O’Donnell gestured broadly, directing everyone’s attention to the man seated behind him. The man-apparently Dolezal-took no notice. He continued to stare straight ahead with his spooky wide-eyed glare. Ness wondered if he ever blinked.

“The preliminary investigation into Mr. Dolezal revealed that he worked as a bricklayer-but previously worked in a slaughterhouse.”

The reaction from the reporters was immediate. Pencils sailed across their notepads.

“Subsequent investigation revealed that he kept a stockpile of butcher knives in his home. We have obtained several reports from people indicating that he threatened them with the same knives. He lives in an apartment at 1908 Central, which as I’m sure you all know is very near where the remains of Flo Polillo were found, neatly wrapped up and placed in baskets. At this point, my men obtained a warrant and searched his apartment. What they found, gentlemen of the press, is nothing less than horrifying.” He paused dramatically. “On his bathroom floor, and particularly in the bathtub, they discovered disturbing dark stains.”

Ness had to give the man credit for at least one thing: He was spinning his yarn like a master storyteller.

“The conclusion seems inescapable. He knew the victims; he frequented the same bar. He had the weapons, the opportunity, and the violent nature. He killed these people in the bathtub, hacked them to bits, then washed away most of the evidence. But you don’t have to rely on my reasoning, because after two days of intensive questioning by my officers, he confessed.”

Once again, O’Donnell gestured toward Dolezal. “This man seated behind me has been the subject of the most intensive manhunt in Cleveland history.” He paused looking straight out into the throng. “The Mad Butcher is Frank Dolezal.”

No reaction from Dolezal himself. As soon as O’Donnell stopped talking, a dozen hands flew into the air. The sheriff recognized a reporter from the Plain Dealer.

“Is it common for the sheriffs office to be involved in local murder investigations?”

“No,” O’Donnell said, providing the answer everyone attending already knew, “but extraordinary crimes call for extraordinary measures.”

“Did you inform Chief Matowitz that you were investigating the murders?”

“No.”

“Is it appropriate for the sheriffs office to independently supplement the city police’s ongoing investigation?”

O’Donnell took a deep breath. “Under the circumstances, I thought they could use all the help they could get.”

Broad grins spread through the throng of reporters. There was no need to explain what that meant.

“What I don’t understand,” another reporter said, “is how you were able to catch this man so quickly, when the Cleveland police have been investigating for more than a year, and they haven’t even produced a viable suspect.”

“You’ll have to answer that one for yourselves,” O’Donnell said. “Or perhaps you could ask our esteemed Safety Director, Mr. Eliot Ness.” He pointed out into the audience.

All the reporters whirled around.

Great, Ness thought. Serves me right for coming here.

The reporters began to swarm.

“Mr. Ness!” someone shouted. “What do you think about the sheriff solving your case?”

Ness’s brain raced. There were two ways he could handle this. He could tell them what he really thought, or…

“The sheriff is to be commended for his investigation,” Ness said. “The leads he has uncovered will, of course, be followed up.”

“But the man confessed!”

Ness nodded, smiling. “My department and I stand ready to make available to the sheriff any information or facilities that could be of assistance.”

The reporter from the Plain Dealer scratched his head. “But the killer has already been caught.”

Ness kept his expression steady and unresponsive. “I hope so.”

“C’mon,” one of the other reporters said. “Tell the truth. This has got to stick in your craw. You’ve been looking for this guy for so long-and now the sheriff swoops in and puts him behind bars.”

“Doesn’t matter who does it, or who gets the credit,” Ness said firmly. “What matters is that the killer is put away.”

“And preferably before the elections, right?” O’Donnell said, bringing the attention back around to himself. “Perhaps the next time our Reform mayor decides to go reforming, he should look a little closer to home.”

He folded his script and tucked it inside his coat pocket. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my friends, we’re going to continue interrogating this murderer.”

42

Well, this was disappointing.

Or perhaps he should be pleased. No one was close to him, that much was certain. They were busy putting away this poor washed-up idiot, oblivious to the real threat that lurked in their town.

They would learn their mistake, eventually. There was no way around it. How long could he go without pleasuring himself again?

But there was no denying… he didn’t like the idea of someone else taking credit for his work.

There was only one thing to be done.

“Work? In one of them breweries?”

“Isn’t that what you want?”

“I’ll take any kinda work I can get.”

“Family to support?”

“Not so much anymore. Once upon a time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. Probably for the better. You a family man?”

“I was.”

“Didn’t work out?”

“You could say that. Shall we go?”

Later, back at the brewery, he encountered some… unexpected complications. If he had not had anesthesia, it would have been almost impossible, even granted his considerable strength. The Mad Butcher had received altogether too much publicity. People were on their guard. Even uneducated fools such as this one.

On the other hand, the lovely city officials said that the killer was in custody. What reason could there possibly be for apprehension?

At any rate, by the time the poor baboon awoke, he was trussed up and lying flat across the table.

“Hey, what’s the big idea?”

“The idea is to prevent an interloper from taking credit for my achievements. Be still.”

“What’s with the axe?”

“You’ll see.”

“Don’t do nothin’ crazy now, mister. I can make you a lot of scratch.”

“That explains why you’re riding the rails and living in a trash heap.”

“I’m just bidin’ my time. I got a big score comin’.”

“Do tell.”

“I’m talkin’ big time. Major league. Enough to set you up for life.”

“I’m already set. Thank goodness for the kindness of close relatives.”

“Let me help you, mister.”

“I will let you help me.”

“Get me offa this table.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. Pleasant dreams.”

He swung the axe.

But it was even more unsatisfying than the last time. How long could he continue repeating himself, never facing any real challenge?

He had thought the safety director might provide that challenge, but the man seemed woefully inadequate for the role. He had taunted Ness, but the man seemed impervious to every slap on the face.

How much more would he have to do to get a response out of the famed Treasury agent? He’d killed more people than Capone ever did. When would he get his due?

If it didn’t come soon, as it should, he would be forced to take certain measures. One way or the other, he would command the safety director’s attention. He had earned that. It would be his. No matter what he had to do.