station.

  43

  Two days later, Falconer walked into an office at the 19th Precinct station house in the Tenderloin. Sergeant Servitto and a colleague there, Detective Michael Bond, had arranged for him to meet with Eva Mallory at Falconer’s request. Falconer waited for a few moments, staring out the window at the horizon in the distance on this very clear day, and then stood up as the other men opened the door and led the young woman into the office.

  “Here we are,” Servitto said as he offered a chair to Miss Mallory. “And this here is Detective
Falconer from the Fourth Precinct. He’s been assisting us during this investigation.”

  “How do you do, miss?” Falconer said removing his bowler and holding it at his side.

  “Fine, thank you, detective,” she replied, taking a seat in a chair that Servitto had offered. The men then sat down next to her and Bond spoke. “So, Detective Falconer just wanted to revisit the night that this all happened, if you don’t mind, Miss Mallory. He’s investigating some other incidents and thought that it might be worthwhile to see if there was any connection to yours. Is that okay?”

  “Certainly, detective,” she answered. “Anything to help.”

  “Very well then,” Bond said. “Detective?”

  “Thank you,” Falconer said as he removed a small notepad and pencil from his jacket pocket. “Miss Mallory, I understand that you were walking home late in the evening up Broadway, and right before the Imperial a man suddenly grabbed you and carried you back into the alley there.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” she replied.

  “And when I say ‘carried,’ it means he literally picked you up off your feet and carried you down the alley, correct?”

  “Yes, exactly,” she answered. “He just grabbed me by the waist and held a hand over my mouth and picked me right off the ground. I couldn’t feel my feet touching the ground at all.”

  “And you struggled with him, correct?” Falconer asked.

  “Indeed, I did,” she replied. “At least, I tried, but he was very strong, sir.”

  “I understand,” Falconer said. “And I believe you reported that you heard him say something to you, is that right?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “When I was struggling in the alley and he was trying to get me down to the very end of it, I heard him say something like, ‘You’re a shifty one…I’ll have to be quick and careful with you.’”

  “Anything about his voice that stood out?” Falconer asked. “An accent, perhaps?”

  “Well, I’m just not sure,” she answered, “but…yes, if I can remember right, it sounded like he might have had some sort of a slight accent. It was hard to tell in the moment, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s understandable,” Falconer replied. “And you may not be an expert in foreign languages, of course, but could you take a guess of where the accent might be from?”

  “Well, I’ve heard how a good many men talk from various countries, actually, and my best guess with this man would be that he was from somewhere in Europe perhaps—maybe Germany? It was certainly not Italian—I know that accent well.”

  “I see,” Falconer said. “And what about his face? I understand that you got a quick look at him when you kicked him?”

  “Yes, I did,” she answered, “but it was actually fairly brief. I had closed my eyes momentarily right at the moment when I was going to kick out at him, and when I did, I suddenly felt him release his grip and I could at least get some air. And in that moment, I saw him as he grimaced, and he went down in pain. I saw a dark face, very swarthy, maybe fifty years old or so, with a dark mustache and dark eyebrows—but with some gray, I believe—and very white teeth as he gritted them in obvious pain. But I could not see his eyes, I’m afraid, as they were closed in that moment. And then I ran, of course.”

  “Yes, I understand,” Falconer said. “And what about his clothing, Miss Mallory? Did you see that?”

  “Yes, I did see some of that,” she answered, “especially as I slid down against the wall and he was kneeling down in pain. He wore a black waistcoat with black trousers, his shirt was white—very white, I should say, almost shining in the darkness—and he had a black hat of some sort on his head. I wish I could tell you more, but it happened so quickly—I just ran out of there as fast as I could.”

  “Of course, Miss Mallory,” Falconer reassured her. “That’s what anyone would have done. We’re just glad that you did manage to escape.”

  “Detective,” she asked as Falconer jotted down a final few notes on his notepad, “do you believe that this man has attacked other women in the city?”

  Falconer put down his pencil and looked back at the young woman. “I don’t know, Miss Mallory, but I have a hunch that he has, unfortunately. That’s what we’re trying to find out. You’ve been very helpful to us today, so I thank you for your time—we won’t keep you any longer.”

  “Yes, thank you, gentlemen,” she said as Servitto stood up behind her to help her out of her chair. “Please let me know if I can be of further assistance.”

  “We will, miss,” Bond said with a smile. “The sergeant here will see you out. Thank you.”

  Servitto opened the door for Miss Mallory and exited behind her, heading down the hallway to the front entrance of the busy precinct. Bond watched as they walked away, and then turned back to Falconer, who stood quietly on the other side of the table in the room. “Well,” Bond said, “she sure doesn’t come across as your typical streetwalker, now does she? I’d say she was the girl next door, if you didn’t know any better.”

  Falconer ignored the comment, and instead, moved past Bond to exit the room. “Thanks, Bond,” he said, walking out into the hallway. “I’ll keep in touch.”

  He walked down the hallway and thought of the man dressed in black who had attacked Eva Mallory, and of what he should do next.

  44

  Falconer walked into the Oak Street station house the day after his interview of Eva Mallory at the 19th Precinct. He strolled down a hallway and entered a large room housing the investigations unit, where he sat down at his desk, picking up the small pile of mail that sat waiting for him in a wooden tray. Glancing quickly through the envelopes, he came upon one letter addressed from Eli Levine. Curious, he opened it up and read:

  Professor Eli B. Levine of the Columbia College of Law

  Presenting a Lecture for the Public

  “The Nature of the Mass Murderer: Why They Must Kill”

  Thursday, August 13, 1891, 7:00 PM

  Great Hall, Foundation Building

  Cooper Union at Cooper Square

  Admission Free

  He smiled. A lecture. This should be interesting.

  Placing the card inside his jacket, he jotted down a note reminding him to send a telegram to the professor expressing his congratulations and accepting the invitation. Then, looking around the room, he decided to leave the station house and go seek out Penwill at the Occidental. Something had to be done about the message that he had received through the personal ads section of the Tribune—regardless of what Byrnes had instructed.

  Forty-five minutes later, he walked into the lobby of the Occidental and asked if Penwill was in. The clerk directed him to the small dining room off the lobby, where he found the inspector sipping a cup of tea and reading the morning paper.

  “Well, you’ve decided to drop in,” Penwill said, looking up from his paper. “Have a cup of tea?”

  “Maybe a coffee,” Falconer said, sitting down at the table.

  “How are things?” Penwill asked. “Did you happen to see the invitation to the professor’s lecture Thursday night?”

  “I did,” Falconer said. “Are you attending?”

  “Certainly,” Penwill replied. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. What about you?”

  “I thought I’d be there,” Falconer said. “Good to support the professor in these things.”

  “Righto,” Penwill said. “Then it’s settled: we’ll meet and listen together.”

  “That’s fine,” Falconer stated, looking out the window of the hotel.

  “Something’s bothering you, Falconer,” Penwill said, placing his teacup on the table. “I can tell.”

  “Well, inspector,” Falconer said, “I can’t get over this message that I got from the mysterious writer. Byrnes said to not reply and leave it alone, but I feel that that’s a mistake.”

  “Yes,” Penwill said, “I’ve been thinking the same thing. We’ve gotten a lead of sorts, and we’re just letting it pass. Seems like a terrible waste,
my friend.”

  “I agree,” Falconer said. “I know it’d be an act of insubordination, but I think we have to do what we think is right. Byrnes is wrong on this—it could be our suspect who wrote it.”

  “Well, then, let’s just go about our way and send a reply,” Penwill said. “You can lay it on me, Falconer, if your superiors get wind of it.”

  “That’s all right, inspector,” Falconer said, smiling. “I can deal with Byrnes and his boys if they find out. Let’s speak with the professor after his lecture on Thursday—get his opinion on it. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Penwill said. “Now, how about that coffee?”

  45

  Falconer and Penwill moved from their seats down towards the stage in the basement of the Cooper Union. The crowd that was now leaving had just moments earlier erupted into a sustained applause following Levine’s engrossing lecture on mass murderers, and as the long lines of people slowly ebbed their way up the aisles and moved out into the crisp nighttime air, the two detectives wanted to congratulate the speaker. “Quite enjoyable, I must say, Falconer,” Penwill said as they stood in a small line easing its way towards Levine. “I liked especially the one from Spain who claimed to be a werewolf. Can you imagine that? A werewolf, of all things?”

  When they finally reached the front of the stage where Levine stood warmly greeting and thanking each person who approached him, Falconer and Penwill stepped towards him and extended their hands in congratulations. “Well done, well done, man,” Penwill said enthusiastically. “I’ve never known that there were so many of these confounded people. I’ll have to catch up on my reading, that’s for sure.”

  “Yes, that was a great job, professor,” Falconer agreed. “I’m glad I came.”

  “Well, thanks, both of you,” Levine said, smiling. “I really can’t thank you enough for coming out and hearing me, especially after working the whole day.”