Secrets of the Righteous

by H. B. Berlow

  “The torso killer.”

  “Yes.” There was another pause. The silence had me concerned he might not be willing to assist.

  “You say you were asked to consult on this case?”

  “Correct, sir.”

  “And are you still consulting?”

  “The detectives on the case decided to follow a different lead than the course of my investigation.” I don’t know where such a sentence came from but it was the smartest thing I had ever said in my life. I also wasn’t sure how it would play out. “I’m certain, with your guidance, I could bring this case to some closure and assist them in getting an arrest.”

  “I see.” I heard papers rattle and maybe what sounded like his fingers strumming on a blotter pad. “I’d be happy to show you around our case. You might pick something up. Plus, we could also use a fresh set of eyes. Could be beneficial for both of us.”

  I had hoped to discuss this over the phone or perhaps have him send me some files. Going to Cleveland was not what I had planned. Then again, I wasn’t sure what I had planned. You read Eliot Ness is involved in a major case and you reach out to him for guidance and he invites you into his home, so to speak. It was time to follow a new road.

  “It would be an honor, sir. I’ll let you know when I’ve made arrangements.”

  The feeling of satisfaction I expected to have after talking with a law enforcement legend like Eliot Ness was soured by the confusing notion of having to make my way to Cleveland to get help investigating a case with which I was no longer involved. It certainly didn’t make any sense. However, it was an opportunity I could not overlook.

  Heading to Chief Richardson’s office, I tried rehearsing various lines in my mind but none of them sounded as smart as I just did with Ness. Maybe I was only good for one intelligent line per day. It was made perfectly clear to me why I had been requested by the Wichita Police Department as well as why I was asked to leave. This was more about image to them than solving the case. The brotherhood of police was closing ranks and leaving one of their own, me, out.

  “I have an opportunity to consult with Eliot Ness regarding the killings in Wichita. It might wind up being a great learning experience for our department as well.” I stood at attention, just like Cpl. Witherspoon.

  “You’re no longer on the Wichita case, Officer Witherspoon.”

  “Sir, Mr. Ness is a highly respected—”

  “I know who Eliot Ness is.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I could feel this chance slipping away. To be honest, I had no idea why it was so important to me. Maybe the lack of respect I received from fellow police officers in another city drove me to prove something. It might have been nothing more than the notion of growing older and not having anything to show for my forty years on this earth. When all is said and done, a man wants to point to something, one thing, and say, “I did it. That thing, it was because of me. And it was good.”

  “I’ve been noticing in your files you haven’t taken a vacation since you started on the force. Close to twenty years and never having a vacation. Remarkable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I think you’re due for a couple of weeks off with pay.”

  “It would be greatly appreciated, sir.”

  “Your vacation begins today.”

  His head dropped down and continued looking through reports. He didn’t have a chance to see my smile. I turned to leave, my hand on the door knob, when I heard him speak.

  “Baron.”

  “Yes, sir?” I said turning back.

  “Come back with something.” His eyes seemed hopeful. I nodded in agreement and left.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Time and money.

  Those were valuable things, not just to gangsters but to the every day working-class guy. It never seemed there was enough of either. A gangster knew he wouldn’t have the time but could get the money. The mill worker or factory worker or farmer had nothing but time yet very little money to show for it. Perhaps we were all looking in the wrong direction.

  I made $1333 per year, just a little over $25 a week. I was sure unlikely to spend a week and a half’s pay on first class train fare. I took a local to Joplin out of Ark City which mostly carried grain and was then able to catch a Missouri railroad to Kansas City. From there, I traveled to Chicago and then over to Cleveland. It took me nearly a whole day but only $15 total because I sat in the worst seats possible. It was probably better because people in those seats really don’t care what you look like as much as the ritzy swells in First Class. My thought was even if I had spent good cabbage they would have tossed me out based on some obscure and unstated rule. I was where I needed to be.

  I had a three-hour layover in Union Station in Chicago. It was barely four miles from the SMC Cartage building where nine years earlier the fate of the North Side Gang and Jake Hickey was set forever. What would have happened, I thought, if Dion O’Banion hadn’t encouraged me to go off to war? The possibilities were endless. I could have been killed either by the South Siders or by ‘Crazy’ Jake himself. I might have been on the receiving end of a Valentines card from Capone. I could be in jail or successfully running my own gang, rolling in the dough, a good-looking wife and kids and myself with a good looking face. As it was, this scarred vet was on his way to a meeting with the man who had brought Capone down. The irony was as thick as a fall fog in the Windy City.

  A clerk at the station said I could save cab fare by walking to the City Hall where the Public Safety Director’s Office was located. I walked down East 9th and turned onto Lakeside Avenue. It was the biggest public building I had ever seen, even bigger than anything in Wichita. It made me believe their police force was far more superior to anything I had been aware of before. Then again, they were investigating a series of grisly murders no one seemed to be able to figure out. The size of the building made no difference.

  Several guards directed me to the proper wing of the building. Not one reacted to my facial scars with the slightest degree of disgust or anguish. It made me angry the police officers in Wichita had treated me with such contempt. Then it dawned on me their attitude was based on my intelligence and not my appearance.

  The outside door read Director of Public Safety. An attractive redheaded secretary typed up reports when I tapped lightly on the door and walked in. She looked up and her emerald green eyes glistened almost as brightly as her moist red lipstick. Her blouse seemed a bit too small as her bosom pushed snuggly against it. Like the policemen I encountered so far, she smiled at me, neither afraid nor concerned. She was in a legitimate line of work but far more tantalizing than Heather Devore.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Ness.”

  “Is he is expecting you?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Who should I say is calling on him?”

  “Baron Witherspoon. Officer Baron Witherspoon from Arkansas City, Kansas.”

  “Officer Baron Witherspoon.” She emphasized my title as though impressed and then picked up the phone and dialed one number. She looked up at me once or twice as she spoke. Her tongue glided across her lower lip. I was really enjoying Cleveland so far.

  “He’ll see you now, Officer Witherspoon.” I couldn’t help but smile.

  Ness was well groomed and well dressed, a dapper figure who met my expectation of him by virtue of his reputation. He stood from behind his desk and came out in front of it to warmly shake my hand. I dropped my satchel to the floor beside me.

  “Glad you could make it, Baron. You just got in?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, you’re about five years older than me. Why don’t you drop the ‘sir’ and just call me Eliot?” I nodded. I couldn’t have felt more relaxed and at ease if I had tried.

  “I’m really impressed,” I said, unconsciously looking back over my shoulder.

  “Miss Hammersmith? Yes, isn’t she a peach? But you haven’t come all this way to look at our delectable office personnel. Why don�
��t you have a seat and tell me about your case.”

  I sat in a comfortable leather chair opposite him and started to relate the Wichita murders to him. I backtracked at one point to describe my investigation of the three murders in Ark City back in ’35, leaving out the part about Natalie Dixon. He had Miss Hammersmith bring in a tray with a carafe of coffee and two cups. Our gazes met again, and hers seemed very inviting.

  “I like your approach to both of these cases. The notion of scientific policing and using psychological analysis is the way to go. I think it will be the future of law enforcement.”

  “I think so, too. I just can’t get the Wichita police department to see.”

  “You have to understand, Baron, there’s more to fighting crime than just going after the bad guys. Do you have any idea what I had to deal with in Chicago? It’s the reason we created The Untouchables. And then when I started here, it was even worse, if you can imagine. But we got a Grand Jury two years ago. Fifteen city officials, two captains, two lieutenants, and a sergeant. All of them, gone. Two hundred police officers were forced to turn in their resignations. Once you get rid of the bad apples you can plant a whole new orchard.”

  I liked the sound of that. I liked him and his enthusiasm. Falling into another man’s skin and following the course of his life had been my fresh start, my new orchard. But I had little opportunity for anything more. The chance to work on a case in Wichita gave me the hope of expanding my horizons but only ended up as a closed door. There was a passing thought I should move up here, work alongside Eliot Ness and make a real name for myself.

  “Could I see your files on the torso case?”

  “Absolutely. We can head on over to the police department and talk to a couple of detectives.”

  “You mean you’re not investigating directly?”

  “I just coordinate the investigations. It’s not like the old days. Come on. We’ll walk. It’s just a block away. Plus, it’s not so hot for August. You can leave your bag here.” He grabbed his hat and briskly walked past me and toward the door. “Miss Hammersmith, hold all my calls.”

  The alluring redhead looked at me with a gracious smile.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Officer Witherspoon.”

  “And you, miss. I’ll be here for several days, I imagine.” I have no idea where those words came from. It had been happening a lot lately.

  “How delightful.”

  This was certainly a perk of law enforcement.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I must have had a faraway look on my face, something dreamy and distant. Ness tapped me on the shoulder.

  “A dish like her can get you in some serious trouble. I know. I’m on the outs with my wife because of her.”

  “You’re having an affair?” There was disappointment in my voice as though the possibilities of a roll in the hay were being nixed.

  “No, nothing of the sort. It’s just that I work a lot. All the time really. And my wife can’t help but think there is something amiss. She thinks she’s some kind of detective.” He smiled but prevented himself from outright laughing. “The truth is there isn’t anything going on, but there were a few thoughts every once in a blue moon.” His smile remained but it didn’t seem as genuine now. “She doesn’t like it when I have a drink with some of the guys at the office either. Says it isn’t right for a former Prohibition agent to be drinking even though Prohibition is over. Come to think of it, she doesn’t approve of a lot of things I do.” He was a man who knew his limitations which made me respect him even more.

  We got to police headquarters which rivaled the City Hall building as the most magnificent thing I had seen. Ness walked through the front doors, into the main lobby, greeting many people along the way. He seemed genuinely liked. Perhaps his reputation had been carried from Chicago and maintained along the way.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, we were up on the second floor in a sprint and then down a long hallway to the detectives’ room. Unlike Wichita, this seemed to span four or five offices worth of space. There were perhaps twenty desks, each with a phone and two baskets for files. A chalk board at the very far wall filled with columns indicated outstanding cases. At the top were the words Kingsbury Run.

  Ness brought us over to a far corner where two detectives were busy at work. “Detectives Lindsay and Gallison,” Ness announced, “this is Officer Baron Witherspoon from Arkansas City, Kansas.” Both of their handshakes were warm and firm. Their eyes never wavered from my face. Detective Lindsay seemed like a taller version of Ness with a pencil thin moustache and pince-nez glasses. He looked more like a college professor than an experienced law enforcement officer. Detective Gallison was a big man, equally tall, broad shoulders barely fitting inside his jacket, but with kind eyes. He had dark black hair. It was the only thing from keeping him looking like Santa Claus. “Detectives Peter Merylo and Martin Zalewski are the primary detectives,” he said to me, “but they keep running into dead ends. These guys are my back ups, only the chief and commissioner don’t know it.” There were knowing smiles between the three of them. He turned back to Lindsay and Gallison. “We’re trading sets of eyes. His look at our case. Ours look at his.”

  “Seems fair enough.” Gallison pulled up a third chair. Ness indicated he had rounds to make.

  “You fellas okay with being backups?” I felt like the simple-minded college freshman, unaware of how things worked.

  “Not a problem.” Gallison’s baritone voice was actually soothing. “We’re not trying to win any awards. Just catch a killer.”

  I sat there with these two professionals while we went over everything they had on what the press was calling the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run. There had been a disparity between the finding of bodies and the actual time of each murder as determined by scientific methods. Only two of the ten victims had been identified. There were decapitations with some of the heads having never been recovered. Two of the male victims had been emasculated. One of the John Does, dubbed The Tattooed Man, was determined to have been decapitated while still alive. Three women, seven men. One black victim.

  “This one is particularly interesting,” Lindsay said while showing me the file. “It’s from just this past April. A part of the victim’s lower leg was recovered. Less than a month later, May second, a human thigh was found in the Cuyahoga River in the Cleveland Flats just east of the West 3rd Street Bridge. We searched under the bridge and discovered a burlap sack, the kind you can purchase at any dry goods store. It contained a headless torso cut in half, another thigh, and a left foot. Thus far, we have not found a head or any remaining body parts. Additionally, it is the only victim found with drugs in her system.”

  “What kind of drugs?” This was all new to me.

  “According to the file, Samuel Gerber, the medical examiner, says it was some kind of narcotic, possibly in the opioid family.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. If torture and suffering are the goal, why dull the pain? Why make it easier?” I could feel my mind working like it did three years ago and then again when I was in Wichita. My thought processes were sharp, perhaps to fight off the concerns I had battling my own sense of identity.

  “Nothing about this case makes sense,” Gallison chimed in. “When you look at all the files, ten of them so far, you say this is the work of a mad man, a complete lunatic. Right? Then you consider the time and effort involved to do this and you realize it takes precision and skill. So, it doesn’t add up to a lunatic.”

  “You said ‘so far?’ Do you think—?”

  “I think he’s going to continue until he’s caught or killed. He likes it. He’s getting good at it. Unless—”

  “Unless what?” I felt like I was waiting for the punch line to a joke.

  “Well, maybe he thinks he’s on some kind of mission and now he’s finally done. But I don’t think we’re gonna get that lucky.”

  I nodded because I understood and agreed. It was the same thing as in Wichita although different circumstan
ces. A pattern develops. Maybe it’s like a chess game or a jigsaw puzzle. There are pieces put into place by the perpetrator. The job of the detective is to figure out how and why they go together.

  “Ness thinks he has a suspect.” Lindsay was sounding hopeful.

  “Ness is good at cleaning up corruption and lowering traffic fatalities. I’ve heard his theories on this one and they just don’t add up.” I looked at Gallison inquisitively. “Ness had us conduct an interview with a Dr. Francis Sweeney. Figured it had to be a medical man given the nature of the killings. Sounded okay by me. A guy named Emil Fronek claimed the doctor tried to drug him several years ago. The interview and the investigation didn’t quite pan out.”

  “But now he thinks the killer could be either hiding or living in the shanty town around Kingsbury Run,” Lindsay added.

  “Look, Officer Witherspoon, I don’t mean to sound negative.” Gallison had the tone of St. Nick in his voice, loving and giving. “Mr. Ness is under a lot of pressure. They brought him here to find this monster and it’s been a bumpy go along the way. Us old timers don’t like chasing bad leads. On the other hand, we’ve got to go anywhere there might be a crack of light.”

  I had been in town for four hours and had learned more about Eliot Ness and police work than I expected. It all made sense with him working as much as he did, having someone as alluring as Miss Hammersmith being a distraction, a distrusting wife, and a lot of hair brained theories in the hope of finding a killer. The difference between Cleveland and Wichita was this city was willing to unlock every door even if it led nowhere. Perhaps desperation was the driving force. Perhaps Wichita would get desperate one day.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I was able to get a room a block away with the assistance of the detectives who freely threw Eliot’s name around. It was as though the landlady couldn’t do enough for me despite making very little eye contact. She was the first person I encountered in Cleveland who had an issue with my facial scars. My dream world was brought back into reality. To some, I was still a monster, or at the very least someone to approach with caution.