in-law, who really is a cop, like that bartender said-a patrolman-which is where a lot of this info came from, incidentally. And apparently Mr. Dolezal hit hard times not so much because of the Depression, but because he keeps looking for the bottoms of bottles, and finding them.'
'I've witnessed some of that,' Ness said. 'He put ten bottles of beer away last night. Have you got him shadowed, too?'
'Yes. For the last three nights. Last night he was in that tavern where you were, of course.'
'And the nights before?'
'Various parks, approaching various men. Transient types.'
'I see.'
'If he's our boy, and we keep him shadowed long enough, we may catch him in the act.'
'That's fine, but if so, let's try to catch him before he chops somebody's head off, okay?'
'Speaking of which,' Merlo said slyly, 'there is one other interesting fact about Mr. Dolezal's past.'
'Saving the best for last, Sergeant?'
'You be the judge, Director Ness.' Merlo smiled nastily. 'A few years ago, between bricklaying jobs, the suspect worked in a meat-packing plant.'
'Doing what exactly?'
'Slaughtering animals.'
The two men sat in the dark and listened to the silence.
Finally Ness said, 'The coroner and other experts think the Butcher has surgical training.'
'Well, Dolezal obviously has at least some knowledge of carving, knows something about bone structure.'
Ness nodded. Then he used the pen flash to study the face of Rose Wallace again, asking, 'How goes the search for the murder lab?'
'Nothing has turned up as yet, but five teams of fire wardens, accompanied by detective bureau men I hand- picked, are out in the field. They're reporting to me, until you re back in your office. Oh, and Curry reported in from undercover today, as well.'
'What did he have to report?'
'Not much so far. He's been hanging out at the shantytown at Canal and Commerce since Monday. Turned nothing up, to speak of. He came in this morning looking like hell-hasn't been sleeping, and who can blame him.'
'Did you send him home?'
'Yes. Told him to get some rest. By now he's probably heading out again.'
'To the other shantytown, this time, I trust.'
'Right. The more spread-out one, not far from Jackass Hill.'
'Good.' Ness got out of the car quickly, then looked in the window. 'Now, I have further instructions.'
Merlo leaned forward eagerly. 'Yes?'
'Go home,' Ness said. 'Get some rest yourself.'
Then he walked back to the two-story brick tenement where he was inhabiting suite 3.
As he went up the creaking stairs, he noted a figure seated on the landing, using the top step for a chair. A gathered-into-itself figure, leaning against the wall, crying.
Ness slowed. The sound was eerie-like a child's sobbing. Soft, pitiful, plaintive.
And the man crying was Frank Dolezal.
'Frankie?' Ness said, stopping a few steps from where the blond man sat.
It was dark, but both men had their night vision in full swing. And Dolezal, his unshaven face wet with tears, squinted at Ness, then recognized him, uttering in a guttural slur, 'Oh. Hello, Harry.'
Harry was the name Ness had made himself known by at the nameless saloon.
'You okay, Frankie?'
Dolezal nodded yes, but said, 'Not so good, Harry. Not so good. You want drink?' He offered a wine bottle in a paper bag.
'Thanks,' Ness said, and sat on the step next to the man, pretending to drink from the bottle before passing it back.
Dolezal used both hands to clutch the bottle as he drank from it. That was good: Ness wanted both of Dolezal's hands in plain sight. Night vision or no, he wished he and his drinking partner were somewhere other than this unlit hall.
'I need move, Harry.'
'What do you mean, Frankie?'
'Can't sleep. Room has ghost.'
'A ghost?'
Dolezal nodded. He had a square head and haunted eyes.
'I need move,' he said. 'That woman still in my room.'
'What woman, Frankie?'
'Flo.'
'Flo?'
'Woman who get chopped up.'
Both of Dolezal's hands held the bottle.
'Oh. Who do you suppose did that?'
Dolezal's eyes flared and he gulped at the wine.
'I think maybe it was that wrestler,' Ness said.
'Abe?' He snorted; suddenly the nervousness, the fear, was gone. 'I am stronger than him.'
'I bet you are,' Ness said.
Actually, the man seemed small to Ness, albeit stocky.
'I am very strong. More I drink, more strong I am.'
Ness said nothing: he was watching the two hands on the bottle.
'All his fault.'
'Whose fault, Frankie?'
'Damn Hoover. That goddamn Herbert Hoover.'
Somehow Ness felt the former president would have an alibi for the Butcher killings.
Suddenly Dolezal put a hand on Ness's shoulder; the grip was surprisingly strong. 'You drink much, Harry?'
'Too much, sometimes, Frankie.'
'You ever… wake up and not know what you do?'
'Sometimes. That happens to you, Frankie?'
'Sometimes,' he said gravely. He gulped at the wine, wiped off his mouth with a grimy hand, which he'd removed from Ness's shoulder. Then both hands settled back on the bottle, caressingly. 'Sometimes I no remember.'
'Do you remember Flo, Frankie?'
'I remember Flo. Fat gal.'
'Flo Polillo.'
'Flo. Fat Flo.'
'Did you drink with her?'
'Yes. Many nights. Flo could drink. Rose, too.'
Rose!
'Rose, Frankie?'
'Rose.'
Ness watched the two hands on the bottle.
'Was Rose fat like Flo, Frankie?'
'Rose was big, but not like Flo. Colored gal.'
'I don't think I know her, Frankie.'
'Not see her in long time.'
