Baccano! - Volume 16 - Chapter Pr1

PROLOGUE

1932 Summer

What sort of year was 1932 for the United States of America?

In a simple list of events, the two Olympics would probably be at the top. The Lake Placid Olympics had been held in February, and the Los Angeles Olympics began at the end of July.

Between the Winter and Summer Games, the U.S. took a total of 115 medals, and this sweeping advance—a “gold rush,” if you will—had the whole nation cheering on their gold, silver, and bronze winners.

In addition, the aviatrix Amelia Earhart had successfully completed the first solo transatlantic flight by a woman, and this and other social successes had brought great hope to the hearts of the public.

On the other hand…without those sources of hope, the rest of their situation would have been difficult to face.

The Great Depression, which had begun in 1929, had thoroughly tanked the American economy—and during 1932, it would reach new heights.

Over ten million people out of work. Banks closing like falling dominos. Silent factories.

In the midst of a recession that fueled fears of a shift to socialism, the attention of the people was gradually beginning to turn to the law most emblematic of the era: the Prohibition Act.

Under these circumstances, bootleg liquor was manufactured as a matter of course. Naturally, illegal goods weren’t taxed. However, if it were to begin circulating legally, with a typical liquor tax placed on it…

Many people had begun to consider the economic effects of that particular move. As a matter of fact, the Blaine Act, which would mark the repeal of Prohibition, was passed the following year, allowing some brewers to make and sell liquor.

And in between these great, shining triumphs and the enormous shadow cast by the Depression—a small incident played out beneath the notice of most.

It was an uncanny affair, and it would temporarily plunge the city of New York into a panic that had nothing to do with the Depression.

“Ice Pick Thompson.”

That was the name given to a certain individual.

As the word indicates, ice picks are normally driven into ice—but such a sharp tool could be employed for other purposes. Bartenders, who used ice picks as they were meant to be used, and the workers who manufactured those ice picks would most definitely not have approved. The same thing could be said about hatchets or saws, though.

There’s nothing wrong with having hatchets or chain saws at a logging site, and yet…if someone were to, say, prowl around a beach with one, people would consider it a cruel weapon, inspiring not only anxiety but outright terror.

In the places where it belonged—a bar, or the bedroom of someone wealthy—no one would have harbored any doubts about an ice pick. It was outside of those contexts where it became something to be feared.

And indeed, “Ice Pick Thompson” used one for an indefensible purpose that was a devastating insult to ice pick manufacturers and the law.

His ice pick was not a tool, but a murder weapon.

A certain night in August Somewhere in New York

It was raining.

The alleys were veiled by clouds of spray, and the drumming of the falling drops drowned out the sounds of the crowds filtering through the streets.

New York summers are hot, and New York winters are cold. But even in summer, the temperature falls enough after the sun goes down that it’s rarely sweltering at night. On a dark night like this one, the rain changed the coolness into an uncomfortable chill for anyone who was out and about.

In the darkness, the curtains of water made it hard to see, stirring unease in people who were walking alone and urging them to get home a little faster. Ordinarily, the normal way to shake this anxiety would have been to stick to the major streets—but for their own reasons, a few of them were running through the alleys.

The rain had come on suddenly, so many of them didn’t have umbrellas. As the thunder rumbled, they hurried as if they were fleeing from something.

From the shelter of a meager excuse for an awning by the back door of a closed shop, a lone figure watched the runners out of the corner of his eye. The man was probably around forty. His rain-wet hair was sprinkled with white, and he was glaring sullenly up at the sky.

The darkness was a bit heavier here, away from the streetlights, and between that and the rain, his vision was extremely limited.

Tsking in annoyance, the man looked up at the clouds, felt through his pockets with obvious irritation, then pulled out a worn book of matches.

He’d been planning to light the cigarette between his lips—but even after several tries, the matches refused to light.

Apparently, the rain he’d been subjected to before he reached shelter had gotten it damp.

“Tch…!”

After grinding the cigarette between his teeth in annoyance, he spat it out on the pavement.

The man crushed the unused cigarette under his foot—

—and when he looked up, he noticed someone out in the rain. Whoever it was, was standing a little ways ahead of him, seemingly watching him.

In the next moment, the person broke into a run straight toward him.

The man tried to shoo him away, seeing that he had no umbrella and was as wet as a drowned rat.

“Sorry, fella, but there’s only room for one under h—”

Before he’d finished speaking, he froze. Instead of stopping in front of him, the running figure had slammed right into him.

In the moment they collided, he briefly thought the other person’s body had gone right through his back.

What had provoked that illusion was the pain—a sharp, heavy pain that ran deep through his core.

“Uh…?”

He’d never experienced anything like this before.

As a result, his scream was delayed. For just a moment, his nerves hesitated. They didn’t know how to react, rejecting the reason for what he was experiencing.

When the man looked down at his stomach, he finally identified the source of the pain. His rational brain tried to scream, but he couldn’t even manage that.

After all, the silver spike had already been yanked out of the man’s stomach and sent speeding toward his neck.

The feeling of it piercing his throat was just a little bit unsettling, and with it came a terrible pain in inverse proportion.

As it tore through his throat, it instantly obliterated all surrounding sensation and delayed his realization of one other thing.

The blood flowing from the deep wound was traveling down his airway, into his lungs. It was over.

“……—”

No longer able to scream, the man crumpled to the ground as if the sky itself were coming down to attack him, and he began to struggle, kicking and flailing.

The sight was comical, as if he were drowning in the rain. To the assailant gazing down at him, though, he might have resembled a desperately squirming insect that had been pinned to a board.

Then, as if he intended to pin down all his victim’s limbs as well…

…the attacker dropped to one knee and brought the weapon—an ice pick, wet with blood and rain—down.

Over and over

and over and over and over

and over and over and over and over and over

and over and over and over

and over and over and over and over and over

and over and over

and over and over and over and over

and over and over and over and over

and over 

andoverandoverandover

andoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandskash skash skash skash skash skash skash skashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskash skashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashskashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgashgash gash gash gash gash gash

The noise of the unfeeling rain canceled out that slight, mechanical sound of destruction.

The sky didn’t even look at the atrocious situation on the ground. Indifferent, it just went on raining.

The blood, the smell of death, and even the killer’s malice were all washed away without prejudice.

Wsssh wsssh wsssh wsssh

Sst sst

All that was left in the weakening rain was the body of the dead man, riddled with holes from the ice pick. They joined together to form bigger wounds, until the majority of the corpse had been transformed into an appalling mass of mincemeat.

To someone unfamiliar with the true force behind a bullet, it looked as if he’d been tenaciously drilled with a light machine gun—and a gossip-loving news rag gave the enigmatic assailant a name based on the submachine guns that were popular with gangsters.

“Ice Pick Thompson.”

That was the commonly used name of the serial killer who appeared in New York that year and plunged its citizens into terror.