The couple’s first date had gone better than expected. She was nervous. It was her first date with a boy from another school. The two had met at a bowling alley only two weeks prior. He was standing with a large group of boys, the only one in a button-down shirt amongst a sea of suits. She had caught him looking more than a few times. After what seemed like hours, he finally approached.
In the midst of the Great Depression, accumulating enough money to court a woman was a challenge, but she was worth saving up for. He had noticed her across the bowling alley looking unremarkable. He would never tell her that, but despite it something about her captivated him once they made eye contact. Whenever her group entered the room, he regretted not wearing a suit to match his colleagues around him. Before long, he noticed that each time he had glanced in her direction, she was looking back.
When he finally approached, the connection between the pair was instantaneous. They talked about music, they talked about their lives, and in general, they talked. For hours, it seemed, on end. They had the same favorite song; Pennies from Heaven. They liked the same foods. Everything seemed carefully crafted and pieced together to bring them together.
Eventually their groups moved on respectively to the arcade, but the two of them sat fixated on each other until the night came to an end. Ignoring the sounds of the wooden lanes around them, they talked.
He had asked when he could see her again knowing the uncertainty of when he would be able to make due financially. He had been raised to embrace chivalry, there was no way he would take her out unless he could pay. She said she was free in two weeks. It was a relief. He could try to scrape up change in that time. He’d have to skip any Independence Day festivities, but it would be worth it for this girl.
Money wasn’t important to her. She was infatuated. She only wanted to spend time with him, and it didn’t matter if he bought her dinner or took her to a theater. The girl would have been content with anything.
He crafted a plan. He would take his bicycle to her neighborhood to save money. Then, they could get on a train and head downtown for the evening. He didn’t know what they would do from there, but he was confident he would figure it out.
She was happy with the time the two of them had thus far. He bought her dinner from a small diner near Tower City, and took the time to open the door for her as they went in. Nothing had served to sever the connection between them. The two young budding lovers decided to save money by going for a walk. A check of the watch told him that he had time to beat dusk if they moved quickly.
The sun rested over Lake Erie just as the two of them walked hand in hand down into the Flats district. As a child, his father had taken him to this very spot to go fishing. He had never seen anyone else there. Aside from being a tremendous spot for catching carp, the area offered a scenic view of the city. He had long thought it’d be a nice place to watch a sunset with the perfect girl.
The river flowed beneath them calmly. It was 6:12. The boy had calculated they would stay until 7:30 before they moved towards the train station. It would be ample time to beat nightfall. He found himself embarrassed. The view was perfect but he had failed to take into account the pollution in the river. It produced a sulfur smell, but she said it didn’t bother her.
They sat down on a wooden bench, hands still intertwined, and took in the scene around them silently. To their left, the Lake sat in the distance offering monotony in a picture that was dominated by the lone skyscraper at the center of the city. To their right, trees lined the area packing a dense landscape against the riverbank. They call it the Forest City for a reason, he supposed. The distant sounds of city life and the occasional ruffling bush or tree were all that interrupted their romantic chatter.
An hour and eighteen minutes passes quickly when encapsulated in conversation. Before he knew it, the sun seemed to have disappeared entirely behind the Lake, and they would have to walk a little faster to make it to the train. The couple embraced in the glimmer of scarce light reflecting from the muddy river before beginning their walk. The forest sat on their left now with the city on the right.
Even the weather had been perfect. The sky remained cloudless throughout the day and the temperature peaked at 81. As night began to fall, the temperature lowered to 70, yet for whatever reason a noticeable cold chill cut through the air.
Their strides were synchronized, a testament to the natural electricity between them as their shadows grew fainter and longer. This was perfect. That word kept running through her mind. Perfect. She gripped his hand tight and stopped. He reminded her that they needed to be brisk to make the train station before total darkness, but she didn’t care. The two shared one last kiss on the bank of the Flats with a complete disregard for the nightfall around them.
The girl broke the embrace and looked behind the boy she found herself falling in love with. There was something in the river that caught her eye. It floated slowly, bumping against the bank as it moved, and was stained in a dark brown. It was decidedly different from the rest of the pollution. It seemed fresh.
Without a word, she moved towards the river. He was confused, but elected to follow her. She stopped beside a burlap sack that was caught on some sticks. There was something curious about it. It was written across it “CHICKEN FEED” in spray paint. She could tell it was not chicken feed. Thoughtlessly, she reached down into the river and grabbed the sack. It was heavier than she expected.
Be a gentleman, he thought. He followed behind her and placed his hand beside hers on the sack. The two of them lifted it together and placed it on the riverbank. The bag drained of water as the two of them laughed curiously, excited to see what was in the bag.
The girl finally pried the two strings encircling the top of the sack open. Without hesitation, a wretched smell attacked her nostrils. She dropped the bag. The boy bent towards it, pushing past the smell to find the results of their discovery. She spoke, her voice a shriek that startled the boy as much as their findings.
“Oh my god. Is that a body?”
The Killer had hurried out of the forest as quickly as he came. His shoes were wet, which greatly annoyed him, but he needed to return home quickly. He was clean. All of the dirty work had been done at his house. No one questioned a man carrying chicken feed. It was a hard working city. His concern was being seen so near the site where he dumped his burlap sack of death.
Anxiety never truly sat in until the remains had been deposited. The discovery was out of his control, he could only leave it and wait. He had hoped someone would stumble upon it the next morning at sunrise, when all the Buffalo Company industrial steel workers arrived for their Wednesday morning shift. There was always a chance of a straggler making a late night find, though, and that was okay by him too. As long as he could get home soon. There was a teenage couple by the river. Would they be so curious to have checked with night overtaking the city around them?
Perhaps they would. The staging of the sack certainly looked out of place. It was exactly how the Mad Butcher wanted it. The bag seemed to float on the surface, bobbing up and down with a shape that gave away its contents to anyone who had seen the news. If the teenagers found it, though, he’d need to get out of the general area fast.
His brisk walk amongst his strategic thoughts was broken by the sound of sirens. He attempted not to show his interest peak, but now he was particularly excited. Round five, he said to himself. He was proud of his record. Undefeated. He hoped they’d realize quickly that it was another bout with the man who had terrorized the city and made headline news for over a year now.
He hoped that, despite the late hours, they’d send Eliot.
Logistics were more important than his assumptions now. The Killer sat down on a bench and began thinking about what his story would be if questioned, planning to offset his own paranoia. A mere two minutes later, a bus slowed to a stop in front of him. He didn’t even check the destination before he ascended the stairs. Smiling at the bus driver, he asked a singular question.
“South by Kingsbury Run?”
The bus driver nodded, collected his fare, and away they drove.
The detective’s Ford F8 tore down West 56th Avenue. The first time he had received a call like this, he had to take the train. Eliot wasn’t sure that he had given himself an advantage by purchasing the vehicle. More and more individuals were buying automobiles. He let that thought pass and instead focused on hoping that he’d see someone. Anyone. An inharmonious face in passing with close proximity to the discovery would be all he needed to take a suspect in.
It had been exactly one month since the last call. There had been a body with a recent newspaper attached discarded under the Lorain-Carnegie Bridge on June the 6th. The body, however, had been deceased for at least a year. These calls didn’t get any easier. The victims were dismembered. These calls were gruesome. Scarring even. The thought of another one made him think that maybe he should have taken the bribe money that he was offered in the 1920s.
Eliot slowly pulled the F8 across the railroad tracks and looked for a young couple. They had sprinted into the police department downtown only thirty minutes ago. The receptionist had driven them back to the site to meet with Eliot. Finally, he spotted another F8 parked near the river. He pulled his in beside it. The receptionist and the couple sat on a rugged bench down stream.
Eliot swung the door open swiftly without a look towards the teenagers. He had left his house in the middle of dinner to get here. He questioned how arrived before any on-duty officers. That would be an argument for a different day. Past the place where he parked he could see a burlap sack on the riverbank. He needed no other advice or directions.
Before he came face to face with whoever was in the bag, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. The seasoned, untouchable detective pulled a stick from the pack and emblazoned it with a match. He took a deep inhale and proceeded down the bank.
The receptionist and the teenagers strode towards Eliot in the night, the faint glow of his cigarette illuminating his wool suit. The detective had the bag pulled open, its disturbing content strewn across the grass in front of him. He was taking notes as they approached.
In front of him laid a torso, and two thighs. No other body parts and more importantly - no head. Eliot seemed unphased, pulling on his cigarette to help illuminate his notepad further. The girl wretched as she approached, seeing the corpse in its entirety for the first time.
“Eliot, these two kids found the body. They told me their story. They seem like great kids and I think it was just being at the wrong place, at the wrong time. They didn’t see anyone, either. They’re going to tell you their story for more information.”
“There will be no need, Virginia. Their parents are likely quite perturbed by their lateness, would you run them home?”
“You don’t need to get a statement from them, Eliot?”
“No, ma’am, that won’t be required. You noted that they did not observe anyone anomalously wandering around, so there is not much more information I can acquire.”
Virginia nods to him. The kids flanking her sides turn away without pause, desperate to no longer see the crime scene delicately placed at Eliot’s feet. The three of them retreat to the department car that brought them here. They climb in as Eliot begins assembling the remains back into the sack in which he found them.
“Miss Virginia, w-was that… another victim of t-t-the T-Torso Murderer?” the girl asks.
“I’m afraid so, ma’am. Let’s try to forget about it. Where do you live? Let’s get you home.”
The Killer stepped off the bus a few streets over from his house. It was a calculated decision weighed heavily by paranoia. Would getting off of the bus a few streets over help befuddle Eliot and his team of detectives? Probably not, but it helped cure the feeling of the police department tight on his trail.
His house was one of modest taste, and he was thankful he had yet to lose it. The home displayed a block front with the A-frame evident on the sides. The front was made of cleanly maintained bricks, but the masonry on the sides was beginning to deteriorate. It was mostly devoid of neighbors, though one house sat nearby, it had been abandoned when the owner lost his job a few years prior.
The house was exceptionally warm when he entered. He moved to turn on a fan before darting towards the basement. The Killer unbolted a singularly pad-locked wood sheet, amateurly placed on hinges. Once inside, he flipped on a light switch and stepped towards a metal desk. The desk was a collage of notes tossed in no particular order to anyone but the man who penned them himself.
He opens up a pad of paper in front of him and begins to jot down notes. In the midst of writing, he remembers he has not yet named #5.
Trying to think, the Killer rises to his feet. He slowly walks to a large metal door on the side of the room. He takes in a smell. Nothing. He inhales deeply from his nose again, but smells nothing a second time. Finally, he places his hand on the door.
Cold as ice.
The Killer turns on his radio.
“And in sports, the Indians swept the St. Louis Browns in a double header yesterday in St. Louis by scores of 15-4 and 14-4. Roy Weatherly led the Tribe in the late game going 2 for 5 with 3 RBIs.”
The sports anchor was a deep-voiced man that The Killer enjoyed listening to. It was calm. It took him away from the calamity that he created for himself. Each night, he allowed the latest in news, music, and sports to drown out the creaks and trembles of the night before the Killer could convince himself it was the police outside his home. Baseball mattered not to him, but he found himself invested in the nightly scores.
“We have a breaking news bulletin being distributed by the Cleveland Police Department here. Again, this is breaking news here on WHK News on CBS Radio here in Cleveland. Authorities have uncovered a body in a burlap sack this evening in the Cuyahoga River at the Flats. This mirrors the June 6th discovery under the Lorain-Carnegie Bridge. Detectives at the station are attributing this to the Cleveland Torso Murderer. This will make the ninth victim of the Torso Murderer. Detectives have told us there is one development in the investigation. Based on the locations of the bodies found thus far with no trace of whoever left them, authorities believe the killer either lives or is staying in the Kingsbury Run area. If you are in this area, please stay vigilant and aware of your surroundings, especially at night.”
The Killer’s focus shifts, listening intently to the nighttime special bulletin from his favorite radio host. Normally, he loves to hear the anchor tout his work. For the first time, however, the police department seems to have tightened the leash on him a bit. His mind races. Should he deposit the next body somewhere on the East side to throw them off? They would see right through it. It wouldn’t work. Perhaps he should flee from Kingsbury Run. There is too much in the house. The secret room. Someone would find it. Then, they’d trace it back to him. Did they say tenth victim? He hasn’t killed nine. Yet.
Do nothing, he says. Do nothing.
Eliot strikes another match and lifts it to his sixth cigarette. The various notes from different investigations lie in front of him, but Eliot pays them no mind. Three victims ago, he needed notes to compare the difference. Now it only took a look at the work of this vicious killer to attribute it to him. The department had lazily attributed a few deaths that Eliot found unlinked to the Torso Murderer, but he believed this to be the fifth victim. Media pressure creates problems like that, Eliot found it to be the hardest part of informing the public via radio.
There were two distinct possibilities that crossed the powerful detective’s mind. Either the murderer had taken a car north or taken a bus south. He had checked upon coming in to see if a bus had traveled North in the forty-five minute time frame between the discovery and his arrival on scene. There had not been a north bound bus at that time. The odds of the car were low, but certainly possible. After last month’s finding, would the man really walk down the street with a burlap sack in hand? He was bold.
Eliot surmised the most likely case was that the Killer took the bus to the south. It wasn’t certain, but it was the most probable outcome, so he rolled the dice. He opened a map and found the spot that was most likely to be far enough to take a bus but close enough to be a convenient trip to use the area as a dumping ground.
He settled on Kingsbury Run. Several bodies had been found there anyway. Then, he leaked the information to the news radio and newspaper sources who had contacted him. He hoped that he would accomplish one of two things.
The first option was that the Killer would strike again and dump the body somewhere in farther proximity from the west side. With the public on high alert, he would try to track him down during the commute back before he got home and make the arrest.
The second option was that the Killer would flee his home. With the information given, Eliot hoped the neighbors would find this suspicious and be able to turn over more information.
This was the first time he felt that he had a strategy in this investigation. At times, it felt like the Torso Murderer was mocking him. Just as he allowed that thought in his head, he became aware of a note on his desk. It was written on a torn out sheet of paper from a flip pad. He opened it up, completely uninformed on its origins.
He pondered the signature. CD. Surely that wouldn’t be initials, would it? He picked the note up and rubbed his hand across it. Now his mind was spinning. This was the closest concrete lead he had, yet his investigation still had not given him any certain direction in which to travel. His first order of business was to find the origin of the note.
It was a bad time to be the only lawman in the office. He needed answers.
The Killer pushed his frame back through his front door and onto his small front porch, sitting down on the top step and lighting a cigarette. He preferred not to smoke inside the house, the smell made him less aware of any scents he might need to take care of before leaving.
He pondered the news bulletin from the radio once more. He instructed himself to think like a detective. Place yourself inside his head and figure out what he’s thinking.
The note he had managed to get in the office could not have been traced to his residence. He simply placed it underneath a folder that he knew would make its way to Eliot’s desk. Its purpose was to further the mental warfare between himself and the lead detective. The initials he used were a ploy. Chop Department. He found it witty. There was a lot of pleasure to be had in a chess match against an untouchable detective.
The deranged man, The Killer, was not ashamed of how much he enjoyed killing. The first time was not planned.
There was a man on the corner of the street playing an aged guitar. In front of him sat a cup, collecting change to try and eat. No one gathered around the man, but his simple riff appeased the Killer greatly. It felt like a peaceful audio bliss reverberating through the air on a peaceful September night.
The Killer had decided to offer to take him home and feed him. It was a rare act of kindness, but the Killer himself had fallen on hard times before. Nobody cared. It gave him a visceral feeling of kindness to help this man.
Once back at his house, the man explained that he had no family. His grandfather had died, his parents were never present. He was 29 years old. He had once worked as an orderly at a psychiatric hospital, but due to the state of the economy, he had fallen on hard times. He even offered to clean the house in order to earn the food that was being given to him. The Killer declined. Without the presence of his musical ensembles, The Killer found himself less enthused by this guest.
“What’s your name?” The Killer asked.
“Edward.” he responded.
The Killer couldn’t quite explain it, but he hated that name. The very sound of it rolling off of the desperate man’s tongue made him queasy at his stomach. So he changed it.
“You’re Jerry now.”
The man was perplexed by the suggestion, but The Killer was adamant his guest struck him as a Jerry. The man unwillingly agreed, ultimately deciding that this man who was feeding him this evening could call him whatever he wanted in exchange for a hot meal.
The Killer brought him a plate of food and Jerry scoffed it down. The sight disgusted The Killer. He could no longer stand to look at Jerry. He got up silently and walked to the kitchen, tossing his half-full plate into the metal sink with an audible clank.
The Killer would have admitted that he had an anger problem prior to this night with Jerry. Now, it was best to keep his cards to his chest and avoid speculation that his deep hatred could manifest itself in a city-wide terror spree. His childhood was good. The descent came when he was faced with tough decisions as a teenager. As a result, he became embattled and living life on the wrong side of the law.
After a few moments, the man re-emerged from the kitchen, he had stepped away to try to calm himself down. He had succeeded, until Jerry spoke.
“What the fuck is up with you dude?”
Rage seethed within The Killer. He had given this man a gift and now he was being challenged. Before Jerry could speak, The Killer fired a knee directly into his nose, knocking him out. Instant paranoia took over The Killer. What had he done? He grabbed the man’s head and pulled him down the stairs into the basement. He found two pieces of rope and tied the man to a steel pole running down the middle of the basement for support.
Soon thereafter, Jerry awoke to find the man watching him. A tear rolled down his face as he realized he was tied down. This brought The Killer great joy. He didn’t speak, instead watching Jerry try to pry himself loose. The ropes were too tight and their pressure rubbed the skin from Jerry’s wrists. When he finally gave up, The Killer kneed him once more in the face, sending his head on a vicious path towards the concrete floor.
The Killer went upstairs and retrieved the largest butcher knife in his collection.
Edward Andrassy, known in his dying moments as Jerry, was found dead two days later on East 49th Street at a dead end known as Jackass Hill. His body was dismembered. The official cause of death was listed as decapitation. His head was found thirty feet from his body.
It was the greatest thrill of The Killer’s life.
The time for reminiscing had ended. The Killer’s cigarette had almost burnt out. What was Eliot thinking? He knew Eliot was brilliant. There was a method to this decision. He decided that he was trying to force The Killer to move. He made an estimation on where he lived because Jerry had been dumped so close to his house, right here in Kingsbury Run. Then, earlier tonight, Eliot had realized the easiest way for the man to get out of the Flats unseen was to go south in the direction of Kingsbury Run. His original thoughts were likely spot on. He wanted to flush him out and get him out of his comfort area.
It wasn’t going to work.
The Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run retreated into his home and turned the radio back on, allowing the sounds of Benny Goodman and His Orchestra to drown out any sound outside the house that would initiate his intense paranoia.
The detective arrived at a house he thought was Virginia’s at 10:48. It was late, but Eliot needed information now. He scaled the four steps leading to the front door and tapped a light knock, just enough to alert the residents without scaring them. A man answered the door and, recognizing Eliot, invited him in. He beckoned Virginia from upstairs where she had just changed clothes to prepare for bed.
Virginia: “Eliot, what are you doing here?”
Eliot: “I found a note in my office, Virginia, and I suspect it’s from our killer. Do you know where it came from and how it got on my desk?”
Virginia: “No, sir, I do not. What did it say?”
Eliot: “It was a hollow threat. The murderer is trying to scare me. He signed it as CD, though.”
Virginia: “CD? Does that have any significance to you, Eliot?”
Eliot: “No, it doesn’t. What I don’t understand is how a note gets onto my desk without our receptionist having seen it.”
Virginia paused trying to contemplate the very question that Eliot had asked. She had no explanation either.
Virginia: “Sir, I have no idea. I brought your morning update files from my desk this morning. There was a folder about an armed robbery that the department felt needed your attention, but there wasn’t a note.”
The story clicked with Eliot.
Eliot: “I have made sense of it now. An armed robbery is specifically something that would be given to me, given our crackdown on such crimes and that became newsworthy due to the rise of those crimes, correct?”
Virginia: “Yes, sir.”
Eliot: “This individual has somehow gained access to your desk and, realizing it would reach me, put this note amongst the folders.”
Virginia: “But, sir, how would the murderer have gotten access to my desk without me there?”
Eliot: “I figure a variety of possibilities. The first being that the individual is an employee of our very courthouse.”
Virginia: “Eliot, sir, that scenario is particularly terrifying.”
Eliot: “It makes sense, however, ma’am. The perpetrator would feel protected as he would know all the information relating to the investigation. He could even have a key to my office in the case of a custodial worker. He could read it and find out if we’re close to him.”
Virginia: “What other possibilities have you considered? Most of our custodial staff are quite friendly. While it is possible, I would like to hear other options.”
Eliot: “Well, the other is most broad. The courthouse is vast. Inside it, we have courtrooms, county clerks, city clerks, and many other things. The high volume of individuals in and out of the courthouse on a Tuesday must be in the thousands.”
Virginia: “No, sir, there is no court on Tuesday. That drastically reduces the possibilities.”
Eliot ponders this for a moment, placing his fingers across his chin.
Eliot: “What is the source of most traffic on Tuesdays, Virginia?”
Virginia: “Sir, today was the first Tuesday of the month. The entire building staff schedules their weeks very selectively to avoid overcrowding at the courthouse. To my memory, Tuesday’s are open for regular city clerk business but not county. Other than that, I believe on the first Tuesday of each month the Probation and Parole offices have their meetings with offenders who see them monthly.”
This information turned on the light bulb inside Eliot’s head.
Eliot: “Who are the monthly offenders?”
Virginia: “Monthly offenders are usually the parolees. Probation offenders are usually weekly, if my memory serves, do you have anything with that?”
Eliot: “Parolees, so felonies.”
Virginia: “That’s correct, sir.”
Eliot: “I’m going back to the office, would you like to come along?”
Virginia: “Come along, sir? It is nearly 11pm. I will come if you wish, but why?”
Eliot: “Virginia, we have proof that the Torso Murderer might have been in our office this morning. We don’t have any proof that he ever left. Grab your gun.”
The Killer was furious when he heard the news proclaim his victim as Edward. It left a sour taste in his mouth. The man was Jerry. He got to make that decision, not them. So, The Cleveland Torso Murder took matters into his own hands. He found his next victim on the street. A large number of men had stood in front of a bar for some time as the predator watched his prey from afar. Minutes later, a brawl began. The men rumbled with each other until one man was standing. The bouncer emerged from the bar and sent the crowd scrambling. The Killer watched the man who was left standing intently.
The winner of the brawl started walking west, and without knowing, was trailed by no members of the fight but only the man responsible for the sickening murder on East 49th.
He didn’t waste time with a story to reign him in, he stepped behind him and cracked the man over the skull with his elbow.
After taking him home and dismembering him for pleasure, he returned to the very spot where he took Jerry. He had brought oil this time and burned the body until he felt it was unidentifiable.
On the walk home, The Killer took pleasure in what he had done. He also took pleasure in knowing that he had ruined any chance of the police identifying the man. You’d call him nothing, or you’d call him what The Killer had deemed him.
He would sleep a little sweeter knowing his victim only as Kenny.
Eliot stormed back into the office, his footsteps echoing in the eerily quiet courthouse, while Virginia followed hesitantly, her grip tight on her service pistol. Eliot's eyes darted around sharply, scanning every corner and shadow with heightened alertness. The two moved down the hallway, their steps measured and silent, pressing their backs against the cool, sterile wall. Eliot's gaze was fixed intently ahead, while Virginia's eyes flicked constantly over her shoulder, ensuring nothing crept up on them from behind.
Reaching the elevator, they paused, exchanging a brief, wordless glance. With a careful push of the button, they waited. The elevator dinged softly, its doors sliding open with a slow, mechanical whir. Eliot whirled around with his pistol drawn. The elevator was empty. They stepped inside, their bodies tense, ready to react at the slightest provocation.
As the elevator ascended, the hum of its machinery accounted for the only sound, and the numbers above the door flicked upwards with a quiet beep. Eliot positioned his back away from the doors with Virginia behind him. He didn’t speak, but nodded his head to the right. When the elevator halted on the third floor, the doors opened with a soft chime. Eliot stepped out first looking right with his left protected by the door, then turned sharp back left to scan the hallway. Virginia followed him out, securing their right side. The third-floor corridor stretched out before them, dimly lit and eerily quiet. The pair of police workers moved down the hall until they reached the last door on the left.
Eliot stormed through it, once again scanning right to left then allowing Virginia to take over securing the right side. Virginia flipped the light on as she entered. He glanced behind the glass of the Probation and Parole desk, not seeing anything amiss. Eliot opened his keys up and used the door as a shield.
A sound startled both of them, and Eliot pushed the door to the receptionist desk open. The glass left them exposed, but the door provided some shield. Once again, someone audibly moved at the end of the hallway.
Eliot: “Lock the door, position yourself in the back left corner. You can see everything from there. I’ll knock twice when it’s clear. Unless it’s me, shoot first and ask questions later. I’ll be back.”
Virginia: “Eliot, no!”
Eliot: “I will handle this, it’s likely a custodian.”
Virginia: “We don’t know that they’re safe either.”
Eliot disregarded her last statement and pulled the door open once more and glanced out. To his left, the locked door to the lobby sat unmoved. To his right, a hallway ran straight backwards, lined by doors on each side. He moved out of the door and closed it, then pressed his back against the 90 degree angle with doors to his left or right.
Eliot: “WHOEVER IS IN THIS HALLWAY, I NEED YOU TO STEP OUT WITH YOUR HANDS IN SIGHT IMMEDIATELY. THIS IS LEAD DETECTIVE OF CLEVELAND POLICE DEPARTMENT. PLEASE WALK OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP.”
A custodian emerged from one of the offices down the hall. His hands were raised and he had opted to leave his mop bucket behind. His face showed surprise of having a pistol pointed directly between his eyes.
The Custodian: “Eliot, it’s me, Ricky, what’s going on man?”
Eliot: “There’s a lot going on right now, Ricky, I need you to walk towards me with your hands up. I’m serious, Ricky. If you put your hands down, I will fire.”
Ricky listens closely to the instructions and begins to walk slowly towards Eliot. His legs tremble with each step, his nervousness evident as he moves toward the department’s lead detective.
Eliot: “Stop where you are and place your hands against the wall.”
Ricky complies, turning to the wall in front of him and placing his hands on it. Eliot fires two knocks into the receptionist office door and signals clear. Virginia emerges with her gun drawn.
Eliot: “Stand behind me while I frisk him.”
Eliot begins patting his arms carefully. He moves under his arms, around his chest, and down his torso. He meticulously moves down his legs, checking Ricky’s pockets, then asks him to raise his feet so he can check his shoes. Eliot steps back and peers into an office.
Eliot: “Anybody else back here?”
Ricky: “Uhhh, no, sir. I’m the only one on duty tonight.”
Eliot: “I’m fucking serious, Ricky, if I see one other person in this building I will fill your fucking ass full of bullets before you have a chance to make an excuse. I want to ask again, is anyone else back here?”
Ricky’s voice shakes as he responds.
Ricky: “No, sir.”
Eliot: “Back to the reception desk, now.”
Virginia walks backward towards the receptionist desk, gun still fixated on Eliot. They step inside the office and Eliot takes a place in the chair.
Ricky: “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
Eliot: “Ricky, we have reason to believe the Torso Murderer has been in this building today. I’m playing the odds, there’s a good chance that he was a parolee in here.”
Ricky: “I appreciate the information, but why did that result in me being frisked?”
Eliot: “Because I could be wrong, Ricky. In which case, it could be anyone who works here or came into the city clerk's office. I’d rather be safe than sorry. I apologize.”
Eliot pulls open the drawers of the desk, his movements swift. He rummages through files, spreading them out across the desk's surface, his eyes skimming over the names in search of something, anything, familiar. He recalls none of them. The files, now scattered in disarray, are left where they lay as he continues his frantic search through the mounting piles of documentation.
Then, his hand pauses on a folder marked 'July Daily Logs.' With a flicker of hope, he flips it open and starts scanning the names listed inside. Ninety-four parolees had visited the office that morning – a number that seemed high, yet was the narrowest window of potential suspects he had encountered so far.
Eliot: "Virginia and Ricky, I’m going to read names off. I need you to grab the files here with those names and help me transport them to my office. I’ll handle the ones in the middle, you guys get the sides."
He begins to recite the list. There's no apparent streamline to this process. Together, the three of them delve into the sea of folders, methodically checking off each name on the list.
Intense paranoia first enveloped The Killer the moment he learned that the police department had assigned Eliot to his case. Eliot's reputation preceded him – he was, in a word, untouchable. His fame had skyrocketed during his relentless pursuit of a bootleg moonshiner in Chicago during Prohibition. It was there he famously turned down a nine million dollar bribe to abandon his investigation. And now, the object of Eliot’s focus was The Killer.
Initially, panic had seized The Killer's mind. But as a full day elapsed without any groundbreaking progress from Eliot, he began to regain his composure. He obsessively ran through every possible scenario in his head, confidently concluding that there was no tangible link between him and his victims, Jerry or Kenny. They were merely victims of circumstance.
By the time two days had passed, a transformation had occurred in The Killer's mindset. The situation morphed into a game. He began to toy with the idea of how he could continue his fun of dismembering individuals for sheer pleasure while simultaneously outsmarting Eliot.
A burning desire ignited within him – he wanted to send a message, to taunt Eliot, to make it clear that he, too, was a force to be reckoned with. In his mind, he was the untouchable one, not Eliot.
Eliot's desk transformed into a strategic command center, with a designated area for the files of violent offenders who had checked into the parole office on that fateful day. He delved into their files with a furious attention, scribbling notes on each one, comparing their histories and tendencies to the grisly specifics of the Torso Murders.
Virginia: “What do we need to focus on?”
Eliot: “I’m looking for violent offenders. Assault, stabbing, anything involving a knife. I’d like to put an extra emphasis on anyone who would be decidedly anti-police. Assault on an officer would be a red flag. For good measure, anyone with the initials CD should go to the top of the list.”
Virginia: “Have any of the victims come back as ex-officers?”
Eliot: “No. It’s evident that this murderer is taking pride in attempting to bamboozle or play games with me. Perhaps it is related to a hatred towards cops. It’s a longshot theory, but it is one I’m willing to give extra credence to.”
The trio continued sifting through the mountain of paperwork, carefully segregating the special stack for violent offenders. The task was daunting and time-consuming, but Eliot felt the pressure of time. The Torso Murderer was growing increasingly daring with each passing day.
Virginia: “I’m not seeing a lot of parolees who might have an anti-police agenda in my stack.”
Ricky: “Me neither, aside from going to prison to begin with.”
Eliot: “Just keep looking.”
The task carried an unspoken urgency. Time was of the essence. Eliot wanted to focus, to work without the distraction of conversation. The sooner they could wrap up for the night, the better. But a realization that they likely wouldn’t be finished before the dawn of their next shifts floated in the back of his mind. The race against the clock, against an increasingly emboldened killer, was on.
The Killer's third act was, in his eyes, somewhat unremarkable compared to his previous exploits. However, it held a unique twist: he had been engaging in casual conversations with his next intended victim, a man he regularly encountered on the street. Their discussions were mundane, often touching on everyday topics. It was during one of these exchanges that the topic of the recent, brutal murders surfaced. The man's offhand remarks about the violence and gruesomeness of the killings inadvertently sowed a seed of suspicion in The Killer's mind. From that moment, he earmarked the man as his next target, biding his time for the perfect opportunity.
That opportunity presented itself not long after, on a day when the streets were unusually quiet, and the man was alone. The Killer approached him with a familiar greeting, resuming their small talk with a practiced ease. Through their previous conversations, he had gleaned that the man led a solitary life, with few friends and his family far away in St. Louis. He was a better candidate than The Killer had even hoped. He invited him to come over to his house for the evening.
Instead of resorting to his usual method of attack, The Killer chose a more deceptive approach. He invited the man to his basement under the pretense of listening to the radio in his basement. Throughout their interaction, he realized he had never bothered to learn the man's real name, nor did he have any desire to. Indifferently, he decided to refer to him as Konchu, a name that generated in his mind for reasons unknown even to himself, but one that strangely seemed to suit the man in his mind.
As the two listened to the Indians game, The Killer stepped behind the chairs in front of the radio and grabbed his butcher knife. In one swing of his arm, he decapitated Konchu. He drained the blood into an oil pan in his basement before he sliced the legs from the body. He burnt the legs and disregarded the torso near a railroad track where it would be easily found. Then, as he drove down the tree-lined roads of the suburbs, he tossed the head out into the forest.
Victim number four was plain in appearance, yet distinct with his tattoos – a regular face near Kingsbury Run, often seen lingering outside the not-so-stealthy surplus of bootleg casinos, his hand outstretched for just one more dollar to gamble with.. The Killer felt a sense of satisfaction with this one. He had often noticed him, but it wasn't until one late evening that he truly caught The Killer's attention.
That night, the man, who The Killer had already named Cyrus in his mind, emerged from the casino, his face lit from the thrill of victory. He had hit a streak of luck, finally winning a substantial jackpot - fifteen-hundred dollars. As Cyrus excitedly, but quietly, shared the news of his fortunes, he clutched The Killer's shoulders in a grip of exhilaration, a new plan began to take shape in the murderer's mind. He didn't need the money himself, but the idea of claiming this unexpected prize was irresistibly enticing – it would be a trophy. A championship, per se.
Quickly adapting to the situation, The Killer concocted a scheme. Cyrus owed money to various individuals, debts accumulated from countless evenings of panhandling on the streets.Shifting into the role of a concerned acquaintance, The Killer offered to accompany Cyrus home, to protect him from individuals who had loaned him fifty cents but might try to collect interest had they learned of his winnings.
Under the guise of needing to fetch a jacket due to the night chill, The Killer skillfully lured Cyrus into his home. The streets outside were enveloped in darkness, and the air carried a crisp, cold edge that made the excuse seem legitimate. Cyrus, unsuspecting and convinced this stranger who he had oft encountered was looking out for him, followed The Killer inside.
No sooner had Cyrus crossed the threshold than he was abruptly and brutally assaulted. A swift, powerful kick to his face caught him completely off guard, leaving him no time to comprehend what had occurred to him.
Cyrus's end was as grim as The Killer's previous victims. Decapitated. Dismembered. Drained of all blood. His remains were callously discarded beside the desolate railroad tracks. This time, however, The Killer departed from the scene with a little more than just the thrill of the kill; he was leaving a little richer.
The money was not his motivation, it was only an added perk.
Eliot was teetering on the brink of exhaustion, his resolve wearing thin. The sheer volume of profiles he had taken notes on was overwhelming, their details blurring into an indistinguishable mass. The task ahead – to personally interview nearly fifteen suspects – loomed over him like an insurmountable climb. Each of these individuals, whose only apparent guilty action was adhering to their parole office visits. It was impossible to do it quickly.
There was another cloud of doubt lingering over his head. He understood the gravity of what it meant to cast aspersions of mass murder, particularly at such a late hour.
Fueled by a hasty moment of frustration and fatigue, Eliot's hand acted on its own accord. With a singular, fluid motion born from pent-up tension, he flung the folder he had been holding onto the desk.
Eliot: “Let’s go home.”
Virginia: “Eliot, we’re just beginning to make progress.”
Eliot: “Let’s think about this logically, Virginia. We have eighteen suspects thus far that are violent offenders. That means, if we didn’t uncover a single other one, we’d have to interview eighteen people. Eighteen people who the only evidence against them is that they came here today and there happened to be a note on my desk. Each of these interviews would take at minimum an hour. We can’t do this tonight. It’s best to start over in the morning.”
Virginia: “Unfortunately, you’re right, but what if the Torso Murderer strikes again?”
Eliot: “There’s no blood on our hands in that case, Virginia. We have done all we can. There isn’t any possible scenario that we could conduct interviews and nab our suspect before morning. It’s best to go home and get some sleep. Ricky can be on the lookout for anything out of place here.”
Virginia: “Oh Eliot, I can’t imagine how defeated you must feel.”
Eliot pondered the sentiment that Virginia shared, but he didn’t agree with it.
Eliot: “I haven’t been defeated at all. I am defeat for this individual. When I find him, he loses this little game he has invited me to. His little mistake, assuming I wouldn’t put the pieces together with the note, will likely lead to me narrowing the list of everyone in Cleveland to around twenty-five people. That’s a list I can navigate through quickly, but not tonight. I am untouchable, and I will win this game.”
Virginia's expression softened into a smile, one that was tinged with admiration. She had always been drawn to Eliot's unwavering resilience, a trait that shone through even in moments of frustration like this. The moniker 'Untouchable' wasn't just a nickname; it was a testament to his integrity and dedication, qualities that the entire department deeply respected.
She had observed Eliot, noticing the subtle changes in his demeanor that came with each successful case solved. There was a certain strut, a swagger in his step, that emerged whenever he unraveled the puzzle pieces of a challenging investigation. It was a physical manifestation of his inner certainty.
The tales of his incorruptibility during the Prohibition era were well-known among his colleagues. Stories of how he had flatly refused the bribes in his commitment to enforce the law had circulated, further solidifying his status as a paragon of virtue in a profession often mired in moral ambiguity. Eliot was a living legend.
Eliot: “Besides, most of these murders have been at least a month apart.”
That fact quelled all concerns Virginia had. If the greatest detective the world had ever seen was content to call it a night, so was she.
The Killer hadn't yet had time to fully savor the aftermath of his latest crime and romanticize the details. The thrill of his encounter with Cyrus had lingered longer than usual, leaving him uncertain about when the urge to kill would resurface. Yet, fate, or rather his own twisted inclinations, didn't allow for much of a respite. Just a month later, a new opportunity presented itself. He was content to drift in life’s winds, but those winds had led him to a man he had crossed paths with only days before. While the script was mostly unchanged, each act brought its own challenges.
This victim, whom he dubbed Alyster, was more reserved, more cautious. It took a delicate blend of cunning and patience to draw him out, to engage him in conversation, and ultimately to coax him into the house. The Killer prided himself on his ability to adapt and evolve with each encounter, and this one was no different. Alyster’s quietness was a wall, but before long, The Killer had shattered it.
As he methodically dismembered his latest victim, The Killer conversed with him, or rather with himself, reflecting on the peculiar challenge Alyster had presented. He took his time with this one, meticulously dissecting the anatomy over two days.
In his basement, a trophy remained – Alyster's head, stored in a makeshift cooler he had constructed behind the big metal door in his basement. But the rest of the body was dropped off and found quickly, almost too quickly.
The day had been an eventful one. He thought about the note once more. Chop Department. It was hilarious, the more he considered it. He then thought about how he thought Eliot would respond to it.
First, he would question how it got into his office. He would realize how unlikely it was for someone to have snuck in and placed it there. So he’d ask the receptionist and she’d explain what letters she brought into his office. He would then start to place the pieces together, surmising that while he was out and the receptionist was away from her desk, someone slipped that little note into his folders.
He was guessing, but he felt he had grasped Eliot now, that he could think inside his mind for him.
The Killer thought more about the note.
Eliot would probably try to track down who had come through the courthouse today. Then he’d be delighted to learn that Tuesday was state parolee day, meaning ex-convicts had been in and out of the building all day long. Then he’d begin gathering information on what parolees had been there today, trying to narrow the list down and find his suspect.
Which is exactly how The Killer telegraphed it. What Eliot would not account for is a parolee who no longer had regular visits could walk around the courthouse without causing alarms. Previously, he’d been there often on Tuesdays.
Now, he was free to show up on Tuesdays, deliver his note, and cast the blame indirectly on every parolee who had walked through the office and signed in. He had no official visit, he had not signed in.
At this juncture, The Killer now contemplated how his latest ploy might have unfolded in Eliot's world. He considered two distinct scenarios. In the first, he imagined Eliot discovering the note earlier that afternoon, finding himself amidst a flurry of activity as he followed up on leads, only to be interrupted by the grim news of another body. This would have set Eliot on a frantic path, chasing down potential leads under the cloak of night.
Alternatively, The Killer envisioned a second sequence: Eliot, occupied with work outside the office, only returning later to stumble upon the note in the wake of the body's discovery. This revelation would have kickstarted a rapid response from Eliot. He was a go-getter, a do-it-now type of detective. His investigative instincts would propel him into immediate action, undoubtedly beginning with a call to his receptionist to initiate a thorough inquiry.
Weighing these possibilities, The Killer felt a confidence in his ability to predict Eliot's current whereabouts. Either Eliot was out in the city, interviewing innocent parolees in the middle of the night, or he had opted for a more patient approach, planning to pursue his leads at the break of dawn.
A smile crept across The Killer's face as he considered the likelihood of Eliot venturing into the far east side of the city at such a late hour for what might be baseless interviews. He was impatient, but he was no dumb cop. The paranoia that had once smothered The Killer had vanished. He hypothesized that Eliot was safely ensconced in the comfort of his upscale home, nestled comfortably in his fancy house in a fancy neighborhood, undoubtedly convinced that the morning would bring him closer to apprehending the notorious Cleveland Torso Murderer.
To The Killer, Eliot embodied defeat, a looming presence that he had, thus far, skillfully evaded. This game of cat and mouse, this dance with destiny, only reinforced his belief in his invincibility. He wouldn't – couldn't – be caught.
Feeling a wave of relaxation wash over him, The Killer felt the arrogance to work once again. He rose from his chair, slipping his feet into a pair of shoes, and strode across the cracked concrete sidewalks.
His destination was a club nestled in the shadows of Kingsbury Run. Arriving, he casually pulled out a pack of cigarettes and leaned against the club's wall, waiting for one specific person to emerge.
The disheveled man stepped out of the club right with perfect timing. His wait had been brief, no more than twenty minutes. This man, a familiar figure in the nightlife hub brimming with bars, clubs, and casinos, had been under The Killer's watchful eye for some time. He had identified him as a close acquaintance of Alyster, though their relationship was never explicitly acknowledged even when The Killer had asked. Night after night, he had observed them leaving together from this very spot.
Assuming a guise of authority, The Killer approached the man with a fabricated urgency.
The Killer: "Hey, man. I need you to come with me. I’m a detective working with Eliot. Did you hear about Al- uh, I was told the man’s name might be Alan. I was told you guys were friends.”
The man, caught off guard, responded with a puzzled tone,
The Club-Goer: “Alan? Who are you talking about?”
Seizing the moment, The Killer described Alyster, spinning a tale about the police suspecting him to be the latest victim of the infamous Torso Murder. He watched the man's reaction closely, silently praying he wouldn’t ask for a badge or identification. His confidence was palpable as he weaved a story about a secret surveillance spot a few streets over, asserting that the man would have to come willingly or be compelled by a warrant.
The man, convinced by The Killer's confident demeanor and plausible story, hesitantly agreed to follow.
They moved quickly through the dark streets, the man unknowingly in the company of the very murderer he sought to evade. Upon reaching the house, The Killer maintained his charade. He rapped on the door in a calculated pattern before partially opening it and loudly announcing an officer's arrival to an empty house. He ushered the man inside.
Without a word, The Killer motioned for the man to descend the basement steps. He followed, unlocking the heavy wooden plank that served as a makeshift door. The darkness of the basement awaited them. The Killer stepped back, allowing his guest to enter what he thought was a police surveillance room first.
As the man stepped forward, The Killer struck with swift brutality, kicking him squarely in the back. The force of the kick sent the man stumbling into the support beam at the center of the room. The metal produced a thud and a clingy, echoed as his body fell onto the floor. As he crumpled to the ground, his hands instinctively reached for the gash now bleeding on his forehead. Blood began to drip on the concrete floor. It certainly wasn’t the first time.
The Killer reached for his rope and pulled the man’s left arm back behind his body, tightly knotting it to the pole that had split his forehead open. He then repeated the process with the other arm. He smiled at the man, evident that his head was spinning.
It was not in the plans for the man to not get to enjoy The Killer’s activities, so he went upstairs. He glanced around his kitchen and opened the cabinet for a snack. This was routine for him now, as routine as a bag of potato chips. He finished his snack and walked back down the darkened steps, once again unlocking his door.
He watched the man squirm.
The Man: “It was you, wasn’t it? You killed Robert!”
The Killer squinted his eyebrows down in confusion.
The Killer: “I… I do not know Robert. Perhaps you are referring to your friend that was found earlier? His name is Alyster. I get to assign the names here.”
The Man began to realize his fate. He tried to hide his emotion, but it wasn’t possible. He spoke with tears in his eyes.
The Man: “Why do you do this?”
The Killer looked at him. He did it because it was fun. He did it because he could. Normal people could not do what he did. This was the first time he had had a conversation in the midst of these exchanges, but he wasn’t going to answer any questions. This was his time, not time for a victim to conduct an interview.
The Man: “You killed Rob- uh, Alyster. I don’t know why I have to die too. You don’t even know me, man. You just saw me out… Can you just answer one question? So I can know before I die.”
The prompt puzzled The Killer, he tilted his head to the side, inviting him to ask without directly telling him to do so.
The Man: “Who are you?”
Who am I? What a senseless question, The Killer thought. Have you seen the news? Everyone knows who I am. I am the man that evades defeat. I am the man who is undetectable to the Untouchable Eliot, he thought. He refused to satisfy this victim with a chat, but he made the decision to gloat.
“I, sir, am a man of many names. You may have heard me called The Cleveland Torso Murderer. I find it too direct. My personal favorite is The Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run. It has a… distinct eloquence to it, wouldn’t you agree?”
The Killer reaches for his butcher knife, electing to end both the small talk and halt delaying the start of the process of dismemberment.
“But, you sir, can call me Xavien.”
Xavien raises the knife to his right, ready to slash across the man’s throat and watch his head topple to the ground and officially become his next victim.
“And I will call you… Chris.”
Please Scroll Down For Notes
Warning: The Next Page Leaves Kayfabe
Historical Notes
This promo is based off of real life events that transpired in Cleveland between 1935-1939.
The Torso Murderer claimed somewhere between 10-20 murders, and many parts of this promo are historically accurate. I wanted to share those for those of you who appreciate history.
- The initial discovery in the first sections is based on the discovery of a John Doe V on July 6th, 1937. The weather used in those scenes is accurate as are the Cleveland Indians scores and Roy Weatherby’s statistics are real, but those games were played on July 5th.
- Both names I used as “real names” of victims before Xavien renamed them to past opponents names are real names, although Robert Robertson is not officially confirmed to be a victim of the Torso Murderer. Most victims were never identified.
- The Eliot character is, of course, based on Eliot Ness. Ness was credited with capturing Al Capone in the 1920s, famously refusing to take a nine million dollar bribe. His unit was called The Untouchables and has been the subject of many documentaries. Ness is also mentioned in “California Love” by Tupac.
- The order of the victims are not accurate, I skewed those to fit the scenarios I wanted to use as needed.
- The dividers in between the sections do NOT feature an image of a corpse, instead it features the death mask of John Doe II aka The Tattooed Man.
- The conclusion of the real story has never been written and likely will never be. The case remains unsolved.
