Bennie grinned. “Can’t say the same for you, Bacon.”

Francis grimaced wryly, and the two shook hands. He’d known Bennie Hecht since the kid was a picture chaser for the Daily Journal, sneaking onto crime scenes to nab photographs of the victims or their families. Francis had chased him off a few times himself, and once saved him from a beating from another cop, when Bennie tried to make off with the wedding photo of a guy who’d committed suicide upon discovering his wife was actually a man named Waldo Timmins.

Bennie returned the favor. He covered the Black Hand story for the Daily Journal, sharing the names of a few informants with Francis before everything had gone south with Francis’s investigation. Francis hadn’t seen him since.

“It’s been a while,” he admitted. Bennie still looked like a kid, with his floppy dark hair and scruffy mustache. He couldn’t be more than twenty or twenty-one. “You still at the Journal?”

“Nope. Daily News now. This story’s kept me busy since last night. Did it happen on your watch?”

Francis eyed him measuringly, then nodded.

“How’s Baumgarten dealing with it?”

“As you might expect. He’s not.”

Bennie glanced around. “Hear anything new?”

Francis made a noncommittal sound. He stepped closer to Bennie, lowering his voice. “You got the girl’s name, right?”

Bennie glanced at his notebook. “Maria Walewski. Polish girl from St. Hedwig’s parish, the funeral’s Wednesday. She was an only child, her mother saw an ad in the paper saying Essanay was looking for child actors. Only the second time the kid had been at the studio. Not sure if there’s any connection to the movies, but I’m gonna play it up—Chaplin was at the studio yesterday, did you know that? Everyone knows he’s a creep with young girls. You didn’t happen to see him around the park yesterday, did you?”

“Not me. But this is a bum rap—you know that, right? Hauling in Clyde Smithson for this?”

“He’s the colored magician?” Francis nodded. “You know him?”

“Seen his act a few times. Few years back he did a stunt when he buried himself underground in a coffin and got dug up three days later.”

“That could come in handy. You don’t think he did it?”

“I’m sure he didn’t. He was working that ride—between visitors and employees, thirty, forty people must’ve seen him around the time that girl got killed. But no one can identify him because he was wearing a rubber mask.”

“So how come you’re so sure?”