Uncle Will squared his hat and marched toward Sixth Avenue. T.S. sidled up to Evie and tipped his hat. “That must’ve been some awful scene in there. You poor thing, you’re trembling. Let me help you. Excuse me, excuse me, folks, coming through.”
T. S. Woodhouse led Evie to a spot behind a police wagon. He opened his jacket to reveal a flask. “You, ah, need a little liquid courage?”
Evie took a swig, and then chased it with a second. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. What you can mention is what the scene was like in there.”
Evie filled him in on some of the details, purposely leaving out others.
“You ever need a favor, you just let T.S. know.”
“I’ll remember that, Mr. Woodhouse.”
Evie took one last drink from his flask, then adjusted her scarf. “How do I look?”
T. S. Woodhouse grinned. “Swell, Sheba.”
“Have your shutterbug get me from my left side. It’s my good one. Oh, and we should make this seem unfriendly. You understand.”
T. S. Woodhouse gave a thin-lipped smile. “Purely business.”
“There’s no worse class of human on earth than cold-blooded murderers. Except for reporters,” Evie said loudly as she walked past the human chain of policemen keeping the reporters back. She turned just slightly, holding the pose long enough for the photographer from the Daily News to snap her picture. Then, tossing her scarf over one shoulder, she ran toward Will and the waiting car on the corner.
The headache had started. Evie leaned back against the seat and watched Sixth Avenue fly by from the police car’s windows. Down a side street, several boys played stickball, blissfully unaware. She hoped they’d stay that way for a long time. In the front seat, Officer Malloy scribbled in his notebook. The scratching made her head hurt all the more. She closed her eyes. She wasn’t aware she was whistling the song she’d heard in the Temple until Malloy said, “I haven’t heard that one in a long time.”
Evie sat forward. “Do you know that song? What is it?”
“Naughty John, Naughty John, does his work with his apron on,” Malloy sang. “Cuts your throat and takes your bones, sells ’em off for a coupla stones. They used to sing it on my block to scare us little ones into behaving. They’d say Naughty John would come and get you if you didn’t behave.”
“Who?”
“Naughty John. John Hobbes. A grave robber, con man, and killer. He kept people’s bones in his house, an old mansion uptown.”
“Do you think he could be behind these killings?”
Malloy’s smile was patronizing. “Not likely, Miss O’Neill.”
“Why not?”
Malloy stopped writing and looked her in the eyes. “Because John Hobbes is dead, and has been for nearly half a century.”
NAUGHTY JOHN
Evie followed Will into the museum, talking quickly despite the pounding in her head. “I heard that song with Ruta Badowski’s buckle, and again today with Eugene Meriwether’s ring.”
“Didn’t I specifically ask you not to do that very thing—”
“What if there’s some sort of connection we’ve missed? What if our killer has patterned himself after this Naughty John person?”
“You’re basing your assumption upon a song—”
“A song known to be associated with a murderer!”
“That’s rather a questionable hunch to go on….”
Jericho and Sam watched the scene unfold like a tennis match gone awry.
“What is this about?” Jericho said at the same time that Sam asked Evie, “Why would you touch a dead man’s ring?”