Darby O’Shea leaned down to Dani, his blue eyes bright and his cheeks ruddy with emotion. “Dr. Frank did this to you?” he pressed again, like he needed to be certain.
“You know him?” she gasped.
“I know of him. Seen him. Heard people talk about him. But I didn’t know he was the Butcher.”
Dani’s eyes bounced to Malone’s. “He knows I helped you. He saw us dancing at the gala. He heard you talking about me when you thought he was sleeping. The undertaker and the spy. That’s what he called us. He said he left me alone to do my work, so why didn’t I leave him alone to do his?”
“Son of a bitch,” Ness swore.
“He killed them here, Michael. All that death, and I never . . . had a clue. This is his . . . workshop . . . and I never knew. I never knew him. But he . . . knew me.”
Darby O’Shea straightened away from Dani and turned to Ness, his gaze flat and his jaw tight. “He has a place in the Run. I’ve seen him there before. Everyone down there knows Dr. Frank. He writes prescriptions—anything folks need—no charge. Free doctoring. Man like that comes and goes as he pleases, and folks keep quiet. They want him around. He has a little shanty he uses. He calls it his clinic. Keeps some supplies there. Bandages. Pills. This and that. He has a lock on the door, but nobody touches it. Everyone kinda respects him down there. Thinks he’s one of the good guys. I’ll show you where.”
“This ends now. We don’t wait. We don’t ask. The Run is coming down,” Ness said.
30
The newspapers excoriated Eliot, though he was mostly unbothered by it. He even read one article aloud to Malone, sitting at the kitchen table two days later while Margaret made them eggs and toast with jelly that was even better than the kind they served at the Coney Island Café. Malone had not joined Eliot and his men on the raid of Kingsbury Run. He’d been unwilling to leave Dani, and he’d had to wait to hear how it all went down. O’Shea had never reported back or returned, and other than a brief phone call to check on Dani’s condition, Eliot had been putting out nonstop fires—literally and figuratively—until now.
“In the early hours of August 18, less than forty-eight hours after the remains of two more bodies were found at the dump at the intersection of East Ninth and Lakeshore Drive, director of safety, Eliot Ness, and what looked to be the entire Cuyahoga County fire department and police force, blocked the streets leading in and out of Kingsbury Run and descended into the unsuspecting shantytowns,” Eliot read, his voice mild, his shoulders hunched over the paper.
“Armed with clubs and flashlights, Ness and his officers moved from hovel to hut, pulling confused residents from their pitiful homes. Men were herded into trucks and transferred to county holding facilities where they were questioned and detained, many unable to return to the place they have called home for many years.
“‘We just wanted to get our possessions,’ a longtime resident of the Run, Joseph Gorsuch, told the Plain Dealer. ‘But he wouldn’t hear it. The whole place is gone now. They burned it down.’”
“Good riddance,” Malone grunted. Eliot kept reading.
“Eliot Ness did not apologize for the order that left Kingsbury Run in ashes. When questioned, he had this statement for reporters: ‘We have made accommodations available around the city. Conditions in the Run have bred sickness and suffering and are a breeding ground for all manner of crime. People in the Run have been preyed upon for years. It is not compassion to ignore it or allow it to continue. As safety director, it is my duty to make Cleveland safer. That is what I’ve done. As a city and as a department, we will do our best to help those who have been displaced, both in halfway houses and shelters in and around the city, but the Run is no longer inhabitable, and I intend to keep it that way.’”
“Not a bad response,” Malone said, judicious.
“The mayor wasn’t impressed. Neither were the reporters,” Eliot said. He continued reading.
“Director Ness was not as forthcoming when questioned about the Butcher’s latest slaughter. When asked if he had any new developments on the identity of the victims found on August sixteenth or their killer, Ness had nothing to say. The Butcher’s tally has reached a staggering twelve victims, with no end in sight.”
“I get the feeling they hope there’s no end in sight. Life will be so dull if it’s over,” Malone interjected. Eliot just shook his head and kept going.