“We found the rest of him.”

Zalewski beamed as if he had won a Kewpie doll at the county fair. “It’s not far. And it’s intact.”

“Show me.” They began to walk north of the willow tree, in the general direction of Jackass Hill. “Have the men found anything else?”

“Two shirts, both bloody, one torn at the shoulder.”

“Two?”

“Right.”

“Like… the victim might’ve been wearing two shirts at once?”

“Not really, no. One’s casual, one’s a dress shirt.”

“Oh.” Merylo didn’t need a detailed explanation to tell him what that implied. “What else?”

“Pair of men’s shorts. Oxford shoes, size seven and a half, laces tied together and a pair of socks stuffed inside, striped and orange at the top.”

“Orange?”

“It’s fashionable these days, sir.”

“Maybe in your neighborhood. Anything else?”

“A leather belt. A dirty cap. Seems like it’s been soaked in something oily.”

“Like maybe the motor oil we found with the other corpse?”

“Maybe, yeah.”

“Anything that might lead us to the killer?”

“Well, the Bertillon boys want to run tests, but…”

Merylo gave him a look. Zalewski had been working with him long enough now to have a sense of when they had something and when they didn’t.

“No,” Zalewski said quietly. “Probably not. But the corpse is interesting.”

“In what way?”

They reached a spot perhaps a thousand feet from where the head had been discovered, just east of the 55th Street Bridge. Merylo could see part of the body lying on its side, partially obscured by twigs. “It’s illustrated.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know. Tattooed.”

Merylo took a step closer, even thought the stench made him want to move in the opposite direction. “How many?”

“We found six.”

Sure enough, Merylo spotted two flags tattooed on the left arm, not far from a heart, an anchor, and perhaps more interestingly, the letters. W.C.G. On the left shoulder, he discovered a full-color butterfly, wings unfurled.

“Nice,” Merylo muttered. “But I only count five.”

“You missed Jiggs.”

“Would you please speak English?”

“Jiggs. You know, from the comics. Bringing Up Father.”

“Never read it.”

“You don’t read the comics?”

“I don’t read newspapers at all. They depress me. Especially when I notice how much they get wrong. So show me this… what was it?”

“Jiggs. And it’s not an it. It’s a he.” Zalewski used a twig to subtly move the lie of the corpse’s leg to reveal the final tattoo, on the left calf. It was a cartoon drawing of a middle-aged man wearing a checkered vest and tie, his hair sticking up and a cigar in his mouth.

“That’s Jiggs?”

“Yup.”

“Why would anyone want Jiggs tattooed on their calf?”

“Beats me. Guess they like him. Maybe they… you know, sympathize with him. He brought himself up from nothing to something, you know.”

“It’s a Horatio Alger story.”

“Uh… yeah. I guess. Jiggs was an Irish immigrant, a bricklayer, till he wins a fortune in a sweepstakes. His snob wife and daughter keep trying to ‘bring him up,’ you know, teach him how to live the good life. Be rich. Socialize with the swells.”

Merylo squinted. “But Jiggs just wants to live like he did back in simpler times. Eat the food his Irish mama cooked. Run around with the lads.”

“Exactly! So you have read it.”

“No. But I’ve seen the musical, The Rising Generation. And I’m betting the guy who writes Bringing Up Father has, too.”

“What d’ya mean?”

“Never mind. The question is, why would anyone tattoo this character on his leg?” He paused. “Or perhaps a better question is, why would this make anyone want to kill him?”

“You think he was killed because of his tattoo?”

“Probably not.” Merylo hesitated again. “Still… is this comic derogatory of the Irish?”

“Not really.”

“Anybody else? Italians? Mobsters? Rich people?”

“Not so much.”

Merylo sighed heavily. “Then maybe we should focus on the letters. They could be initials.”

“For who?”

“For about a million people, I suspect. But it’s something. I want you to start running those initials through every list we’ve got. Criminal records. The phone book. Public agencies.”

“But that could take-”

“Then you’d better get started, hadn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” Zalewski made a small salute, then skittered off.

“One other thing.”

Zalewski stopped. “Yes?”

“Tell Pearce I want him to clean that head up real nice-then put it on display.”

“What?”

“You heard me. In the morgue. Front office.”

“But-isn’t that kind of-”

“Yes, it is. But we can’t solve this case unless we identify more of these victims. You run with the letters. We’ll tell the papers the head is on display and people are welcome to take a look.”

“Who would want to do that?”

“You might be surprised. People are attracted to the grotesque.”

“What if Pearce says no?”

“He won’t. He’ll love the idea. All those people coming to his office, like he’s the center of the investigation. Sherlock Holmes with a medical degree. He’ll probably sit out front and sign autographs.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. So get to it, Zalewski. I want that head out as soon as possible. Drive as fast as you can.” He held up a finger. “But of course, pay close attention to our safety director’s traffic lights. We don’t want anything dangerous to happen.”

Zalewski departed. Merylo turned back to the headless corpse lying among the weeds and sticks. Something about this bothered him, and it wasn’t just that cigar-chomping cartoon character, either. The head had been neatly wrapped in the trousers and carefully-almost tenderly-placed under the willow tree, just as Flo Polillo’s body parts had been wrapped in newspaper and burlap bags, then placed in baskets. At the same time, the body, only a short walk away-assuming this was the body that went with the head-had been carelessly, almost disdainfully dumped among the tallgrass weeds and bramble. Two entirely differently methods.

Could there be two different killers? Or more? That would explain a lot, but Merylo didn’t believe it. His gut told him that was wrong- and his brain did as well. If there had been more than one person involved, by this time, someone would have talked. No, they were looking for one man.

One man-with two completely different personalities. Was such a thing possible? He remembered what Pearce had said, back when he was talking about that British nut and his friend the alienist, the guy who could explain crazy behavior. There was definitely something weird about this case…

No, he told himself, rising, there was an explanation for all this. A logical explanation. He might not have the slightest idea what that explanation was. But he knew it existed. And given enough time, he would figure it out.

25

Ness wrapped his overcoat tightly around himself and strode toward the front door of The Harvard Club. The men watching could only marvel at his bravado. After what had happened the night before, it would take extreme courage for any law enforcement officer to make his way to that door. And Ness was particularly recognizable, with his camel-hair coat, fedora, and Scandinavian good looks.

He held up his badge and knocked. “Eliot Ness. Safety Director.”

The door slot flew open. A beefy scarred face appeared on the other end. “Blow off, copper. Anyone comes in here gets their f-”

“Yes, I’ve heard. But I’ve got a warrant, and I’m coming in.”

The man sneered. “I got three men with heaters trained on your head.”

Ness smiled pleasantly. “I’ve got forty-two armed men positioned all around the building. We’ve got four trucks ready to carve out a new doorway, if we can’t use the one you’re currently blocking. Plus there are about a dozen reporters with cameras standing behind my officers, and something like a hundred or so spectators behind them.” Ness took a deep breath. “You can’t escape. You’re spending the night in jail.”