“Eliot’s here. He’s got something he needs you to look at,” he said, but he couldn’t resist dipping his head and stealing a quick kiss. Eliot could wait for a few more seconds.
She rose up on her toes and kissed him back, and his arms snaked around her waist. It was instant combustion, and he set her back from him ten seconds later dazed and done for. He swiped at his mouth with his palm, checking for lipstick, and strode out of the shop before he lost his wits altogether.
“I need you to do that every time you see me,” she said, slipping her hand into his. “From now on.”
“All right,” he said. Yes, Dani. All right, Dani. Anything you want, Dani.
“And will we do other things too?” she whispered as he tugged her down the hall and out the back door.
“I really can’t imagine myself telling you no,” he muttered.
He led Dani into the stable, where Eliot was waiting, his hands in his pockets, his eyes hopeful. He’d turned the suitcoat inside out and tossed it over an old dress form so Dani didn’t have to hold it.
“Eliot,” Dani greeted.
“Dani.”
“What have we here?” she asked, pointing at the rickety dress form.
“I need you to tell me what you see on that suitcoat, Dani. And it might not be pleasant” was all he said, and she accepted his request with a nod.
She didn’t ask him whose it was or where he’d gotten it. She didn’t even comment on the stench, though her nose wrinkled in distaste and she pursed her pretty lips when she moved in closer. Malone followed.
“I’m going to stand right behind you. But go slow, okay? Go easy,” Malone instructed, terse.
She flattened her palms, her fingers flared, and ran them up the front of the coat from the hem to the shoulders.
“It belongs to a man named Francis Sweeney,” she said immediately.
Considering he hadn’t said a word to her about Francis Sweeney or Eliot’s suspicions, that the name had never once come up between them, her declaration was its own witness. Eliot’s exhale was audible, and Malone’s gut twisted.
“Yes. It does,” Malone said. “But who is Francis Sweeney?”
Dani allowed her palms to rest on the cloth, but her fingers flexed and curled, like she was strumming a harp. “He doesn’t know,” she said. “Sometimes he can’t remember. He prefers Frank. Most people call him Frank. Dr. Frank.”
She dropped her hands and stepped back, coming flush against him.
“No more?” he asked.
“I just need . . . a minute,” she whispered.
“Is it the same Dr. Frank, Dani?” Eliot asked. He didn’t have to explain to her what he meant.
She curled her fingers into the garment again. A second later she nodded. “It’s him. He was there in Flo’s coat and Andrassy’s socks. In the curtains too. The same cold. The same . . . void.”
“Do you know the name Francis Sweeney, Dani?” Malone asked. “Have you ever met him before?”
“I’m not sure. The name sounds familiar. Mrs. Sweeney mentioned a Francis at the coat check. Is he related to her?”
“Yeah. He is,” Eliot answered, grim. “And I don’t think I have to tell you how sensitive that makes all of this.”
She nodded, but Malone wasn’t sure she really understood. Her focus was on the garment.
“What else?” Malone asked, wanting to be done. Wanting Dani away from the whole mess.
“He’s cold. That’s why he drinks. It makes him warm. And when he’s not drinking, the voices drive him mad.”
She gripped the coat like she’d clutched the drapes.
“He is Frank and Francis and Sweeney and Doc. He is Robert and Raymond and Eddie and Ed. Carlos and Chuck and Douglas and David.” The names started tripping from her tongue.
Malone put his hands over hers.
“It’s okay, Michael,” she soothed, glancing up at him. Her eyes were unfocused, the colors dominated by her huge pupils. “I’m okay.”
He removed his hands but remained at her back, wishing he could shield her and realizing in the same instant that she was the one shielding him.
“He is Rose and Flo and Catherine and Dorothy too, though he doesn’t like that they are there. He cuts them into smaller pieces so they won’t come back.”
Goose bumps had begun to rise on her bare arms, the little golden hairs standing at attention. She radiated cold.
“He doesn’t know who he is,” she said. It was the same thing she’d said before. Multiple times.
“What does that mean?” Eliot asked.
“I’m nobody. Are you nobody too?” she quoted.
“Emily Dickinson?” Malone frowned.
“Yes.” She nodded, her hair tickling his chin. “He likes that one. It makes him chuckle.”
“Is he killing them, Dani? Is he the Butcher, or is Francis Sweeney just a sad, sick drunk?” Eliot asked, needing it as plain and unambiguous as she could make it.
“Francis Sweeney is a sad, sick drunk,” she said. “And he is most assuredly killing them.”
24
Francis Sweeney was sprawled across the bed, legs and arms wide, mouth open, wearing a pair of trousers and a white dress shirt and natty striped socks. The dress shirt was ringed with sweat and partially untucked, and sometime in the last two days, he’d soiled himself, leaving his trousers stained and the room reeking.
“We tried to wake him up this morning, but he wasn’t having it. Dr. Grossman thinks it better to let him come around on his own,” Eliot had explained when he’d led Malone into the suite, “but if he doesn’t start coming around soon, we’re going to have to get creative.”
Dr. Royal Grossman was a psychiatrist Eliot seemed to trust, a man who had worked with the Cuyahoga County Probation Department and had attended the Torso Clinic the first coroner, A. J. Pearce, had organized. Malone recognized his name and had read through his assessments in the files.