Maybe this little drama isn't over yet after all. My old friend Jack from Porfello's paid me a visit today. I know he means well, but I wish he would mind his own business. I don't really need somebody else to be upset because I drink too much. Maybe I do drink too much. Maybe I am killing myself. Who the hell cares? I mean, who the hell really cares?

Jack didn't come over to the office just to lecture me on my drinking though. He wanted to talk over something with me before he told his boss about it. While I'm not too crazy about him trying to blow the whistle on me, I do appreciate that he warned me first. I understand he has a job to do and can't let minor friendships get in the way.

I always thought Jack was a smart cookie and now he's proving me right. I really do have to give him credit for using his head. He is the only one in the whole goddamned police force who has figured out any connection between me and Sandusky.

Those other two detectives who came to see me a couple of times never did put it together. Not that I am particularly surprised. I always seem to overestimate the collective intelligence of the police. But old Jack remembered I had been in Sandusky last July when one of the killings took place. Then when he heard about that leg they found out there, he started to draw some conclusions. He said it took him longer than he'd like to admit to figure out what happened and even longer to decide what to do about it.

I asked him what he thought might have happened. He said he'd done some discreet checking around at the veteran's hospital in Sandusky. He said there were some "alarming coincidences." I couldn't stop from smiling when he said that. He's so damned serious.

He went on talking, visibly disconcerted by my smile. Last July, he said, when the killing occurred in Cleveland, I was theoretically out of town in a hospital. I agreed with that statement, but I told him it was factual, not theoretical.

Yet, Jack said, during the weekend when the killing took place, there was no way to actually prove I was at the hospital. No one specifically remembered me being there the entire weekend. Jack said it was entirely possible for me to have come back to Cleveland in my car that Saturday night, killed the man, and returned to Sandusky the same night.

I like Jack. I really do. I had to smile again. Finally, I got him to crack a little tiny smile. I poured some whiskey for the two of us and apologized for not having any beer in the icebox.

Then Jack started up again about my last trip to Sandusky at the end of March. He said he spoke with people there at the hospital about me and they all described me as very agitated. The psychiatrist, bless his dim-witted little soul, said he planned to talk to me in depth when I was rested, but I had checked out before he had the chance.

Jack asked me if I didn't find it a little strange that just after I was out there, a leg was found. And when I got back to Cleveland a few days later, there were parts of woman's body thrown into the Cuyahoga River.

Interesting story, I told him. I didn't see, however, quite where he was going with it. I told him whether or not anyone saw me at the hospital that weekend in July was absolutely irrelevant. I was there at the hospital and not in Cleveland. There was no way for him to prove differently.

As for the leg that was found in Sandusky, I was unaware the authorities had even decided it was a homicide. As it stood, that leg could have been the result of legitimate surgery, mutilation of a corpse, or even an accident. The rest of the body had never been found.

I said that woman's body in April was just one more in the long Kingsbury Run series. I told him I didn't know anything more about that murder than I did about any of the earlier ones. The fact I was in Cleveland when it happened meant nothing. So were thousands of other people, including himself.

Even though I was bit drunk this afternoon, I think the coolness of my logic made him doubt his suspicions. He said he didn't want to get me in any trouble. He was sure I already had enough of my own to deal with. But, he said he was going to have to say something about these coincidences to his superiors. If I was innocent, he said, then I have nothing at all to worry about. Someone will turn up to substantiate my story.

Jack, I told him firmly, I don't have to have my whereabouts substantiated. First of all, I am a physician, not some bum on the street. Secondly, the police department does not have one tiny shred of evidence to link me to any crime. Being in the same city is hardly evidence of guilt. While I felt fairly certain of the legalities on that point, I told him I'd double check it with my cousin Michael.

He picked up on what I was saying about Michael. Jack knows what a can of worms he'll open with this revelation of his. Jack said he was sorry for bringing my name into the case. It had troubled him for weeks before he decided to talk to me about it. He added that he liked me a lot and had the deepest admiration for Michael, but he still had to put personal issues aside and do his job. He picked up his jacket off the couch and started to leave.

I stopped him. Jack, I asked him, looking him straight in the eye. What do you think? Do you really believe I could be the Kingsbury Run killer? The Mad Butcher? I put particular emphasis on this ludicrous title the press had given to me.

He met my stare and thought hard about my question. Some days, he said, I think it has to be someone like you. Someone very intelligent and outgoing. Other days, I can't believe someone as sane and normal appearing as you are could possibly have killed all those people. But if you are guilty, I've got to say that you're damned good. Unbelievably good. Frighteningly good at what you do. With that comment, he left.

It was quite a compliment coming from Jack. He's not normally effusive in his praise. In fact, he's quite the opposite. Quick to find the stupidity or incompetence in the people around him. Compliments from Jack are to be treasured.

Any police investigation that might come from Jack's comments will take some time to get off the ground. Let's say Jack talks to Hogan sometime today. Hogan isn't going to do anything unless he gets an okay from Ness. Boy, could that create some fireworks. Michael would be down on Eliot Ness like a bear on honey. Michael would see any investigation of me as being political vengeance for making the Kingsbury Run case such a potent campaign issue in the last election. Or Michael would see it as an attempt to discredit him as a mayoral candidate in the next election.

It goes beyond politics though. Hogan doesn't want to believe a good Irish lad like myself, who bootstrapped himself into being a doctor, is some crazy killer. Nor does he want to believe the first cousin of his own "working man's hero", Michael Sullivan, is guilty of such crimes. Hogan knows how hard it was for our people to fight for respectability in this city. If I were Hogan, I'd try to ignore this young detective and his scandalous insinuations about a member of a good, solid Irish family.

It'll take at least a week for all of that shit to percolate in their coffee pots. Afterwards, Hogan may decide to do nothing at all. On the other hand, a very perfunctory investigation may be done just to put the entire matter to bed officially. But then, if that Eliot Ness gets involved, there could be one hell of a detailed investigation. I'd better be prepared for the worst.

More than a week has gone by and I haven't seen any tangible results from Jack's threat. No one has been here to see me and I'm fairly certain I'm not being followed.

Just in case, this investigation does materialize, I've had time to think up some very clever ways to entertain myself. I haven't heard a peep from Michael yet, so that button hasn't been pushed. Maybe this whole thing has died in committee.

Just when I had given up on the police, four of them appeared on my doorstep this morning. For a couple of weeks now, ever since Jack's visit, I've made a wildly successful effort to stay reasonably sober all day. That is, until five o'clock. It simply would not do for me to be drunk when the police question me on capital offenses.

There were the two detectives who were here twice before, the illustrious David Cowles, Ness's forensic expert and trusted lieutenant, and some other guy in his early fifties who was dressed better than most cops.

I brought in a chair from my waiting room and we all crowded into my study. Three of them sat on my couch and Cowles sat on the chair. I sat behind my desk and quickly put the whiskey bottle and glass that had been sitting on the desk in the drawer. It looked so unbelievably gauche for a liquor bottle to be sitting there nakedly on my desk so early in the morning.

Cowles did almost all of the talking, except for a couple of questions from the guy in the expensive suit. They questioned me for about an hour and a half, covering a wide range of things. Questions on my personal and professional life, as well as where was I on a certain day, months and even years ago.

I fought down that need of mine to grandstand, to play to an audience. I didn't crack any jokes, even though there were a couple straining so hard to get loose that I was almost foaming at the mouth. Instead, I was very restrained, reflective, cooperative and serious. Just a touch of nervousness initially.

When they were finished with their questions, Cowles asked if they could have a brief look around the office. I became much more visibly nervous. I asked Cowles if he had a search warrant. He was prepared for the question. He said he didn't ask to search the office, merely to take a look around.

My hands started to shake. He noticed. I hesitated and said I wasn't sure if what he was asking was legal. He said if I was concerned about the legality, he would have someone over here in five minutes with a search warrant. What a splendid bluff. Five minutes. He must think I'm extremely naive. Very reluctantly, with anxiety clearly in my voice, I agreed to let him take a look around.

There were only two other rooms to see, the examining room and the surgery. First, I showed them the examining room, which is very small. There is nothing much to see in there.

Then we all walked into the surgery. This was the room that held their interest. One of the detectives rushed to the icebox and opened it. He seemed very disappointed when all he found was the remnants of the sandwich I bought for last night's dinner.

The operating table was in the center of the room. I explained that it was here that I did very minor operations, like removing hemorrhoids, and setting broken bones. I betrayed my anxiousness to get them out of there, but they stayed.

At one end of the room was a screen, with another table with wheels behind it. One of the detectives looked behind the screen and motioned to the rest of them to come over. Cowles moved the screen aside so they could all see what was on the table. It looked like a bulky male body was lying there on the table, covered with a bloody sheet.

They froze for a minute. All standing around the table with their eyes fixed on the sheet. None of them touched it. After what seemed like an eternity, Cowles yanked the sheet off the table. For another minute, all they did was gape at what was lying under the sheet.

Finally, Cowles touched it. It's papier-mâché, he said, grasping the arm of the headless, dismembered, human-like form I had molded together. Cowles turned and glared at me. He was not amused.

All that nervousness I had shown before melted into an innocent smile. Do you like it? I asked. It's a hobby of mine, molding these forms out of papier-mâché. Helps me keep my anatomical skills in top shape.

Cowles didn't fall for that explanation. Not that I really expected him to. My little trick infuriated him. Did your cousin put you up to this or was it your own idea? He wanted to know. I pretended not to know what he was talking about.

The only one of the four who had any appreciation for the humor in my little paper and plaster creation was the guy in the nice suit. I saw the smile cross his face while he listened to my brief, unpleasant exchange with Cowles. He watched my face intently until they all left, but he never said a word to me or to the others. I wonder now just who he was. He didn't seem much like a cop to me. Maybe he was one of Burton's stooges from city hall. After all, this whole investigation carries significant political risk for Burton and Ness both.

I think there's a police investigation of me going on, but it's being done very discreetly. I saw Driscoll yesterday at Dugan's and he said there was a guy in the bar a few days ago asking about me. Driscoll said he never gave him a name or reason for asking all the questions.

I was curious about what they were asking. A lot of general things, Driscoll said. Did I have a girlfriend? How much did I drink? What caused Louise to leave me? Driscoll said he didn't really know me that well and couldn't answer any personal questions, then the guy left.

Maybe I was right about them just doing a perfunctory investigation. There's not really much more for them to do except cover all the same old ground again they covered some months ago. I may not be leading the life of a bible hero, but it doesn't mean I'm a killer either.

I've been very bored lately. Now that I don't work with Hurley anymore, I only have the few patients who come into this office. Time is really heavy on my hands. I'm sorry in a way my little adventure with the police department has died down. It provided some real diversion for me. But, they seem to have lost interest.

Just to let them know I'm still alive, I sent off a post card to Lieutenant Cowles. It was a picture postcard of the skyline of downtown Cleveland, the kind that a tourist would buy. On the back of the postcard, I carefully drew a picture of the morgue. And just above the door on the morgue, I drew the sign "No More Bodies" and signed the card Frank Sullivan. I wonder if Cowles will get the humor in it right a way. He's such a sourpuss. He must have seen the "No More Bodies" sign they put on the morgue door when there were no more cadavers available for the medical school.

I finally got a response to my postcard to Mr. Cowles. He's put a tail on me. I noticed it when I went downtown to Higbee's to buy some socks. I became aware of this guy who was watching me. At first, I thought it was the store detective, who had taken me for a shoplifter.

Then, when I went over to the May Company, I saw the same guy watching me again. I didn't do anything right away. I just let him follow me around for awhile. Then, when I was leaving the men's department, I ducked behind the corner wall by the elevator and waited for him to walk by.

He did walk by and I followed him. He didn't notice immediately. But, when he realized that I wasn't in front of him anymore, he quickly looked around. That's when he saw me behind him, grinning from ear to ear.

He's a young fellow. No more than twenty-five. As Irish as Paddy's pig. I went up to him and asked him his name. Timothy Devlin, he stuttered. Pleased to meet you, Timothy Devlin, I said. As you know, I'm Frank Sullivan. If we're going to be hanging around much together, we might as well be introduced.

His face fell a mile, humiliated by his failure. He had obviously been too clumsy in following me. I hadn't thought about that when I played that little game on him. Then I felt sorry for him. He seemed like such a nice lad. Don't worry, I told him. I won't let on to anybody you're following me. He was relieved, but I could tell he felt a bit foolish. He shook my hand and waved me ahead of him. Afterwards, he followed me at a respectable distance.

Timothy Devlin is still following me during the day, but there are replacements for him on the weekends and at night. I feel quite safe these days with all of this police protection. I wonder how long they'll keep this up. It must be getting quite expensive.

I think tonight I'm going to take advantage of this unsolicited accompaniment and visit a couple of those colored dives on Quincy Avenue I never had the guts to go into alone. Won't that be something now? Two little snow white faces in an all colored bar. Just me and my shadow, except my shadow isn't going to be dark. I hope we both don't get killed.

P.S. We didn't get killed, but we sure got some strange looks. My shadow sat down at the other end of the bar. As I expected, we were the only two whites in the whole place. I saw how very uncomfortable he was, so I sent a drink down to him and toasted his health. This cop doesn't have the sense of humor that Timothy Devlin has.

What's this bullshit! Some sonofabitch trying to copy my work! That stupid fucking Gerber is a moron after all.

[Editor's Note: Slipped in between the pages of the journal were two newspaper articles. One was the entire front page which was dominated by the discovery of two dismembered bodies found at a downtown dump. One of the corpses was a woman, who had been dead for six months, but whose body was in good condition because it had been refrigerated. The other was the skeleton of a man who had been dead nine months. Police estimated the bodies had been at the dump for three weeks. The other article had a very unfavorable story about Ness's raid on Shantytown a few days later when he tried to rid the city of the source of the murder victims, by burning down all of shacks and jailing the hobos]

I was out cold on my couch last Friday morning, still very drunk from my tour of the saloons that ended around two a.m., when I heard loud knocking on the door to my waiting room. I looked at my watch. It wasn't even eight o'clock in the morning yet. I wondered who the hell would make that kind of racket so early in the morning.

I rolled off the couch, knocked my glasses on the floor in the process and yelled at the top of my lungs for whoever it was to keep their goddamned pants on while I looked for mine. Once I got my glasses on, I saw my trousers laying on the floor exactly where I dropped them several hours ago. I went to put them on, but almost fell over trying. Fuck it all to hell, I said, staggering to the door in my underwear.

It was Lieutenant Cowles and Timothy Devlin. Cowles was very serious and formal, in spite of the informality of my dress. We need to take you in for questioning, he said. It would be best if you got dressed now. I don't know if I even answered them. I just staggered to the toilet and let go. I wasn't feeling well at all that morning.

My memory of what happened right afterwards is very spotty. I must have somehow gotten dressed. Either that or the two of them put my clothes on me. I hope it hadn't happened that way. I would hate to think I was so drunk I had to have the cops dress me.

I must have passed out again in their car because I don't remember riding with them downtown. Nor do I have any recollection of going with them into the lobby of the Cleveland Hotel.

The next thing I remember was sitting on the leather couch in a very fancy oak-paneled living room that was part of a hotel suite. Sitting in a chair, pulled up right opposite me, was the nice looking, middle-aged man in the expensive suit who had come to my office with Cowles and the two detectives back in June. I remember at the time he didn't seem like a cop. Actually, he isn't a cop. He introduced himself to me as Dr. Richardson Bell, the court psychiatrist.

Not far from me in this sumptuous drawing room sat Lieutenant Cowles. Timothy Devlin was standing by the door. Cowles politely asked him if he would be kind enough to wait outside in the hall. Stay near the door, Devlin, Cowles instructed him softly, in case you're needed.

I can't believe I didn't notice him right away, considering how vividly he stands out in both my memory and imagination. But there he was, standing across the room, looking out the window. Eliot Ness in the flesh. Even in my sorry, inebriated state, I was lucid enough to be excited that finally the Great Man had taken a personal interest in me. I despised myself for that fleeting feeling, but I felt it none the less.

In retrospect, had I been more sober, I would have realized the day I came face to face with Eliot Ness regarding the Kingsbury Run murders, was the day my future was in grave peril. Like the deeply religious man who yearns to be closer to God and is thrilled one day to wake up facing his maker, only to realize now he is dead. Not that Ness and I have quite that type of hierarchical relationship, but the outcome is analogous.

We're going to have to dry him out first, Eliot, I heard Dr. Bell say to him. Ness turned from the window and looked at me and at Bell. How long will that take? Ness was impatient. Bell told him probably three full days, maybe a little longer.

Damn it! Ness said. I hadn't planned on that. I suppose we have to find some way of keeping him here through Sunday night, but it could get real sticky for me.

I'll give him a sedative, Dr. Bell told him. It will keep him relatively calm until he gets the alcohol out of his system. I don't want him getting the shakes too bad. Have a couple of your men keep an eye on him. I'll leave a telephone number where you can reach me. I'll be back here again, he said, later today to give him some more medication.

Shortly after, I felt Dr. Bell giving me an injection. I wanted to protest, to call my cousin, but I knew it was too late. I started to feel drowsy almost immediately. I remember thinking, just before I fell asleep, how glad I was they wouldn't start questioning me until I was completely sober. That was a big relief to me and I nodded off relatively happy.

Somehow they got me undressed and into an enormous bed in one of the two bedrooms of the hotel suite. I completely lost track of time. They kept me sedated until Sunday evening. Even with the sedatives, my nerves were absolutely raw. Nobody, who has not gone through it, can possibly understand what kind of mental and physical torture it is to be suddenly deprived of any liquor, when it has been the mainstay of your existence for years. The body rebels. It fights back. The mind looks to find anyway to steal or beg a drink.

Those three days were absolute hell. Yes, I'd been through it once before when I first went out to Sandusky, but being through it once doesn't in any way make it easier the second time. At least they didn't take me off the phenobarbital at the same time.

I couldn't stay put for five minutes at a time. I tried to relax in one of those luxurious chairs and look out the window, but I couldn't sit still. Then I tried to lie down in that big comfortable bed, but I couldn't sleep. I took warm showers and hot baths to try to quiet my nerves, but it didn't work. I ended up pacing around the suite for hours on end.

Addiction is so degrading. I would have done absolutely anything for Devlin if he would have gotten some whiskey for me. I pleaded with him, played on his sympathy, offered him money, just for one shot. He wouldn't do it though.

Thank god, the craving started to subside considerably by Sunday evening. The sedative had worn off and I was becoming alert again. I joked with Devlin about the fancy hotel suite. I told him the department must be handing out a lot of speeding tickets to afford this place for a couple of nights. He laughed and said that Ness was probably getting use of the suite at no charge. Ness had a lot of friends around town in high places.

Devlin asked me what I'd like to eat. He was having dinner brought up for the other patrolman and himself. It made sense for them to order my dinner at the same time. It wasn't often I get to eat a free Sunday dinner in a fancy hotel like that, so I ordered the works. Shrimp cocktail. Onion soup. Sirloin steak and mashed potatoes. Cherry pie for desert. And, I reminded Devlin when I gave him the order, not to forget the bottle of French champagne. He laughed. While I waited for dinner, I took a shower and put on some of the clean clothes they had brought from my office.

Everything came as ordered except, of course, for the champagne. Someone had substituted a pot of coffee instead. Devlin said I'd want to have my wits about me that night. Why? I asked him. What he had planned for the evening's entertainment? He rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling and said that Ness, Cowles and Dr. Bell would be there around eight o'clock to ask me the questions I wasn't "well enough," as he put it delicately, to answer a few days before. That certainly gave me something to look forward to.

It wasn't long before the dinners were delivered. The food was excellent and I was ravenously hungry. I hadn't really eaten any serious solid food since Thursday afternoon. I had the plate licked clean within twenty minutes or so, which gave me an hour and a half to enjoy my coffee, digest my food, and smoke a couple of cigarettes before my inquisitors descended upon me.

I thought about calling Michael and telling him the bad news. I knew that in the next day or so that I would have to talk to him. It was a call I didn't relish making, so I decided I wouldn't ruin his and Sheila's Sunday night unless something happened that made his presence absolutely necessary.

I still felt a bit groggy from the sedatives, but it was wearing off quickly enough. The coffee was doing a lot to revive me. All in all, I was in pretty good shape to stand up to the team that was coming to work on me. I would have absolutely killed for a drink though. Yes, killed for one.

I wasn't as nervous as I would have expected myself to be. I was deliberately being treated with kid gloves. No hot glaring lights in a windowless room in the police station. No confession beaten out of me with a rubber truncheon. No, this was all very, very civilized, at least for the time being. I was, after all, a physician, not some hobo in shanty town. And, most importantly, I was Michael's cousin. Ness quite rightly must have assumed that every detail of my capture would be relayed to Michael. Any hint of illegality or mistreatment would hit the front page of the paper.

Ness was the first of them to arrive. It was a few minutes before eight. He was dressed in a suit and tie, looking like he'd just come from dinner at some restaurant. The first thing he did was take off his suit coat and tie, which he tossed over the back on the chair, and roll up his shirt sleeves.

When he saw me sitting on the couch in the living room, drinking my coffee, he came over and introduced himself. He was very friendly, almost casual. He took out a package of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered me one. I took it.

He said I looked a whole lot better than I did when he first saw me and asked how I was feeling. I told him I was feeling a lot better than I was a few days earlier. I didn't want to tell him my whole body was screaming for a drink. Instead, I lighted the cigarette and enjoyed that meager comfort of the only addiction I could indulge.

Ness thanked me for being so cooperative those past three days. He said he appreciated how difficult they were for me physically and emotionally. I seriously doubted a man like himself had any grasp of just how hard it had been on me.

He went on to say there were some very important questions he needed to ask me and it was critical that I was completely sober when I answered them. He said he hoped I was comfortable there in the hotel, in spite of the inconvenience.

I was surprised by how sincere and friendly he seemed to be. I was beginning to wonder if I had misjudged him. In spite of his friendliness though, I knew that I'd better not let down my guard or I would find myself in jail for life, or worse. I crushed the cigarette butt in the ashtray and immediately lighted another one. I hated myself for doing it. I don't like to broadcast my dependencies, especially to the enemy camp, but the cigarettes were a way of transporting my nervousness from my head down to my fingertips and out into the cigarette, or so it seemed.

Ness said he was going to order some more coffee before the others arrived. I listened as he called down to room service. His voice was a perfect reflection of his person. Confident, commanding, but friendly and patient. Unusual in a person so young.

It's very difficult for me to be around that man. He made me unbearably tense. I couldn't forget that she preferred him to me. And with some good reason, it pains me to finally admit. It's a wound that just won't close.

While my intense jealousy over Jenny is certainly at the core of this deep conflict with Ness, it's not the only factor. Even before Jenny, I had those secret ups and downs in my crazy, one-sided relationship with him. It was all in my head. None of it was real.

Fed by my frustrations over the way he treated my work and fanned by Michael's intense dislike of him, it was so easy to hate him without really knowing him at all. It was much more difficult to denigrate him or even dislike him in person. He is just too compelling a personality. I feel pretty stupid about the whole thing.

Cowles arrived shortly thereafter. He was also dressed in a suit and tie. Cowles' only concession to the heat was to take off his suit coat and park himself in the chair that was directly opposite the larger fan. Cowles kept on his tie. No rolled up shirtsleeves on him. He was dressed for work that Sunday night.

The last one to come was Dr. Bell, who they called Dick, short for Richardson, I guess. Dr. Bell was the only one of them who was dressed for the hot weather. He looked like he had just come in off the golf course, dressed in a light yellow shortsleeved shirt and some lightweight khaki slacks. In spite of his summery clothes, he was perspiring heavily and kept mopping his face with his handkerchief.

Devlin brought in the tray of coffee and sugar cookies the kitchen had sent up. After everyone had some coffee and settled into his seat, Ness started up the conversation. Dr. Sullivan, he said, as you know, the series of murders known as the Kingsbury Run killings has plagued this city for several years now. It is my highest priority to solve these crimes and bring this killing spree, as he called it, to an end.

He looked me straight in the eye and spoke frankly. He said they had a number of questions they'd like to ask me that night and possibly the next morning. He hoped that I would answer them satisfactorily.

On the other hand, I interjected with a smile, if I don't answer the questions satisfactorily, you'll throw me in jail. Is that it? Ness answered quickly. He didn't want the session to start out antagonistically, particularly when I had been so cooperative up until then. He knew at any time, I could insist on calling my lawyer and refuse to answer any questions without him. Ness was very firm, but cordial, when he said that, as keen as he was to solve the murders, he never had people jailed without very substantial reasons. I was half tempted to mention the poor tramps he picked up in his shanty town raid and threw in jail on the flimsiest of charges, but then I wasn't particularly interested in being antagonistic either.

Dr. Bell took over at that point. He was very conciliatory and used his smooth voice to put me at ease. We'd like to ask you some very detailed questions about your personal and professional life, he purred. I recognize that you have already gone over some of this information with various people in the department, but please bear with us on the questions that seem repetitive.

He was right. Most of the questions they asked me over the next few hours I had already answered before, at least, to some extent. On the other hand, what was very different this time was Dr. Bell's probing and emphasis on the things that interested him. It was also very clear to me they had been asking some very personal questions about me to quite a number of people.

Like the questions on my marriage. I had told them it had broken up because my wife and I had different values, plus she didn't like me drinking after work with my friends. Dr. Bell approached the subject from an entirely different perspective, one that he could have only gotten from Louise herself. It was our sexual relationship he wanted to talk about.

It pissed me off that he had talked with her. It also angered me he would bring up something so personal, and from my viewpoint so irrelevant, in front of Ness and Cowles. I didn't show my anger though. Instead, I smiled.

I think he took it for granted Louise was telling him the truth when she said we hadn't slept together for some months before we separated. Did I have a girlfriend then? he asked. Did I use prostitutes during my marriage? Was impotence a problem?

I purred my answers right back. I told Dr. Bell that before he jumped to any conclusions about my sex life with my ex-wife, he needed to have a much better understanding of both Louise's physical charms and her personality. Being a gentleman, I said, I would never say disparaging things about the mother of my children. However, there were aspects of my ex-wife which could not be fully conveyed in a simple telephone conversation. Dr. Bell cracked a smile, took a couple of notes and went on to the next subject.

About an hour into this dialogue, Dr. Bell focused on my father. They had really done some digging on that subject. Some of the things even I didn't know or didn't remember. Of course, they had access to the police and social welfare files. I gather my father was pretty well documented. And, of course, there were three years of psychiatric files from when they locked him up at Cleveland State Hospital.

I agreed my father was a violent psychotic, but I hoped that Dr. Bell was not suggesting my father's psychosis was directly heritable like blue eyes and brown hair. Directly heritable? No, Dr. Bell didn't believe that any more than I did. However, he said there was very strong empirical evidence that alcoholism and the violence which so often accompanies it ran in families.

The next hour was spent rehashing my experiences during the war and my professional life after the incident with Mullens. Again, it was obvious to me they had been very thorough in their investigation during the past few months. They must have talked to a lot of people and looked at a great many documents. I was surprised they had gone to so much trouble.

Dr. Bell was very interested in the sudden resurgence of my career that started in the fall of last year and came to a halt this past April. Why, he wanted to know, did this frenzy of work begin and end so abruptly and unexpectedly. Did it have anything to do with the pretty young girl I was dating?

I looked over at Ness. He was slouched in his armchair, only half listening at that point. Cowles, however, was listening to every word. What was her name again? Dr. Bell asked. Cowles supplied the answer before I had a chance to speak. Jenny Petersen, he said.

I watched Ness's reaction. His eyes opened wide and he sat up straight in his chair. What'd you say her name was? He asked Cowles. Cowles repeated it. Ness looked over at me and stared. I could tell it dawned on him where he'd seen me before. He finally recognized me as the man who was Jenny's escort last December at the Hollenden. Our eyes met. He frowned and switched the toothpick to the other side of his mouth, thinking over the ramifications of what he had just learned.

Dr. Bell spoke. Yes, he said, this Petersen girl. Tell me about her. Where did you meet here? When did you start going out with her? Is the relationship still going on?

I downplayed the subject very calmly. I directed my comments to Ness, occasionally acknowledging the other two. I said that we dated for several months, but, and I looked Ness straight in the eyes, she had other boyfriends. Ness looked extremely uncomfortable. I told them I was very wrapped up in my work at that time and I didn't have much time for her. I said the reason for my sudden interest in work was I believed I would be able to have my boys live with me, so I needed to increase my income to provide a good home for them. I said that all of a sudden I didn't know how to get in touch with her any more. She had found a new job somewhere and had moved out of her rooming house. I told them I was too busy then to spend any time trying to track her down.

Cowles quizzed me on what I knew about her background and where she was from. I said I knew very little about her and had the feeling she was covering up something about her past. I looked over at Ness and told him if she had meant more to me, I would have taken the trouble to find out more about her.

Dr. Bell asked me again why I suddenly stopped working so hard a few months ago, if it wasn't related to this girl leaving me. I said when it became clear to me that I couldn't have my boys come live with me after all, my motivation to make a lot of money had vanished.

Looking back on that evening, I realize now the first two hours were questions that helped Dr. Bell complete his psychological profile of me. He asked all of the questions and took most of the notes on what I said. The rest of the evening, which went on for almost three more hours, was a series of questions, put to me mostly by Cowles, about what I was doing and where I was on certain days and nights around the time of the murders. They had snatched my office appointment books from 1935 through this year to help refresh my memory. Good thing I kept this journal under the floor boards in the closet or they might have snatched it too.

I seriously doubt anything I said was very useful to them in establishing my guilt or innocence. For the most part, I answered that I didn't remember what I was doing on any particular day or night, months and years ago. Finally, they finished with me. I couldn't imagine anything had been left unasked. I told Ness I assumed I could go back to my office the next morning. No, he said. He would need to question me in the morning, as well.

I told him I wasn't going to answer any more questions until I had talked to a lawyer. Since I didn't have a lawyer, I would call Michael in the morning. Ness winced slightly, but must have been expecting Michael's involvement sooner or later.

The three of them left me with my police guard and said they would be back around nine the next morning. The cop on duty was a new guy. I hadn't met him before. Devlin must have been sent home for the rest of the night. My mind seized on the opportunity of getting something, even Sunday beer, to drink.

They must not have briefed this new guy at all, because he was perfectly willing to let me telephone down to room service for something to drink. I was so excited I could hardly dial the phone. It rang and rang and rang. Then I looked at my watch and saw that it was one o'clock in the morning. Everything had been closed up for hours.

I didn't warm to that news. I paced around for another hour, chain smoking, drinking tepid coffee and trying to figure out how I could get a drink. Finally, I gave it up and climbed into bed. I would need to get some sleep if they were going to fire more questions at me the next day.

The next morning at eight o'clock, I was on the phone to Michael at his home. When I told him where I was and why, I thought he was going to have a stroke right on the spot. First he swore at Ness, then at the mayor, and then at me for not calling him days ago when the police first picked me up. When he finally calmed down, I told him they were going to start questioning me again in an hour. He made me swear I would not utter a syllable until he got there.

About eight-fifteen, I heard the guard letting in Cowles, Dr. Bell and two other men. They went right into the other bedroom in the suite, the one that had been locked since I had been there.

I shut the door to my bedroom, so that I could call Kathleen and talk to her in private. I called her because I was concerned that she didn't know where I was. It's rare that I don't get in touch with her every few days or so. I told her jokingly where I was. I said all the doctors in the city were being investigated as possible suspects for the series of murders.

Her reaction was not what I expected. She said very little and seemed quite calm, almost resigned. She told me she was going to call Michael before he left home. I gathered at the time she wanted to be sure he would take care of me from a legal standpoint. I told her not to worry, I expected all the excitement would be over shortly and I'd be by to see her that afternoon.

When I finished talking to Kathleen, I could hear them all talking behind the closed door of the other bedroom which was just across the hall from mine. My curiosity was getting the better of me. Being a nosy sonofabitch, I pushed the door open and walked in.

When I looked into the room, I almost jumped out of my skin. There were four men in the bedroom. All of them standing around a strange-looking chair with a lot of wires and other apparatus connected to it. The most ghastly notion ran through my mind. This chair and all of its wires and cables was an electric chair. They had decided I was guilty and they were going to execute me right there, secretly, without any trial.

What the hell is that? I asked.

Cowles answered that it was a polygraph machine, a lie detector. Then he introduced the two men in the lab coats as Dr. Keeler and his assistant, both from Chicago. I shook hands with them, a little apprehensively.

It was a crazy idea, the electric chair. But this polygraph machine was almost as unnerving. I had read about it. As I recalled, there were serious doubts about its accuracy. For that reason, it wasn't used much.

I asked Dr. Bell if he was thinking of using that contraption on me?

Dr. Bell looked a little embarrassed. Oh, you'll find it fascinating, he said, recovering his smoothness. He had Dr. Keeler explain to me how the machine worked. It sounded like bullshit to me. I had no confidence some machine would be able to tell if I was lying.

A few minutes later, in walked Eliot Ness, looking dapper and refreshed. He inquired politely if I had slept well and if I'd had a good breakfast. I told him I had. Shall we begin then? he asked. I see you have already inspected our little toy from Chicago, he said with a broad grin.

I smiled back at him. Eliot, I said pleasantly, we're not quite ready to begin anything yet. My cousin Michael had expressed a strong interest in being part of our dialogue and I promised we'd all wait for him.

Ness was ready for that one. Excellent, he said. I'll order some coffee and rolls. Michael drinks tea and not coffee, as I recall. I was impressed that Ness would remember such small personal details about a man he didn't even like.

Michael got there about twenty minutes later. I had prepared myself for quite a display of oratorical histrionics, for which Michael is so well known, but he surprised me. He was very calm and controlled, almost like the senior partner in a very fancy law firm. He told Ness that he wanted to talk with him privately. Ness suggested the living room.

I watched Michael's expression as he looked at the expensive surroundings. This was the enemy's territory, the luxurious atmosphere to which Eliot Ness had become accustomed. It was an unfamiliar battleground for Michael. His territory was the church hall, the veterans' lodge, the loading dock, the tavern. Still, this was not a battle Michael initiated. The field was not one for him to choose. This was a surprise attack, aimed at his family and reputation.

Michael sat in the armchair opposite the couch where I sat. Ness poured some tea for him and some coffee for me and himself. Michael started the conversation very cordially. What is it, Eliot, he asked him gently, that brings all of us here today?

Michael, Ness responded carefully, I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but we have reason to believe your cousin could be the man responsible for the Kingsbury Run murders. Michael's face turned bright red, but his voice didn't reflect any of the anger I knew was boiling up in him. Reason? Michael repeated. Would you be kind enough, Eliot, to share with me your reason for believing something so preposterous?

This would be the first time I heard all of the evidence they had collected against me. I was pretty nervous about whatever I was going to hear next.

Ness lighted a cigarette and began. Let's start, he said, with the obvious fit between Frank and the profile we have constructed of the killer. Medical training. Large and powerful build. Addiction to alcohol and drugs, which in Frank's case is barbiturates. Lonely life style. An office in the Kingsbury Run area which has the facilities to dismember a body. An automobile to transport the body to various parts of the city. At least occasional fits of temper. Frequent dealings with the lowest levels of society from which the victims were chosen.

Ness paused for a minute to let Michael reflect on what he had just said. Michael did so without any emotion registering on his face. Go on, please, Eliot, he said. There must be more.

Ness took a photograph out of his coat pocket and handed it to Michael. Michael looked at it and gave it to me. It was a picture of me standing with Driscoll, taken, as I recall, at the hospital anniversary dinner six or seven years ago. It was quite a good likeness of me. I handed back the photograph to Ness.

Ness continued to hold the photo in his hand as he spoke. We showed this picture, he said, along with the pictures of several other men, to people who were with the victims just before they disappeared. One of the people was at the bar where Flo Polillo was last seen in January of 1936. He saw and talked to the man Flo was sitting with the last time she was seen alive. The man, Ness said to my cousin, picked Frank as the one he saw in the bar that night.

A man who said he remembered from two and a half years ago? January of 1936? Michael asked incredulously. Quite a good memory, I should think. You mentioned several people. Who were the others?

Ness said the other people were a friend of Edward Andrassy and a bartender who were in the bar where he was last seen alive. Both of them recalled a man who looked like Frank talking to Andrassy in the bar that night.

Michael thought about it for a minute and asked a few questions. Eliot, he said smoothly, you say these two men looked at Frank's picture also. Did each separately pick Frank out among pictures of a number of men? Ness looked a little embarrassed. He said they had a new detective working on it that night, who didn't realize he was supposed to show pictures of more than just Frank.

Michael suppressed a smile, but I could see it teasing the corners of his mouth. Let me understand this a little better, Michael said evenly. Your detective took this picture to each man and asked if he had seen Frank that night? Ness mumbled something I could barely hear. Michael was closer to him though and rephrased what he thought he heard. Are you telling me, Eliot, that this ace detective of yours called both men down to the station, sat them in a room together and showed them the picture of Frank? Ness nodded sheepishly.

Michael was on a roll. Next, Eliot, you're going to tell me both of these men also remember back to January of 1936. Actually, it was September of 1935, Ness said quietly. Michael looked over at me and winked.

For a while there, it seemed as though Michael was almost enjoying himself, but the rest of the conversation wasn't nearly as sanguine. Ness informed Michael of the circumstances and coincidences of my trips to the veteran's hospital in Sandusky, including the mysterious leg that was discovered there. Michael listened closely and frowned slightly. I was desperate for a drink. It took all the strength I could muster to hide my uneasiness.

The most uncomfortable part of the conversation came last. Ness told Michael the department was still trying to locate my ex-girlfriend, Jenny Petersen, who vanished at the beginning of April. They were also investigating whether or not she may have been the female victim found in April. Michael looked at me quizzically. His frown deepened.

I felt I needed to throw a little cold water on all of their circumstantial evidence and to demonstrate some degree of innocence. I directed my comment to Ness. Eliot, I said, if you think I may be the Kingsbury Run killer, how do you explain those last two bodies you found on the dump a few days ago? The coroner said they'd only been there a couple of weeks. You know, as well as I do, your men have been tailing me night and day since June. And, during that period, your men, including Cowles and Dr. Bell, have looked through my office fairly closely. Where would I have been able to store the bodies of two people who had been dead so many months? And when would I have had the opportunity to put those remains on the dump without your men seeing me? I watched Michael's face. It was a mixture of surprise and relief. He was probably shocked I never told him the police had come to my office several times or that they were following me.

Newspaper stories to the contrary, he said, there are some doubts now as to whether those last two bodies were part of the Kingsbury Run series. In fact, he added, the department was investigating the owner of an embalming college to see if he or any of his students may have been perpetrating some kind of prank.

How convenient of you, said Michael. My cousin has an airtight alibi for two of the killings and suddenly you decide they're not part of the series. Come now, Eliot, you'll have to do better than that.

Michael, Ness interjected, wanting to get control over the conversation, you asked me why we were all here this morning. We're here to question Frank. This morning, I have arranged for Frank to take a polygraph test. I had an old associate of mine, Dr. Keeler, come all the way from Chicago to test Frank. His equipment and his expertise are unmatched in this country.

Ness looked at his watch. I could tell he was tired of sparring with Michael. He was impatient. Michael, he said, we can clear up a lot of this ambiguity with the polygraph. Let's get it over with.

Michael wasn't one to be hustled by anyone, particularly Eliot Ness. He told Ness he didn't think it was necessary for his cousin to take the test at all. Michael didn't see any particular advantage in having me go through all that just to help the police department screen its suspects.

The kid gloves came off very quickly. Every hint of cordiality disappeared from Ness's voice. He told Michael he'd gone to a great deal of trouble and departmental expense to conduct their interrogation in complete privacy. He said he extended this courtesy because he was sensitive to the reputation of Michael, myself, and our family. If I cooperated and was vindicated by the polygraph test, there would never be any record I was ever questioned about the murders.

On the other hand, if I refused to take the polygraph test, I would be taken down to Central Police Station and treated like any other murder suspect. An unpleasant smile appeared on his face. Ness said he couldn't promise the newspapers wouldn't make a meal of it. I could see the pain on Michael's face when he thought about what a carnival the press would turn that news into. I'll have a few words alone with my cousin, he told Ness. The two of us went into my bedroom.

How do you feel about this polygraph? he asked me. I shrugged and said I wasn't sure. Don't worry about it, he assured me, there's no way they can use it in court as evidence.

So you think I should take it? I asked Michael.

Frank, he said solemnly, if you don't take it, all of us lose in a big way. Think about it for a minute. You know Ness will have the reporters crawling up his ass for the details. Your picture will be on the front page. Everybody will think you're the killer, no matter what happens if it ever goes to trial. Think of how Kathleen and Maureen will feel. Think of what your children will feel when they hear of it someday. My career will be hurt badly, too, he said, but don't think about me. I'll survive, he said stoically.

The worst of it is that you will be a pawn in a political battle between City Hall and myself. They are trying to get at me through you, he said. But it's your career as a doctor that will be shot. Nobody will go to a doctor who's been accused of a horrible string of murders.

My advice to you, Frank, is to take the goddamned test and get them off your back. There's not much they can do to you then. It'll prove they're on the wrong track and it'll save all of us from a lot of misery.

You're sure they can't use the test in court, I asked him again. He said there was no doubt in his mind. What if the machine's all screwed up or they tamper with it and it looks like I'm guilty? I asked. It wouldn't make any difference, Michael said, they still can't use it as evidence.

I thought about it for a few minutes. If I refused the test, I would be treated like a criminal. That didn't bother me so much, but dragging poor Kathleen and Michael and the rest of the family through that kind of ordeal was more than I could bear. There was always the possibility I would be able to completely fool the machine. I felt confident there wasn't any goddamned machine smarter than I was.

I tried to think through what might happen if they found out from the test I was guilty. The worst that could happen, since they couldn't use the test in court, was that they would search until they were able to come up with some bit of evidence which would stand up in court. Jenny was my weakest link on that score. But then, Eliot Ness was likely to do that anyway, regardless of the polygraph test. Or was he? Ness had something to lose too. His wife and his reputation for starts.

Finally, I told Michael I was ready to take the test. He was very relieved, I could tell. I don't think it ever occurred to Michael I was guilty. He saw this whole thing as something trumped up by Ness and Burton to blackmail him politically before next year's election.

We went back into the living room where Ness and Cowles were sitting. I told them of our decision. Michael's and my caveat was that before I did anything, we wanted their solemn word of honor that nothing that happened or was said in the hotel suite would ever be documented in any record or file or ever be discussed with anyone inside or outside the police department. They agreed, but very reluctantly.

Dr. Bell was in the other bedroom, briefing Dr. Keeler and his assistant on the questions to be asked. When I went in for the test, Dr. Bell left the room and went into the living room with the rest of them. Dr. Keeler insisted that nobody but his assistant be in the room with him while they gave me the polygraph test.

The damned polygraph test went very quickly. Keeler fired a barrage of questions at me, one after another. Only yes or no answers were allowed. Things like is my name Frank Sullivan? Am I a physician? Did I know Flo Polillo? Did I kill Flo Polillo? The whole thing didn't take longer than thirty minutes, maybe even twenty. When it was over, Keeler took the results to Ness and Cowles. He didn't say anything to me except that I should stay put. His assistant got an ashtray and a cup of coffee for me.

Some ten minutes later, Keeler was back. We need to do it again, he said. Why? I asked him. Keeler said they weren't sure on a few things and needed to clarify the results they had. My interpretation was that I had bamboozled the damn thing and they were hoping if I took it over, they could catch me in something. I smiled, knowing I had beaten the machine. I remember thinking if I beat it once, I could beat it again. This time, he changed some of the questions. There were a number of questions about Jenny that Ness must have added. Did I know where Jenny was? Did I kill her? Did I put her body in the Cuyahoga River?

When it was over, Keeler again took the paper with the results and went into the living room. I sat in the bedroom there for almost a half an hour wondering what the hell was going on. Finally, Keeler came in and told me they were finished. His assistant unhooked me from the machine. How'd I do, I asked them both. It depends on your point of view, Keeler said with a poker face. He told me he wasn't able to discuss the results with me.

When I walked into the living room, all the conversation stopped. I seemed to be the catalyst for them to scatter. Everybody was very serious. Michael asked me to go into the bedroom, close the door and wait for him. I did as he requested. I sat on the bed chain smoking and dying for one small shot of whiskey. Even bad whiskey. Rot gut whiskey. Anything that would dull the frayed endings of my nerves.

Fifteen minutes later Michael was back and Kathleen was with him. I had no idea she had been sitting all that time in the hotel coffee shop. Michael had brought her with him when he had come to the hotel that morning. I hugged her and thanked her for coming. My dear Kathleen, on whom I can always rely.

We'd better all sit down and figure out what we do next, Michael said gravely. We have a very serious problem to deal with, Frank. You failed the lie detector test both times in a rather spectacular way.

Apparently, Dr. Keeler said he'd rarely seen a situation where the person was so clearly lying as I had been. Michael said Dr. Bell had only compounded the problem by stating that, from the psychiatric profile he had drawn of me, he thought I was very capable of committing the murders.

For the first time since they brought me there, I was really getting scared. I felt like I was walking deeper and deeper into a trap. Worst of all, I was helping them trap me. Submitting to that goddamned test. Thinking I could fool the machine. Then letting myself take it again with all those questions about Jenny. The result of it is that now I've really drawn Ness into it personally. Now he knew I killed her.

Michael sat in the armchair talking about lawyers and juries. I didn't really listen closely and I don't think Kathleen did either. Michael was under tremendous pressure, not always making sense as he jumped from one thought to another.

Kathleen sat next to me on the bed and put her arms around me. She lay her head on my chest and whispered to me that she would always love me no matter what happened. What a sad and serious expression she had on her face. She looked up into my eyes and asked, Frank, don't you think you'd better tell Michael everything? She didn't want Michael to go on assuming I was innocent.

I looked down into those sad eyes of hers and felt a strange mixture of pain and relief. Relief, because I didn't have to hide it from her anymore. Pain, because I caused her so much sorrow. If there was only some way I could have turned back the clock and lived the past few years of my life over, I would have made Kathleen proud of me.

Poor Michael. Sitting there talking with no one listening. He had himself and his family to think about. He had to think of how to control the damage I had created. It would be awful when the press got a hold of it. Michael, I said to him, I don't deserve any more of your help. Think only of yourself and your family and distance yourself from me.

There was a knock on the bedroom door. It was Ness. He wanted to speak to me alone. We went into the other bedroom where he shut the door behind us. Sit down, he ordered. I sat in the armchair, while he sat on the bed and lighted a cigarette.

For a minute or longer, he just glared at me. I could feel his hatred penetrating me. Then he spoke in a low voice, so soft I could hardly hear him. His teeth were clenched. Sullivan, he said, I don't know how I'll get you, without destroying myself and everyone around you, but I will get you. You'll pay for this. He just sat there and smoked, not saying another word.

I thought back to last year and the year before. How desperate I was to have him involved with the case. How anxious my big ego was to have him personally acknowledge me through what I'd done. Now that I had so completely achieved that insane goal, I realized it meant the end of me. There was nothing left for me now.

There were only three choices I could see for myself. Suicide was one of them, certainly. I suppose it would have been the honorable thing to do, but it would have brought even greater pain to the only person in the world who loves me.

There was always the option of trying to fight this battle and keep my freedom as long as I could. But because I know I cannot stop myself from killing again, eventually they would get me and execute me. And with me, I'd drag Michael and Kathleen and everyone else in my family down in the mud. That was even worse than suicide.

I wasn't sure if the last choice was really open to me. It required agreement from Ness. Look, Eliot, I said to him, I have something to suggest to you. He looked up at me and listened. If I were to commit myself to an institution and never come out again, would that satisfy you? He was quiet for a minute or two. Then he said he'd have to think about it.

While he sat there, I told him why he should agree to my proposal. Even if it didn't give the public a clean solution to the case, at least it brought the killings to an end. It avoided the ugly political battle in which he and Michael would both be damaged in the press. And it kept under wraps the fact that we both had a common interest in that same pretty girl.

He got up from the bed and said he wanted to talk over my idea with Cowles. He was gone for quite some time. I lighted cigarette after cigarette, while I continued to review my bleak alternatives. When he came back, he had a very solemn expression on his face. Okay, he said. I'll go along with it in principle. You and Cowles work out the details this afternoon and I'll make a final decision later today when Cowles talks to me.

I was delighted that he agreed. Everyone wins this way, I said to him. He shook his head. No, he said with disgust, nobody wins. Fewer people lose. He turned his back on me and left the room. Left me to plan with Cowles my life of confinement.

I went back to Kathleen and Michael and told them of the decision. Kathleen was so happy. She crossed herself and thanked the Virgin Mary for her mercy.

Michael looked confused. I can't say that I really blame the poor man. I had really dumped a ton of shit on him. I asked him if he would act as my lawyer and work out the details that afternoon with Cowles. He said yes. I could tell he was relieved that Ness and I had agreed on the solution we had.

Now that all the drama has died down, I am left with the rest of my life. I have packed up some of my personal things I will not need at the hospital, including this last volume of my journal.. Kathleen can put my things in the trunks I have in her attic. Tomorrow she and Billy are going to drive me out to Sandusky, my new home. I've given Kathleen my car as a present, with the hopes that she will learn to drive it. Maybe then I will see her more than a few times a year.