Baccano! - Volume 16 - Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

The reporter doesn’t want an eventful life

New York Wall StreetA certain building  Third floor

“‘Ice Pick Thompson’? I can’t believe that ridiculous name caught on. Which paper ran it first?”

“DD.”

“The Daily Days, huh…? Dinky little outfit, but they know how to run a gossip story.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“Last week’s was number four, right? Will he pull even with Jack the Ripper soon?”

“I sure hope not.”

“What do the cops say?”

“No leads.”

In the office of a certain newspaper, around lunchtime, several men were taking a break and chatting about the incidents, surrounded by mountains of documents, photos, and manuscript paper.

That said, it wasn’t actually break time; other journalists were bustling around, grappling with telephones and the stacks of files as if they wouldn’t get lunch until they were done.

Essentially, this was a group of journalists who had an exceptional amount of downtime, but then—

—emerging from farther back in the office, their supervisor tore through that lazy atmosphere.

“You seem to have a lot of time on your hands, gentlemen. ’Specially if you’ve got time to talk about other people’s stories.” Despite his casual tone, there was a coldness in his words.

The reporters snapped their mouths shut. Then, after a moment’s pause, they tried to cover for themselves.

“W-well, boss, c’mon. What else do you expect us to do? Lester’s in charge of it, and he’s, y’know…”

“Get the lead out and do your own jobs before you start bellyachin’ about somebody else. If you can manage that, maybe I’ll get you a date with that lousy two-bit killer, too.” The chief editor was smiling. He was over fifty, but his build was solid, and he had a seasoned air about him.

However, that peculiar smile went no further than his lips, and the journalists and editorial staff members scrambled to get out of the room.

Sighing wearily, the chief editor looked back into the cluttered office, focusing on one young reporter. He walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“What’s the matter, Lester? Sure you don’t have some legwork to do?”

Lester flinched at the gravity in his boss’s voice.

He seemed to be in his midtwenties, and his hair was blond. He quietly got his breathing under control, then turned around and glared up at his supervisor.

“…Don’t threaten me, sir. My nerves are already shot after the past few days.”

“Well, I can appreciate that, but…I thought a cautious type like you’d be the best man for the job—”

“I am cautious. That’s why I can’t pin down the truth of this case.” Sighing, the journalist writing about the Ice Pick Thompson affair shook his head.

“An incident like this… Whoever’s responsible musta gone around the bend thanks to the Depression. We know the weapon’s probably an ice pick or something, and that he’s not after money, since he doesn’t take their wallets…and that’s it. That’s all we know! What legwork is there to do?”

“All kinds. Talk to the victims’ families, say, or see if there are any links between all the victims.”

“I did check into that a little. But if that’s all I’ve got, you won’t even turn it into an article, will you?”

“You know that’s not my fault. America’s picking up all those gold medals, and we can’t just write gloomy articles day after day. Then you’ve got the fellas from the gossip rags publishing their freshly shoveled bunk every day. That’s why the gang over at the Daily Days got to name the killer.”

Smiling quietly, Lester’s boss took the empty chair beside him.

“Frankly, with our reader demographic, we’ll sell more papers by writing about the results of the Olympics now. All you have to do is sum up any changes in the case after that, then turn them into a serial article. And if this loony gets his elbows checked before then, you’ll be able to go to the shoe store in peace.”

Lester knew that when his boss said shoe store, he meant speakeasy.

In this era, even the basements of shoe stores had hidden bars. At present, with the Depression reaching its peak, there was an endless stream of people who couldn’t get by on the revenue from their main lines of business and turned to brewing bootleg liquor.

There was one more thing Lester knew.

All the victims had been targeted and killed when they were alone in alleys, on their way to or coming back from a speakeasy.

This had been broadcast in the papers and on the radio as fact, but it hadn’t stopped most people from taking the risk anyway.

Lester didn’t want to discuss something like that with his boss, so he kept his mouth shut and continued listening.

“And you were the one who said you wanted to go after this killer. Remember? I didn’t think you’d volunteer for this kinda story, to be honest, so I was surprised. It’s not too late to switch with somebody else if you want to.”

“…I’m sorry. I’ll keep at it. Please don’t take me off the story. I was frustrated I hadn’t made any progress—that’s all. I won’t gripe about it again.”

“Nah, gripe all you want. The police haven’t had any leads, either, so there’s hardly anything to work with.” The chief editor folded his arms, gazed at Lester, and made him an offer. “Listen, Lester. I hate to ask you when you’re already shuttling between the cops and the alleys, but how would you feel about taking on one more article?”

“……”

“You aren’t happy about it, either, right? Carl’s always one step ahead of us on the latest gossip about this guy.”

“…Don’t talk about him, sir.”

Carl.

As soon as he heard the name, Lester’s face clouded over.

“He’s a loser who ditched us for a rinky-dink outfit like the Daily Days. Why would I give a damn what he does?”

“Well, he’s the one who came up with ‘Ice Pick Thompson,’ for one thing. Carl Dignis just might end up in the history books.”

“……”

“Besides, he didn’t hightail it outta here after a screwup. If I remember right, his daughter’s sick or something, and that’s why he switched jobs. I’m not clear on all the details myself, but I don’t see any good reason to call him a loser.”

The chief editor was really taking Carl’s side. Disgruntled, Lester began to protest, but the editor spoke over him. Gently but firmly.

“Look, Lester. I’m not saying this is about winning or losing, but setting that aside… You’re not planning to be the underdog here and stay that way, right? Isn’t that why you volunteered for this article about the killer?”

“……”

Lester fell silent. The chief editor didn’t try to push his opinions any further. He got up, very deliberately, and assigned Lester a new job.

“The theme is all the young fellas hanging around the alleys. You’ve seen ’em, right? There are more—I wouldn’t call ’em actual gangs, but bands of hooligans around lately. They live between the face of this city and its shadow, so what do they think of the Depression? What worries them? That crowd’s going to be shouldering society in a few years, and the economy’s going nowhere fast. What do they think about that? We’ve decided to put together an article about it. For starters, go see who you find here and interview them.”

The chief editor patted Lester on the shoulder, then took a memo out of his jacket.

There were several addresses scribbled on it, apparently places where these “young fellas” could be found.

“They can be a little rowdy, but kids are kids. Don’t overestimate ’em, but don’t underestimate ’em, either.

“At least they’ll be easier to talk to than the killer, right?”

Evening Somewhere in New York

Ha-ha. Jackass.

Lester was walking down a major street, sullen-faced.

Dammit, why did Carl’s name come up then?

Remembering the conversation he’d had with his boss a few hours earlier, Lester ground his teeth.

Carl was a journalist who’d been his coworker until a few years back. The other man had been with the paper five years longer than he had, and to Lester, he was a role model and an inspiration.

However, the longer he worked at the job, the more he sensed the clear difference between the two of them—a difference that experience couldn’t account for—and it gradually changed his feelings into aversion.

No matter what he did, he couldn’t catch up.

To prove himself wrong, Lester threw himself into his work—and was beaten hollow. Everything ended up backfiring on him.

Lester’s boss had once told him, For a reporter, you value your life too much. When bringing an article home, personal safety took priority over everything else, but Lester wouldn’t expose himself to the slightest danger, even if it was to get a scoop.

Of course, journalists weren’t a bunch of reckless daredevils. However, Lester did have a marked tendency to be overcautious not just as a reporter, but in his day-to-day life.

Risking their lives for an article, huh? I don’t know what goes on in their heads. Our job is to follow the incident. I can’t end up a victim myself and let somebody else have my story. What a disgrace that would be.

In this world, your self is all you’ve got.

If you had ten thousand lives, each of them would have a self, and they’d all be looking out for number one.

…No, maybe Carl wasn’t like that.

I hear he was so reckless so he could get the money for his sick daughter… But that doesn’t mean anything. He shared his life with a sick family member, that’s all. He’d jump right into the legwork, even the dangerous stuff, and make excuses that it was for his wife’s sake. Damn him.

Meanwhile, Lester would write the actual articles flawlessly, but he kept turning out piece after piece that stopped just short of getting to the truth of the incident. When he put it all together, he couldn’t take that one last step. At the paper, they called him a coward and laughed at him.

Carl had warned him about that, too. It had magnified his envy of the man, and even today, that resentment was still there.

Kids in the back alleys, huh…?

He foisted off another tough job on me.

The note the chief editor had given him was a list of several abandoned factories, speakeasies, deserted churches, and failed hotels.

In addition, there was a single name there, flagged with a note that said Caution.

Graham Specter.

…Never heard of him.

He might be notorious among the juvenile delinquents who loitered in the back alleys, but he was still just a thug looking for power. He probably wasn’t worth paying much attention to.

Argh, but kids are hard to deal with at the best of times.

Dammit… Is this any time to be chasing a story like this? It probably won’t even amount to anything. I have to go after that goddamned killer, or else…

I’m… I’m not a coward. I’m not.

And I’m gonna prove it by beating Carl to the scoop. I’ll show them all.

As Lester was walking along, thinking, a needle of cold ran through his arm.

“?”

He looked up, wondering if, just maybe… And then a cold drop of water struck his face. Then the drops grew more forceful—gradually, then violently.

By the time he realized the sky was too dark for the hour, it was already too late. In the blink of an eye, a sudden evening deluge had swept over the city, driving people off the street in moments.

A late rain shower, huh? Ice Pick Thompson might make an appearance.

The corpses were always discovered after an evening rainstorm. One of their distinguishing features was that the rain had washed all the blood away by the time they were found, leaving the wounds even more graphic.

If I’m out here on my own…I guess that makes me a potential victim, too.

That thought sent a shiver down his spine—but he kept going, sticking to the course he set for himself.

He didn’t have an umbrella, and as he jogged through dark alleys, the water soaked him through.

He believed there was nothing up ahead, but…

…a little while after he’d set off running, his expectations were abruptly betrayed.

When he turned into a narrow alley, he found himself entirely alone, and as he approached the next corner, he spotted a lone figure.

And then—the reporter who treasured his life met a killer.