by H. B. Berlow
Ronald Roché walked in right after Sells comments. It almost seemed to me as though he were just outside waiting for the right time to step in because his timing was impeccable. He surveyed the scene, from me to Sells to Rackler and back to me.
“The chief wishes to see you, Officer Witherspoon.” I looked at Sells waiting to see if there would be any acknowledgement, any consideration for my efforts. I thought he might be the one to actually recognize what it meant. In the end, he was just an old guy wanting to walk off into the sunset all on his own. The scary thought was I might wind up insignificant as well.
Ronald’s walk was stiff, almost military, the utter professional. Perhaps it was going to the police chief’s office that made his spine stiff.
Chief Wilson was signing several papers, placing them on the blotter, and creating a neat and stacked pile. After I entered his office, he placed his pen down carefully, and looked up at me, the fingertips of both hands evenly placed against each other almost in prayer. His invocation was short of the mark.
“Officer Witherspoon, I want to thank you for taking the time to come up from Arkansas City and offer us your perspective on this case. We appreciate your efforts and are grateful for your insight.”
“Sir?”
“I’ve spoken with Bert Wells, the City Manager, and Dr. Weaver, the mayor. They are now of the belief we will be able to proceed with this investigation on our own.”
Ark City wasn’t the only place where politics was a game played by men in suits seated behind big desks. A slight smile came upon my face. I wanted to chuckle as much as I did watching Bringing Up Baby with Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn. I wanted to have a pain in my belly from laughing so hard thinking a killer was going to keep on with his path, his mission, and none of these cops were going to ever find him unless they got lucky.
But I didn’t. I just smiled, and nodded, and turned to leave the office. Ronald Roché escorted me as far as the main entrance.
“I’m sorry to see you go. I learned a lot from you.” His comments seemed sincere. I didn’t know what to say in return. Two days of putting in my best efforts on someone else’s behalf and being turned away like a beggar. It was time to go home.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Somehow the drive seemed longer going back to Ark City. Two days in Wichita, the Peerless Princess of the Plains, and I was sent home about as fast and unexpectedly as I was called upon. I didn’t see the purpose to begin with but once I was there it was my obligation to help in any and every way I could. Former councilman Hallett had nothing to do with this but I reckoned it was just as dirty. Why not? Wichita was a much bigger city with far more politicians and obviously a lot more dirt lying around.
There was no possible way Sells and Rackler were going to solve this case, certainly not with their current attitudes. Sells seemed like he was ready to retire and was looking for either a resolution to this case to put a feather in his cap or for time to run out and allow him to walk away. Rackler was a brute who didn’t have much thought for the motivations of others. He was like an angry bull in a pasture surrounded by a rickety fence. Admittedly, I was no genius in this field but I had figured out about Natalie Dixon by the same process. Given the time and their cooperation, the answer might have appeared.
I got back to the station shortly after noon. I had neither breakfast nor lunch and it was nothing more than anger fueling me. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. The Arkansas City police department didn’t often “loan out” an officer. There was no actual procedure written down anywhere. When Dave Morton saw me and told me to report to the chief, it was as though a protocol was being created on the spot.
Chief Richardson was still on the phone but waved me in. His expression was of a bloodhound that had been run through the county and was now plum tired. There were a few nods and “uh-huh” thrown in but it was evident he was listening as he was supposed to. After a bit he hung up.
“Officer Witherspoon…” He pinched the top of his nose, his fingers digging in to the corners of his eyes. “Baron, I’m sorry. Truly I am. It seems this was all an issue—”
“I understand, sir.” I did. I knew how elected officials acted and believed their opinions were irrefutable. Wichita was the biggest city around so their problems were magnified. Drawing me into the picture only made us look like backwoods idiots. That, more than anything, rattled Chief Richardson’s nerves.
“Take the rest of the day off. File a report tomorrow. Turn your receipts into the comptroller for reimbursement.”
“Sir, I think I—”
“You’re done with this case, Baron. You’re done with Wichita.”
He looked at me, more like stared at me, trying not to be upset because this wasn’t ours to deal with despite him knowing how much I would grab on to a case and shake it until something fell out. This wasn’t our case, his eyes seemed to reiterate. I nodded and walked out, knowing I would be heading directly over to the Traveler offices to visit Sandy Clevenger.
Typing up reports one click of the typewriter at a time, Sandy almost looked like she was ready to fall asleep or perhaps was actually doing her work in her sleep. I wasn’t going to let my foul mood get in the way of what I knew was going to be an infectious smile.
“Professor Clevenger,” I intoned and before long her head popped up, saw me, and there was her famous smile.
“Why, Baron Witherspoon, what brings you to my humble classroom?”
“Need some research on something, well, pretty nasty and gruesome.”
She leaned over the typewriter trying to get as close to where I was leaning over the counter. We were like a vaudeville version of Bonnie and Clyde.
“I like it so far.”
“I need you to look through back editions for cases of multiple murders in the same jurisdiction. Stabbings. Women more than men. Unsolved cases.”
“Kansas?”
“National. Or…”
“Or?”
“International.”
She raised her eyebrow in a suspicious way. Last time I asked for her help, it was for the local killings. I hadn’t asked her anything like it since. While I was disappointed I hadn’t been able to liven up her days, I was grateful we didn’t have these kinds of killings here.
“This have to do with Wichita?”
“How did you know I was up there?”
“I didn’t ’til now. But it’s been in the paper.”
I leaned in closer as well, sharing a conspiratorial attitude.
“What do you make of it?”
“Reminds me of the notorious case in England fifty years ago. The Whitechapel murders.”
“Don’t suppose anyone from the case is still alive?”
“I doubt it. Why?”
“I’ve got some ideas about the Wichita killings. Only I’m not on their force and I’m not part of their case. I just need to find someone to talk with who might, I don’t know, give me some kind of direction.”
She reached out and patted my hand.
“Aren’t you ever going to settle down and give up all this foolishness?”
I got a lump in my throat, not because the sentiment was touching but because I had to stop myself from getting angry with her. The sentiment got me riled up more than the lady.
“See what you can find.”
I left quickly. It dawned on me she was right. There was one hope for me to experience something normal, whatever the word was supposed to mean, and it was Natalie Dixon. I had been so desperate for love and affection I would have been willing to hide her crimes if only we could have been together. After her death, it didn’t much seem like there was anything else for me. I ran away from being Eric Kimble, Chicago gangster. I hid from being Eric Kimble, soldier. I took the identity of Baron Witherspoon, Kansas farm boy turned police officer. I was a combination of two people which didn’t make me better or greater or more fulfilled. I was a new being who really had no past and could not see any kind of a future.
&nbs
p; So I continued on being a police officer, seeking out bad people and trying to stop them. It would probably go on like this until I just died, either by a criminal’s gun or from some natural malady. Convincing myself this is what I was good at gave me all the motivation I needed. Everything else people thought I should have, like a loving wife and a house with a picket fence, was someone else’s dreams. I only had nightmares.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Weeks passed. There were the usual drunks brought in to sleep it off and a few kids itching to get out of school for the summer who were causing general mayhem. There were no gangsters from the big city, at least none we knew of. There were no horrific murders, and that was for certain. It was the Ark City everyone had always known. And it started to bore me.
I realized a part of me was still Eric Kimble, the part itching to rebel against the tried-and-true life of Baron Witherspoon. Maybe the reason I was so upset at being sent home from Wichita was because I was so excited to be involved in such a case. I felt alive in the midst of death. It occurred to me I had become who I am now as far back as the war. Fear and imminent death gave me a purpose.
Dave Morton offered to fix me up on a double date with the older of the two Grier sisters. However, she turned out to be a little bit more of a Bible thumper than I wanted to be around. It got me to thinking about Deanna Roché and how I didn’t think of her in the same way. The buxom figure stuck out more in my mind and in more of the right places.
Just when I had forgotten about my request, Sandy Clevenger stomped into the police station with a thick stack of newspapers. She had a mischievous smile on her face, definitely like a feral cat that had caught a field mouse. I escorted her to an unused office, similar to the one I used in Wichita. Blood started to flow rapidly through my body.
“Well, of course we talked about the Whitechapel Killer. Then there was some fella called H.H. Holmes in Chicago about the time of the World’s Fair back in ’93. There was a French guy, Joseph Vacher. Not sure if I’m pronouncing it right. They called him the ‘French Ripper’.”
All the while, she was filing through her stack of newspapers to show me the articles. They were mostly notices of their execution and less about the actual case.
“Anything more recent?”
“The Germans seemed to have had their hands full. This one guy, Fritz Haarmann, was called ‘The Butcher of Hanover’ and this other guy, Peter Kurten, was known as ‘The Vampire of Dusseldorf.’ Pretty gruesome, huh? At least they gave them good nicknames, right?” Her smile was no indication of any kind of disgust. It was more like watching a Three Stooges short at the movies. “First one was executed in ’25 and the second in ’31.”
It wasn’t my intention to show my disappointment but the whole idea of this was to reach out to the investigators to get a better understanding of their case. I didn’t speak German and telegrams back and forth weren’t going to get me any clearer picture. Making sure I explained this specifically to Sandy and not blaming her, she held up a hand as though to stop me from seeing her off.
“We got this other one. They call him the ‘Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run’ and it’s right up in Cleveland. They speak English there, right?” I smirked at her and read the paper from just this past April. The thing that struck me like lightning was the communications from the police to the press were made by Eliot Ness who at the time was the Public Safety Director of Cleveland. It wasn’t easy to tell if he was in charge of the case or merely just the mouthpiece. Nevertheless, this was a man whose reputation carried weight. I was certain to be able to get the kind of direction I was seeking.
My first task was to reach out to him. I needed to do so in an official capacity so he wouldn’t take me for an autograph seeker. The call would have to come directly from the department. I walked Sandy out as I headed for the switchboard operator, Linda Kuchenberg. She was always dolled up with her hair in an elegant bun and was made up as though every day were Friday night, never bemoaning her spinster status.
“You coming over for dinner on Sunday?” Sandy asked her as she passed.
“Only if you’re making a roast.” Sandy smiled and left. I looked at Linda, to the front door where Sandy had just passed, and back to Linda.
“I didn’t know you knew Sandy.”
“She’s my sister. Hmm…some detective you are.” All I could do was shake my head.
“I need you to contact the Cleveland Department of Public Safety. Try to get hold of Eliot Ness. Tell him one of the officers here is investigating a case similar to the Kingsbury Run butcher.”
“Sure, Baron. How long do you want me to try?”
“Until you get a hold of him.”
As I walked back to my desk, I realized how involved I was in this case and I didn’t know why. Maybe it was to make up for Natalie or even Heather Devore. Jake Hickey had come into town and threatened to undermine the lives of a lot of good people. His desperation got his lady killed, and he wound up getting his head blown off. I don’t say it was because of me. Jake was going to act as he always had. Natalie was on a personal quest. I just got in the way of both. This was one case where I might have a say in the outcome instead of just being in the crowd watching the show.
More than that was the notion of something to do and, along with it, someone to be. I had lost my way, feeling like I was caught in a twister just spinning me round, not knowing where I’d land until I landed.
The case files were no longer available to me but I still had all my personal notes. I had read the newspaper every single day since I got back and didn’t find any further articles about the killings in Wichita. It could have meant they ended altogether or the killer recognized the investigation was heating up and decided to stop for a bit. It made a certain degree of sense considering I felt the perpetrator was on a personal mission, somewhat like Natalie. Then I changed my mind and decided someone so driven would not be capable of stopping but needed to see it through to the end. On the other hand—
Miss Banister called me to the kitchen when I got home and served up a slice of chocolate zucchini bread and poured me a cup of very hot black coffee. She had me sit with her at the breakfast nook while she sipped her tea. If I didn’t know any better, I would have sworn she was an English lady with her grace and charm.
“You’ve been distant,” she said calmly.
“More so than usual?” I tried to divert her with humor but no one had ever accused me of being a funny guy.
“You should find a nice girl and settle down. I think it would be better for you.”
“I don’t know much else besides being a policeman. Wasn’t much good at farming. To be honest with you, Miss Banister, I really can’t see me all nice and cozy behind some white picket fence with a wife and some kids and a dog. It works well for most folks but not for me.”
I sipped my coffee. The richness of the cake made me feel like a king. Miss Banister had her delightful smile, looking like a kitten before it pounced, and said, “I think it’s time to stop running away.”
Just like Dr. Brenz, I could never tell if she knew more than she admitted. But I was so far removed from the past I had to stop caring about it reaching up from the grave and dragging me down.
The door knocker hit viciously and repeatedly against wood. My instincts took over, and I sprinted to the front door, holding one hand behind me to ward Miss Banister away. Dave Morton stood on the step panting as though he had run all the way from Tulsa.
“Linda Kuchenberg’s got Eliot Ness on the phone.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was a French forest somewhere. The squadron leader was Corporal Baron Witherspoon who had taken over after Staff Sergeant Frieberg had been killed by a sniper. He led us toward what he had been told was a foxhole with a German machine gun unit. A shell exploded over our collective left shoulders. We spun around like tops, eyes bugging out of our heads. We thought we were headed in the wrong direction. So we did what anyone would do which was to run away from the shelling.
Until they started coming from in front of us. Caught in a crossfire and needing to find a way out, Cpl. Witherspoon led us in a diagonal path away from the intersecting shells. There was a trench about fifty yards in front of us. Witherspoon stopped and pushed each of us past him. I fell. He picked me up. The shelling was right behind us. I ran faster than I ever had. Faster than running from the cops after roughing up a news vendor. Witherspoon had to push me as I was faltering. I fell in just as a shell exploded right behind him, pushing him forward, pushing him on top of me.
I ran almost as fast back to the station house realizing it had been twenty years since that happened. I let Eric Kimble die in the war and brought Baron Witherspoon back to life. Brought him back home.
Linda Kuchenberg saw my sweaty red face and probably thought she needed to call the undertaker. I did everything I could to quickly catch my breath before panting “I’ll be in the records room.” It was similar to the large room at the Cowley County Courthouse but with far fewer file cabinets, a small table and uncomfortable wooden chair, and a phone. Very rarely was it used by anyone except detectives.
I couldn’t be sure how I was going to sound after running so fast and so hard. After all, this was the man who created The Untouchables and brought down Capone, something George ‘Bugs’ Moran and ‘Crazy’ Jake Hickey could never do. It was important to impress him as a police officer.
“Mr. Ness, thank you so much for returning my calls.”
“I’m sorry for the delay, Officer Witherspoon. Weren’t sure who you were until I had you looked up. You brought down Jake Hickey.”
“Well, it wasn’t just me…”
“I understand. People think I brought Capone down all by myself.” There was an awkward pause, like I had just met a movie star at a gala and didn’t have anything worthwhile to say other than admitting being a fan. “What can I do for you?”
“I was asked to consult on a case in Wichita seems to have some similarities to a case you’ve been working on.”
