A surprise was around this corner, but it wasn't Frank Dolezal.
It was a big, pouchy-faced sheriff's deputy in khaki, overwhelming the folding chair he was seated on, reading a racing form, a big. 45 revolver on his hip. He was sitting next to a door
with a brass number 5 nailed haphazardly to it; less haphazard was a strip of paper, three inches wide, stretched across the portal saying: SEALED FOR INVESTIGATION-SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT.
Number five was Dolezal's room.
'What's the idea?' Ness asked the deputy.
The deputy swallowed, folded the racing form up, and stuffed it under the chair. Then he stood and smiled; it was a nasty smile, but it seemed a little nervous, too.
'Possible crime scene, Mr. Ness. Sheriff's office is investigating.'
Looking at the man through narrowed eyes, Ness said, 'Do I know you?'
'Uh… I'm Deputy Robert McFarlin, sir.'
'I've seen you before.
'I was on the police department till! I retired, sir.'
A recent retirement, no doubt, Ness thought; one of the corrupt rats who scurried into a pension. This one had scurried further, into a position on the sheriff's staff.
'No, that isn't it,' Ness said. 'I'll think of it.'
The deputy's smile disappeared; his white face seemed to go even whiter.
'What about the man who lives in this apartment?'
'His name is Frank Dolezal, Mr. Ness.'
'I know that. Have your people approached him?'
'I'd guess he's been arrested by now.'
'What!'
The deputy shrugged again. 'The sheriff himself was going to arrest him this afternoon. At his job. Dolezal's gonna be taken over to the county jail for questioning.'
Ness fought the anger. 'What case are you investigating, Deputy?'
'I'm not at liberty to say.'
'What case are you investigating?'
'Mr. Ness-all due respect… but you ain't my boss. Your office don't have jurisdiction over the sheriff's office.'
Ness moved closer to the man and looked him in the face; the man was taller then Ness, but he seemed to shrink under the smaller man's gaze.
'What,' Ness asked, biting off the words, 'case are you investigating?'
The deputy swallowed and smiled and said, 'Well, if you must know
… the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run. We cracked it. This fella Dolezal is him.'
Ness backed away. Fought the anger. Lost.
'What in hell,' he said, 'are you people doing investigating that case? That case is most definitely under the jurisdiction of my office. What in the bloody hell…'
The deputy patted the air, and his smile was condescending now. Not at all nervous.
He said, 'Not all the bodies was found in the city limits, Mr. Ness. It's not just a city matter. It's a county matter, too.'
Ness stood and stared at the sheriff's department seal across the closed apartment door. He clenched and unclenched his fists.
He said, evenly, 'That's true, Deputy. Technically, it's true. But your office has not been investigating those murders.'
'But we have. We just kept it to ourselves.'
'Where have I seen you?'
The deputy swallowed. 'I worked in the Fifteenth precinct.'
That figured.
'That isn't it,' Ness said. 'I will think of it, Deputy. I will place you. And now I'm going inside that apartment and have a look around.'
McFarlin held up a hand in a stop motion. 'I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Mr. Ness.'
'I have a search warrant, Deputy.'
'I think, all due respect, that search warrant is overrode by us being here first.'
'Are you a lawyer, Deputy McFarlin?'
'No, sir.'
'Are you a judge?'
'No, sir.'
'Are you the safety director of the city of Cleveland?'
'No, sir.'
'Well, I am,' Ness said, and brushed him aside and removed the sheriff's seal and opened the door and went in.
'Goddamnit…'
Ness turned and looked at McFarlin, who stood outside the room, looking in, as if afraid to enter, afraid to violate his own rule. 'Did you want something, Deputy?'
McFarlin, his face red, looked as confused as he was angry. And he couldn't find anything to say, though he clearly wanted to.
'Why don't you go find a phone,' Ness suggested, 'and call your boss. Tell him I'm here, tell him what I've done. Go on. Shoo.'
McFarlin was shaking his head, no. 'I can't leave the place unguarded…'
'I'll look after it for you. I'll keep all unwanted persons out.'
'I don't think…'
'That doesn't surprise me. Go call the man who does your thinking for you. He's going to want to be informed.'
McFarlin, the red leaving his face, said, 'Don't touch anything.'
'Thanks for the advice,' Ness said pleasantly, and shut the door in his face.
The room Ness stood in was in some respects like the one he'd inhabited himself, down the hall, for four nights. The faded, failing floral wallpaper was even the same pattern, and much of the furniture was of the same gray-metal, institutional variety; but there were also pieces of furniture Dolezal had obviously added himself-a comfy sofa here, an oak dresser there.
And Dolezal, who had a job after all, had managed in this tenement to inhabit something almost worthy of the term 'suite.' The large room was three rooms in one: a bedroom area off to the right, as you entered; a central sitting room area where the sofa was; and at left a kitchen area-a small icebox, sink, kitchen counter with cupboards, wood-burning stove, and table.
Most impressive of all, Dolezal had his own bathroom-toilet and tub. No sink.
Ness nosed around the large outer room carefully, poking with a pencil sometimes, touching things but not anywhere any other print was likely to have been left. He found little beyond Dolezal's well-worn clothing. There were no personal effects-no address book or picture album or family Bible. Perhaps the sheriff's investigators had already confiscated such items.
In the kitchen area he opened several drawers and looked in. Knifes looked back. One he found, poking with his pencil among other silverware and utensils, was a long, slightly curved butcher knife. The whorls of wood in its handle bore dark stains. If the sheriff hadn't discovered and confiscated this yet, the room had probably only had one fairly cursory going-over. Good. He was getting an early look.
He peeked in the icebox. Bare. Cupboards were bare, too, of any foodstuffs. Maybe that made sense: Dolezal was planning to move, after all.
The bathroom was small and dirty, but even so the dark stains on the floorboards stood out starkly. He knelt. Bloodstains? He glanced underneath the bathtub; to the two legs closest to the wall clung a considerable gathering of dirt and something brownish red that might be rust. Or might not.
He stood. Hands on hips, eyes wide, he took it all in. Could this unkempt little chamber be it? The 'murder
