"The Manhattan Mauler Strikes Again! Man Found on the Train Tracks Was Missing His Hands!"
On a typical day, the voices of newsboys could drown out almost anything, but for the last few months, they'd taken on an almost frenzied tone. Business was up, dramatically so, because everyone needed to be kept as up to date as possible. There was a serial murderer on the loose, after all. Five bodies, and the police had no leads. The only thing they had to go on was that the men who were killed frequently visited a number of different brothels in the area of Lower Manhattan, and that they were all family men, upstanding, and if not wealthy, at least well off enough. Those in the upper and middle classes were in a frenzy to ensure the police catch the madman, even pressuring the chief to offer a reward for information leading to his capture. But in spite of all of that, no one was coming forward with information. As far as the police knew, the Mauler was a ghost.
The newspapers, of course, were full of theories. The World went with the more plain ones, that the murderer was a butcher, given the level of physical violence, and was highly intelligent. The Sun, however, was running with a different angle, and it was one that was making Jack Kelly wish he was selling for them instead. They seemed to feel the killer was a woman, a prostitute to be exact, who was killing her johns in a rage. No one else was buying it, but the more Jack thought about it, the more he thought that was likely. Why would a butcher kill johns, after all?
Whatever the angle, whatever the headlines, it was only ten am, and Jack was already sold out of the hundred fifty copies of the morning edition he'd bought, cheerfully considering what the afternoon edition would bring as he strolled back towards the distribution center, intending to stop by one of the local sausage carts on his way. These days, having enough left over to buy lunch was commonplace for him. And not just for him, for the others as well. While the rich and the brothel owners were running around like headless chickens, the newsboys and newspaper men of the city were in their glory. Serial murders were better than political assissinations, earthquakes and wars. They lasted longer, first the murders, then the capture, and then the trial and execution. That is, if they caught the guy. They had never caught the Ripper, even though the killings had stopped, and that was fodder for years worth of headlines.
"Hey, Kelly, wait up!" Racetrack's voice, from behind him, made Jack turn, grinning as the shorter boy huffed and puffed to catch up, a bit red in the face. Since the murders started, and the headlines started picking up, Race had been smoking his favorite cigars almost constantly, and it was starting to take a toll on his lungs, from the look of it.
"Out of breath there, Higgins?" Jack laughed as Race leaned against a nearby wall, snagging his hat off of his head to fan himself with, scowling slightly up at the taller boy.
"Nah, I..." He paused to catch his breath, waving in the direction he'd come from. "I was three blocks away, saw your stupid hat and was running to catch up." Grinning, he straightened, his hat getting plunked right back down onto his greased back hair, fishing a cigar and a match out of his pocket, pausing to light it before adding, "So how'd you do today?"
"The Mauler strikes again?" Jack tipped his hat back a bit, grinning broadly, feeling a bit cocky. "Sold out, of course. You?"
"Sold out, of course." Race laughed, and started walking again, shoving his hands into his pockets to pull out the handfuls of change that were weighing him down. "Thank god for this guy. He's keeping me going. 'Cause the races damn sure ain't."
Jack patted him sympathetically on the shoulder as they walked, his grin getting a bit crooked. "Nobody told the horse it was supposed to win?" Race was legendary for picking losing horses at the racetracks over in Sheepshead. Only rarely did he manage to pick the right horse, and even then, the money was long gone a few days later. Race didn't understand the concept of saving.
"Nope. But I still made out alright. Enough for one of those sausage sandwiches from Gutenberg's cart, anyway." Race whistled as they walked, hands in his pocket, the cool fall sun on his face. For him, the world was good. Money in his pockets, headlines he didn't have to fix, and he was rolling in cigars.
"That was my plan, too." They fell into a companionable silence for a few blocks, Race huffing a bit at the pace Jack was keeping, trying to smoke at the same time, and generally failing. To keep from teasing him, Jack cleared his throat, tilting his head a bit. "Hey, do you think the Sun is right?"
"That the Mauler's a woman? God, no. What kind of woman could do that to nearly half a dozen men and not get caught?" Race dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand, laughing a little. For him, as for most of the newsies, it ws clear the killer was a man, a big, violent man, probably drunk, and for each of them, vaguely resembling an uncle or father who was much the same.
"I dunno, Race. I know some women who could do it. Especially if you get 'em angry. I mean, I'm not saying it's Imp, but have you seen that girl angry? She could kill people, easy." The local newsgirls were something of a mystery to most of the boys, they kept to themselves, like a lot of the young ladies in the area did. Newsboys weren't exactly a secure future husband, something the girls really did have to think about. But Imp was one of a few that were a bit different, like his own girl, Sarah, who didn't seem to worry too much about his line of work. With Sarah, it was because she believed he'd do something with his life, but with girls like Imp, it was because they didn't think about their futures in the same way, they didn't worry about things like that. She wasn't the only one, she was just the loudest, the first that came to mind. Although, the longer he thought about it, the more girls he could think of who might fit the profile of a murderer.
"Imp? No, you're right. She could kill someone. Especially if they thought she was robbing them blind, and got violent with her. You think it's Imp?"
Jack smacked the back of Race's head with a sigh. The boy had no sense. "I said I didn't think it was her. She's too damn messy. They'd catch her. I'm just saying, someone like her."
"Oh, well." Race shrugged, rubbing the back of his head with a glare and a sigh. "Whoever it is, I sure hope they don't catch 'em for quite awhile. These headlines are too good to end."
"Yeah, Race. It's all about the headlines." Except, of course, it was. At least, it was for them.