“Since the victim was found on the East Side in the First Inspection District, the case falls in The Broom’s bailiwick.” McClusky glanced up at Inspector Max Schmittberger, the tallest man in the room at six foot five. Petrosino caught Max’s eye, and they winked at each other. “But, because of the nature of the case, General Greene himself put me on the job. And I’ll be damned if I leave one stone unturned. I summoned the Brooklyn men here because I think the body may have been brought to 11th Street from across the East River. The goddamn rain’s washed away any footprints or wagon tracks or any other clues on the ground, so it’s no use going back to the scene. I figure that, since no patrolmen saw a wagon carting the barrel through Manhattan, it may have been dumped there by boat from Williamsburg or Greenpoint. McCafferty was on a case near Avenue D at 4:30 a.m. and said he never saw any such barrel.”
Petrosino didn’t buy it, but kept his mouth shut. If McClusky were right, the barrel would have been unloaded at the foot of East 10th and transported by wagon two blocks to the spot in front of the Mallet Works. Why would the murderer have gone to the trouble of a boat and a wagon? And McCafferty may have missed the wagon easily. Petrosino had pounded the pavement for years as a roundsman, and there were times when it took a good hour to circulate back to the same corner on his patrol. An hour was plenty of time to dump a body when no bull was lurking, he thought.
McClusky was still barking out his ideas, looking at a few of his favored Irishmen.
“Attorney Garvan and the Coroner went to look at the body at Union Market and thought the man might be Italian, Greek, or Armenian. It’s been transported to the Morgue since, and we’ll get a chance to examine it and pick the doc’s brain. I got a gut theory about the victim being a socialist agent or a pot-stirring union man. If so, he could be from any of the colonies on the East Side. Maybe Syrian because of the dark features, pointed nose, and earrings.” McClusky pointed at a group of his Irishmen. “I want you boys under McCafferty to scour every corner of the Syrian immigrant quarters. Becker, I want you to turn the Greek and Armenian colonies upside down. You men from Old Slip precinct take the Poles and Slavs. And don’t talk to the press. Leave the newshounds to me.”
“Chief, what about me and my Eldridge Street boys?” Schmittberger asked.
“Hell, I don’t know, Broom, aren’t you more suited to ‘sweeping up corruption’? A murder case may be too much for a reformer like yourself. Might rattle your nerves, boy-o.” McClusky aimed a derisive grin at Schmittberger. Some of the Irish dicks chuckled. “Tell you what, I’ll leave the Dagos and Yids in the Ghetto to you. Petrosino can help you ‘sweep up’ the shit there. We’ll see if your motley crew of Jews can solve it faster than my lads. Dismissed.”
“Yes, sir, Chief, leave it to us,” Schmittberger said with a sweet tone, “we like sweeping shit up. I got a shovel and barrow ready.”
McClusky grunted.
Schmittberger lingered outside McClusky’s outer office and pulled Petrosino aside. Petrosino nodded, and the two men walked two flights down and then stopped on the worn marble steps of the stoop on Mulberry Street. The big flat feet of McClusky’s men shuffled past them and plodded into the light rain toward the Syrian and Slavic colonies.
“He skipped over things,” Schmittberger mumbled out of the corner of his mouth. “Why do you think McClusky’s keeping clues to himself from that report?”
Petrosino looked up and down the street. “He’s been demoted and promoted by Tammany plenty. Got sent off to Goatsville twice. And he just made head of the Central Bureau a month ago. So I figure he’s playing this one close to the vest because he’s not itching to go back to the sticks if it’s botched. But I ain’t buying what that snake oil man’s selling.”
“Especially one in a Saks suit, and did you see when he took off his jacket? Wearing red garters on his sleeves like a riverboat dealer. Son of a bitch is as dumb and chesty as a peacock. This killing happened in the Red Light District. That’s my district!”
“Well, at least he fancies you, Max.” Petrosino smiled.
“Sure. Ever since I blew the whistle on his brothers to the Lexow Committee. That was ages ago, but he’s not letting it go, is he? At least I made a clean breast of my graft. The Micks hate me because they still collect ‘sugar’ from the disorderly houses, and this McClusky can’t wait to lay a trap for me.”
“You’d best forget that. You only made Inspector this year, and he’s the brand new Chief Inspector. Chain of command.”
“Right, and I still outrank you.” Schmittberger smirked. “Did you know McClusky was last on the eligible list when we were both Captains and I made Inspector ahead of him.”
“How’d he leapfrog you then and make Chief Inspector?”
“How else? Tammany. Don’t get me cross thinking about him. What’s your gut say about this case, you little Italian wiseacre?”
“Act of passion. Or maybe a blackmail killing. My stoolies say a lot of rich Italians are getting threatening letters telling them to pay off or end up like Luigi Troja and Joe Catania. But it could be anything. Another saloon squabble gone wrong or even a madman escaped from Blackwell’s. I’d like to see the body to start.” Petrosino realized something and crossed himself. “Whoever did this had no qualms doing it a day after Easter Sunday.”
“Probably even went to see the flowers at the Fifth Avenue parade. Why do you think the killer put the victim in a barrel?”
“Not sure yet. Maybe as an easy way to transport him. He had the sawdust already inside the barrel to sop up the blood, then he puts it on a wagon, dumps it. But, if it’s a saloon brawl, or if it’s a gang squabble like the Catania job, then why dump the barrel in the street for everyone to see? And right in the middle of Little Italy, to boot? He went to a lot of trouble and could’ve been spotted.”
Schmittberger thumbed at a horse carriage. “While these fools are playing in the rain, we should find out exactly what’s inside the barrel and speak to Weston about what’s inside the dead man’s body. Give us something to chew on.”
“Agreed.”
Chapter 3
“Gentlemen, please have a seat,” Dr. Weston’s portly young assistant said. “The doctor is finishing up shortly.” The assistant disappeared back into the examination chamber.
Petrosino and Schmittberger waited in the sitting room outside the death chamber. They hadn’t been able to find Izzy, and none of Petrosino’s other stoolies knew anything yet. The owners of a saloon, a dry dock storehouse, and a manufacturing tenement near the Mallet Works had seen nothing. Petrosino was hoping by night, after the evening papers spread the news and the pictures, that someone would have some wine and start singing.
“In vino veritas,” Schmittberger said.
The pair passed a cigarette back and forth, preparing for the cold examination chamber with its smells of spoiled meat, sweat, and formalin. Schmittberger stopped stroking the thick bristles of his grey moustache when Chief Inspector McClusky and two of his lackeys came next through the door, suits damp from the rain. Max tipped his hat, and McClusky grunted in return. Captain Becker and a Brooklyn detective were the last to arrive, shaking hands with everyone and saying they had no luck finding a solid clue. They said that the police captains in Williamsburg checked with ferrymen and barge skippers, and none of them had brought any barrel across the East River that morning.
Schmittberger flicked a smart-aleck wink at Petrosino, which meant, “McClusky’s angle isn’t panning out.” And Petrosino nodded back at him with a half-frown, meaning, “We knew that.”
Weston’s assistant reappeared from the examination chamber.
“The doctor is ready to discuss his findings. Please rub out your tobacco.”
They filed into the room and huddled around a table beneath a buzzing white bulb. The scent of strong briny pickles hung in the air. Petrosino scanned the body. The barrel victim was supine on the slab, completely naked, bare arms lying at the sides of a brittle ribcage. The skin appeared eerily gree
n in the glow of the spot lighting. A large Y incision from each shoulder converged down to the breastbone and ended at the pubic bone. The stitched markings where he had been cracked open and sewn back together made him look more like a leather bag than a man. And the neck wounds left no doubt. This was worse than any other murder Petrosino had seen in the Italian colonies. There were multiple holes, too many to count it seemed. A rampage of bloodlust.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Captain Becker said, “but I need to . . . I need. . . air.”
Becker’s lips were the same color as the body, and he turned and lurched for the door.
“Becker’s always had a weak gut,” McClusky said. “I heard the police surgeon shit himself when they found the body, too.”
“Can’t say as I blame them.” Petrosino held his notebook tightly and gazed at the neck, knowing he wouldn’t need to write down a description. The image would be burned in his memory.
Puncture wounds, ranging in size from pins to dimes, pierced the front and sides of the throat. Some were deep, others were mere pricks. All of them oozed a pink fluid. A slashing wound split the Adam’s apple, traveling from ear to ear. It was so deep that Petrosino could see inside the gullet, through a knot of red tissue and membranes, all the way through to the bony outline of the man’s spinal cord. The edges of the slashing wound had yellowish flaps fringed with black blood. The head was tilted back on the table, barely hanging onto the body by a few shreds of skin and tendons in the neck. At the end of the Y incision, the pubic bone had no penis or testicles. Only a strange empty gash and a nest of veins that looked like raspberry jam in greying pubic hair. But the face was worst of all. It was pristine, well-groomed, and clean with curly dark hair receding just above the temples. The nose and the cheekbones were prominent and angular. The eyelids were thick, the eyes halfway open, almost at peace, belying the torture inflicted on the rest of the body. The face reminded Petrosino of his own father, and he knew it would haunt him forever.
The sound of running water came from the corner. Dr. Weston was furiously washing up and examining his fingers. He toweled off his hands and wrapped iodine cloth around a finger.
“Gentlemen, one moment,” Dr. Weston said. “Gave myself a little cut on the hand. Did the same thing a couple of years ago and got blood poisoning. Nearly had to amputate the limb.”
With the influx of immigrants over the past decade, Weston’s job had become an unrelenting queue of the desperately poor and criminal traveling across his table, and his face showed the fatigue as plainly as his white coat showed streaks of red and brown.
“Let’s get started on this barrel tenant.” Weston moved to the head of the slab and stood over the victim’s face. He tossed the iodine cloth on a long table to the side, next to his scalpels, bone saws, and a weighing scale.
Petrosino noticed the implements for the first time, and a chill rushed through him. Beside the tools was a bowl containing the severed genitalia, shriveled and ugly. The genitals had random patches of grey, but the hair on the man’s head was dyed black.
“Earlier today,” Weston said, “an inventory of the victim’s possessions revealed clean and good quality clothing. Upon arrival from the ambulance wagon, we took the body off ice, removed the clothing, and measured it as best we could in its current condition. The man was five and a half feet tall and weighed one hundred sixty-seven pounds. He appeared well-nourished and in good health prior to receiving the fatal wounds. Both ears, which are small and well-shaped, were pierced for rings. The victim’s hands are soft, white, and tapering, and the nails manicured in a gentlemanly fashion. Evidently, he hadn’t done hard labor in quite some time and, given his grooming, may have been in the barber trade.”
Petrosino looked at the hands. Not one callous and the cuticles were perfect half moons.
“Got the hands of a little Florodora chorus girl,” McClusky said.
Dr. Weston nodded. “Yes, George, he’s almost as much of a ‘dude’ as you.”
McClusky grumbled, and Petrosino tried not to smile at Weston’s jab.
“As you can see,” Dr. Weston continued, “the victim’s facial features appear foreign in origin. Coroner Scholer is the eugenics expert and thought perhaps Middle Eastern. It may be difficult to tell at this point, but the victim’s skin tone is olive. His eyes are wide set, and his hair is brown and wavy. His moustache is neatly trimmed, and I note the forehead is high, sloping and beginning to bald, indicating middle age between thirty-five and forty years old. There are two scars on his left cheek, each an inch long.” Dr. Weston pointed with his small finger at the victim’s face. “The two marks come together like a small V. These are old scars however.”
“Did you find anything that can help identify him?” Schmittberger asked.
“Patience, Max. I would have told you that first. Now, look carefully at the man’s injuries. You’ll see the obvious multiple slashing and puncture wounds on his throat. The blows are barbaric and indicate a great deal of violence. But take a look at his hands and forearms. Notice anything peculiar?”
McClusky said, “He ain’t married?”
“He has no defensive wounds,” Petrosino said, “which means he didn’t fight.”
“Correct,” Dr. Weston said. “There’s no sign of a struggle, and that is very peculiar given the numerous stabbings to the throat. I counted eighteen knife wounds to the neck, but nary a scratch or bruise on the hands and arms. Even if he had been sleeping, the muscles would involuntarily contract upon being attacked and the arms would naturally come up in a defensive posture.” Weston mimed a defensive pose. “I would venture he wasn’t asleep, but held down on a chair or over a table, unable to defend himself, and then tortured to death.”
“When did he die?” Petrosino asked.
“It was slow. No man living could tell which wound happened first. It appears that whoever did this took pleasure in the killing and wanted to make the victim suffer consciously. But I would say he died between eleven last night and one in the morning. I looked inside his stomach and found he’d eaten a meal just before he was killed. Beans, beets, and potatoes.”
“That’s a bum’s supper,” McClusky said.
“Any alcohol or drugs in him?” Petrosino asked.
Dr. Weston shook his head. “None that I can tell.”
“Can you tell how many weapons were used?”
“From the nature of the wounds, there appear to be two, maybe three. And I would say possibly two men if not more. Though one man could use different knives if he made this a torture session. The chief wound was just above the laryngeal prominence, the Adam’s apple. The knife thrust penetrated all the way to the spinal column.” Dr. Weston pointed at the different shapes and depths of the wounds. “The victim was likely held down and made defenseless with a narrow deep stab, four inches deep, under the left ear and another through the front of the throat. After being subdued, he was tortured with a dozen punctures and the coup de grace, a slash from an exquisitely sharp blade like butcher’s steel from the left ear around the throat to the right ear. A little deeper and I’d have his head on another tray next to his genitals. Of course, you know the genitals were in his mouth, but I removed them to conduct my exam.”
“Is it possible one man did this?” Schmittberger asked. “Could he have drugged the victim?”
“Possible? Yes. But unlikely.”
“So then two weapons?”
“One stiletto, at least, for the punctures and a very long and sharp knife for the near decapitation. There may be another smaller, double-edged knife for these linear stabbings here close to the collar bone.”
“He never had a chance,” Petrosino said, feeling cold all over. “Doc, can you take his Bertillon measurements? Maybe we can circulate them to other cities for identification?”
Schmittberger nodded. “We should send them to the Secret Service boys here, too. They’ve got a file on everything. Can you put him back together, Doc, and cover his neck for the police photographer? We
could use a good picture for the papers.”
“Stop barking out orders, goddamnit!” McClusky said. “Mind your place, Broom.”
“Yes, sir, Chief. I’m sure you were about to say the same things.”
Petrosino spoke quickly to divert McClusky’s ire, “Do you have his clothes, Doc?”
“Of course. When we look at the clothing, notice the victim’s shirt collar. It’s a thick three-ply linen, but the blade swept clean through it, leaving an incision a quarter inch deep. That would have taken a strong hand, someone possessed of great muscle. Or perhaps great madness. There’s also a square of gunnysack cloth that was wrapped around his neck. I believe that was done to stem the bleeding and to conceal the wounds on the victim to transport him.”
Dr. Weston called for his assistant.
The assistant wheeled in another table with underclothing, a black worsted overcoat, a black tweed waistcoat, black and white striped trousers, a pleated shirt with blue checks, a white turn-down linen collar, a green necktie with black squares, laced shoes and overshoes, handkerchiefs, a gunny sack, a pair of gloves, cheroot cigars, a rubber stamp, small coins, a silver watch chain, and a necklace and crucifix.
The detectives looked over the items as Dr. Weston told them that the soles of the shoes bore the maker’s name, “Burt & Co.,” and the man’s linen collar appeared to bear the name, “Marl.” Petrosino looked closely at one glove and pulled it inside-out to see the trade name, “Laird.” He then examined the necklace and Latin crucifix with the titulus “INRI” and an engraved image of a skull and crossbones.
“What’s that lettering on the cross?” McClusky said. “I-N-R-I? And the skull and crossbones?” McClusky raised an eyebrow at Petrosino. “Some kind of Dago witchcraft?”
THE BARREL MURDER - a Detective Joe Petrosino case (based on true events) Page 2
