“We tried to wake him up this morning, but he wasn’t having it. Dr. Grossman thinks it better to let him come around on his own,” Eliot had explained when he’d led Malone into the suite, “but if he doesn’t start coming around soon, we’re going to have to get creative.”
Dr. Royal Grossman was a psychiatrist Eliot seemed to trust, a man who had worked with the Cuyahoga County Probation Department and had attended the Torso Clinic the first coroner, A. J. Pearce, had organized. Malone recognized his name and had read through his assessments in the files.
Eliot had secured the whole floor. Malone didn’t ask what it was costing him—or who was footing the bill—but he was glad of it. The fewer people aware of what was going on, the better. A guard sat at the door and another at the elevator making sure no one got off on the wrong floor. Neither man was anyone Malone recognized, but Eliot claimed they were two of the “Unknowns,” which meant Don’t ask.
The bedroom of the suite opened up into a separate sitting room where Dr. Grossman and David Cowles sat, an ashtray between them, comparing notes. They looked up when Eliot and Malone arrived. Eliot tossed the soiled suitcoat into the corner of the room and made quick introductions.
“Mike, you know David.”
David Cowles nodded once. Whatever he thought of Eliot’s maneuver, he was present and accounted for. His shirtsleeves were rolled and his pate was shiny with perspiration, and from the look he’d tossed at Sweeney’s coat, he knew where they’d been and whose advice they’d sought.
“Royal Grossman, Mike Malone,” Eliot continued. “Dr. Grossman, I know Mike from Chicago. Best undercover man in the business.” That was it. Best undercover man in the business. And Grossman didn’t ask for elaboration.
“I’ve called in another favor from Chicago too, Malone.”
Malone dropped into an empty chair, but Ness remained standing as though his nerves wouldn’t allow the rest. “Leonarde Keeler is on his way with his machine.”
Malone knew Leonarde Keeler. He’d developed what was known as the Keeler polygraph, a lie detector machine that indicated whether a subject, who was connected to the device via a chest belt, an arm band, and a tube that measured respirations, was being truthful. Keeler was respected, and his machine had been widely tested—Malone had been subjected to it in training a time or two—but the polygraph was no more accepted in a court of law than Dani’s magic hands.
“He’s the best. And he’s agreed to help us,” Eliot said.
“Well, we’re going to need all the help we can get,” Cowles muttered.
The big man on the bed tossed and the four men stilled, waiting. Hopeful.
But it would be another full day before questioning could even begin.
“Do you know who I am?” Francis Sweeney shouted on the morning of the third day. He’d come awake in stages, none of them pleasant. He begged for a drink and they gave him water. He threw that against the wall and begged for a bath. A male nurse from the psychiatric hospital had arrived—someone Grossman knew and trusted—to help the man bathe and administer aid should he need it, only to be tackled by a furious Francis Sweeney, who accused him of having romantic inclinations.
Around and around they went. Sometimes Malone was convinced the man was a genius. Other times a drooling idiot. But he was coherent enough, wily enough, that he teetered between denial and demand and answered nothing directly. He threatened them with exposure and then thanked them for the sumptuous accommodations. They brought him clean clothes when he complained of his filth, but he refused to put them on because the quality was inferior.
“I have very sensitive skin. I will break out into a rash.”
He wrapped himself in the curtains after that, huddling in a corner though the mattress he’d soiled had been stripped, turned, and remade. Malone wondered if wrapping himself in the curtains was a common practice. It would explain Dani’s reaction to the ones in the apartment.
“I’m freezing. I’m so cold I can’t feel my toes or my fingers,” he whined. The room was so hot that every other man had lost his tie, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. They didn’t dare open the windows for fear of someone hearing his shouts, and there remained the very real possibility that Francis Sweeney might try to hurl himself out one of them.
Keeler had arrived with his polygraph, but he sat waiting, unable to perform any kind of assessment on Francis Sweeney until he was more stable.
“How can a man be so drunk that even when he wakes, after days of being unconscious, he acts like this?” Cowles marveled.