On the first of February, I woke and hitched the wagon to my horse to head back down to Durban. An arrowhead of geese in the bathwater sky. I came out of the mountains a thousand dollars poorer than when I entered them, without a single rock worth study, just as the sour English storekeeper had warned. A day’s ride back onto the veld and I came upon my first glimpse of humanity since parting with my Canadian guide: a ragged outfit of rebel Boer infantry in a camp of sagging tents.
I rode up headlong and declared myself a friend to their cause.
“Who’s in charge around here?” I asked, still stationed on my wagon seat.
A tattered chief stepped forward. Five other men staggered behind him. He wore a giant pith helmet and a bandolier slung crosswise over his chest and a large shot pouch on his hip, giving him the appearance of a man hunting big game rather than one at war. “I’m the commander here. You got a lot of nerve riding up on us like that.”
“Name’s Herbert Malcolm.” I doffed my hat. “And you?”
“I’m Fritz Bebout and this is my outfit.”
I surveyed the camp. “Outfit? There ain’t but six of you.”
“Lost a lot of good men in the last few weeks. This is what’s left of us.”
“Lobsterbacks been giving you what-fer, have they?”
“Lobsterbacks?”
“Red coats,” I clarified.
“You’re American?” Fritz asked.
“That’s right. You speak pretty good English for a Boer.”
“I speak four tongues. English, French, Afrikaans, Dutch.”
I stepped down from my wagon and rummaged through my saddlebag before finding my last bottle of stoppered whiskey. I took a slug and handed to it Fritz. “You men look like you could use a good drink. That’s choice whiskey bought in Durban. Go on. Pass it around.”
Fritz took a swallow and handed it to the men behind him. “What’s your business here?”
“Looking for a good fight, so I am,” I said and sparked a stinkweed. “You fellows are fighting for your home. I know what that’s like.”
“You were a solider?”
“No. But I’ve had just about everything that was ever worth anything taken away from me. Just like the Brits are trying to do to you.”
“If you weren’t a solider, then you know nothing about war.”
“I suppose maybe not, but I’ve been in a few gunfights in my time. One ain’t much different from the next.”
“They’re all different,” Fritz argued, his hand on the pommel of a short sword on his hip sheath. “Only an American would be so stupid to think otherwise.”
“Well, us Americans, we’ve kicked almighty hell out of old Mother England twice now, and that was with rocks and sticks we did that. So I figured I’d bounce on down here from them mountains to show face and help you kick the hell out of her again, if you’ll have me.”
Fritz and his squad of ragtags could barely believe their ears. They stood there stunned, staring at me. After a moment, Fritz said, “You just come riding in here on your sorrowful little wagon hoping to join the rebellion? That’s hard news to purchase.”
I opened my coat to show my pearl revolvers. “Not just my wagon, friend. I got me a fine brace of Betsies on my hip and a Winchester in my scabbard and I can hit just about anything in range of a hundred yards.”
“That so? Well, if you want to enlist, I suppose we could use every man we can get.”
The whiskey bottle made it back around the circle. I hobbled down another mighty swallow and slapped Fritz on the shoulder. “That’s more like it, Fritzy. I hereby swear devotion to your banners. Now, what’ve you boys got boiling in that pot over there? I’m famished.”
VII
THE FACTORY WHISTLES were honking and the streetcar bells chiming as the first day of witness testimony in the Cudahy kidnapping case was set to begin. A Monday morning glossy with February frost. The cottony winter light made the morning feel more like late afternoon. The courtroom filled to capacity. Up in the gallery, the newspaper boys stood in their somber felt hats, their tongues hanging out like bullfrogs.
Ritchie patted me on the back. He’d bought me a new suit with his own money, a handsome tailored cassimere with big lapels and blue threading.
Government counsel called Edward Cudahy Sr. to the stand at nine sharp. He bounded down the aisle, plump as I’d ever seen him. He stopped at the fourth row of seats to kiss his wife and hug his son, Eddie Junior, who was now twenty-one years old and a sturdy six feet tall with a premature receding hairline. I hardly recognized the young man. He’d married the year before while I was on the bum in Montana. The wedding was big society news. I got wind of the affair too late to make a surprise visit at the ceremony but did send along my own tardy congratulations via post:
No one could wish you greater happiness in the hands of your new kidnapper than I do. Here’s hoping you will cherish no ill will over our former escapade, and enjoy this one more.
Signed, Your Old Kidnapper
I hope the kid got a kick out of that. I truly do. My sour humor was cheap theatre of the fifth rank and most probably not as hysterical to him as it was to me. Don’t mistake me. The note was not composed out of malice. Nor was it pure jest. In hindsight I can see how it could have been misinterpreted as ridicule. Or, even worse, torment. Rather, I had hoped those few simple lines might lighten the heaviness of our stunted but sordid past. I’ve always said this and always will: Edward Junior was as fine a man as I’ve ever come across.
Among the other spectators in the courtroom were Tom Dennison and Billy Nesselhous, who stood in the back corner like men loitering under a streetlamp. There, too, was my sister Sallie, but no Hattie or Matilda. I looked for them everywhere and hoped I might get a glimpse of them only to have my hopes dashed.
The courtroom was overly humid. Six wooden ceiling fans scrolled at a fast clip but provided no ventilation. They only seemed to thicken the air as if whisking up a batter. The benches of the courtroom were as long as pig troughs, oiled to a reflective glaze, and could hold sixty spectators. The room filled with more than eighty persons. Members of the audience sat shoulder to shoulder, fanning themselves with pamphlets and cigar coupons. Judge Sutton commented on the uncomfortable conditions and asked that the court be cleared of any person who could not find a seat. Some twenty or thirty extra persons were standing at the rear of the room, and the overflow capacity was something he deemed to be adding to the mugginess.
As court came to order, Cudahy took his seat in the witness box and immediately asked for a glass of water. Government attorney Louie Black, dressed in a suit of houndstooth brown with a nauseously checkered tie and his hair slicked with rose oil, began his line of questioning.
“Good morning,” he said to Mr. Cudahy.
“Good morning.”
“Could you please state your name for the record?”
“Edward Cudahy.”
“Edward Cudahy Senior, father to Edward Cudahy Junior?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Cudahy, where were you on the night of December 18, 1900?”
Cudahy cleared his throat. His triple chins shook. “I was at a business dinner with some associates of mine until about ten o’clock when I returned home.”
“Where do you live?”
“Here in Omaha. On South Dewey Avenue.”
“3716 South Dewey, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when you came home on the night of December 18, 1900, did you notice anything strange about your residence?”
“Strange? I should say so. My son was missing.”
“Your son Edward Junior?”
“Yes, sir. My one and only.”
“How old was your son at the time?”
“Sixteen.”
“Sixteen years old, you say? Did he break cu
rfew? Forget track of time? Get caught out on lovers’ lane with one of the girls from his school?”
“No, sir. I didn’t say he was late. I said he was missing. He was kidnapped.”
The courtroom gasped communally even though everyone in the whole city and beyond knew the circumstances and details of the abduction. The newspapers had detailed every facet of my crime and reported every rumor for nearly six months. At various points, the horse I had rode up to the Cudahy mansion to deliver the ransom note had been seven different breeds and colors. Everyone in the city knew everything about the abduction, even the things that weren’t true. And still they gasped at the knowledge, much like people will laugh again at a joke they’ve heard before.
Black circled around, hands clasped behind his back. “Kidnapped? How do you know he was kidnapped?”
Cudahy then read the ransom letter that had been left on his front lawn the morning after his son went missing. People whispered and groaned at the threatening details. As Cudahy recited the letter, his eyes filled much like an actor auditioning for a role of heartbreak. He emoted and paused, clenched his hand on the arm of his chair. His voice nearly broke apart when he read: “‘If there is any attempt to capture us we will not try to get the money, but return your son to you after we have put acid in his eyes and blinded him. We will castrate him surgically with a pair of elastrator pliers so that he may never bear children. Being your only son, he will not be able to pass on your family name. The Cudahy line will end with him.’”
Attorney Black thanked him for his courage and gave him a moment to compose himself. Cudahy brushed his mustache with his kerchief a few times. The ransom letter was entered into evidence.
Black waddled about with a slipshod shuffle, coaxing his wild hair by rubbing a hand through its messiness, and asked, “Do you know who your son’s captors were?”
“I only know of one for certain,” Cudahy said, staring at me from the witness stand.
“And who was that? Is one of the kidnappers in this room today?”
“He is. He sits right there before me now.” Cudahy pointed at me. “Patrick Crowe.”
Ritchie was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay. There is no way Mr. Cudahy could possibly know the identity of any supposed kidnapper without direct proof or eyewitness account.”
“Your Honor,” Black said. “We are about to find out why Mr. Cudahy is so sure of the identity of one of the kidnappers if you’d only permit me to follow that path.”
“Overruled,” the judge said without hesitation. “Let us see what can be gathered still from this line of inquiry.”
Black licked his lips. “Thank you, Your Honor. Now, Mr. Cudahy, to ease the suspicious mind of defense counsel and the curiosity of our audience and the analytical reasoning of this jury, do tell us, how have you come to the conclusion that Patrick Crowe was one of the men who abducted your son, threatened his life, and stole away with a quarter of a thousand dollars of your money in the black of night?”
Cudahy slugged down some water from his glass. “There are several determining factors,” he said with a rehearsed polish. “I’ve known Pat Crowe for a number of years. He used to work for me in my South Omaha stockyards. It was there he learned the trade of butchering and was able to make for himself his own butcher shop some short time later. I’ve talked with him in person a number of times, and I know his voice, his manner, his whole person, really. It would be impossible to mistake him. He’s a character of whom it is hard for any man to forget.”
“Ah, but knowing a man in general or even specifically is one thing,” Black said. “How do you know it was him who stole your child?”
“Well,” Cudahy said. “Like I said, I’ve talked to him many times before. And the last time I heard his voice was the dawn of the day after my son went missing. A man called my home in the very early hours to alert me of the ransom letter left on my front lawn. I heard his voice then telling me about the letter and to follow its instructions and that voice was no different than the one of the man whom I had conversed with many times before.”
“Patrick Crowe called your house you say?”
“Yes, he did. About seven in the morning on December the nineteenth, not a few hours since my son went missing. He told me I would find a note attached to a stick in my yard and gave a brief description of that letter’s contents. I knew it was him the moment he spoke.”
“And how would you describe Mr. Crowe’s voice?”
“Well, he has an Irish brogue. A strong voice. Not deep, I would say, but strong. Unmistakable.”
“So, once again, to be as clear as we can in this chamber here today, is there any doubt in your mind as to who kidnapped your son?”
“There is no question in my mind. It was Pat Crowe.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cudahy,” Black said. “No more questions, Your Honor.”
Ritchie rose to cross-examine. Today was a fine day for his best purple suit: a mauve three-piece, the most popular shade of the previous decade. He adjusted his mallow bow tie and studied a set of notes, his canvas shoes squeaking on the floor. He took his time in approaching the witness stand. Sleet snapped at the large windows. A pair of radiators hissed. The courtroom waited with bated breath.
Finally he asked, “Mr. Cudahy, you say you are certain without a doubt that it was Pat Crowe who abducted your son on the night in question, December 18, 1900?”
“Yes. I’m certain.”
“How certain, sir? Could you perhaps apply a percentage to that certainty?”
“One hundred percent,” Cudahy said.
“So there is no doubt, not even a sliver, the slightest chance, that someone else could have been the man to have taken your son?”
“No, sir. There is no doubt.”
“And you know this because you are familiar with Pat Crowe’s voice?”
“That’s correct.”
“I’m curious. For I, too, want to be as clear to this court as my esteemed colleague, Mr. Black. Was there any other information or clue you might be able to share with us today that makes you so certain that the captor was Pat Crowe?”
Cudahy stammered, worked his mouth like he was imagining an answer. “I’m not sure what you’re asking me to divulge.”
“Oh,” Ritchie said with a short chuckle. “I mean did you have any other evidence besides a familiarity with Mr. Crowe’s voice that led you to believe he was your son’s abductor? Did you or anyone else see him snatch your child off the street? Did he announce himself during this alleged phone call to your house? Did he ring your residence and say, ‘Pat Crowe calling for Mr. Edward Cudahy’? Did he sign this ransom letter with his signature? ‘Sincerely and eternally yours, Patrick Joseph Crowe’? Maybe with a little curlicue flourish on the top of the capital C that would distinguish his handwriting?”
The audience shared a communal laugh.
“No, sir. None of those things. What kind of man would do such a thing?”
“So it would be safe to say your certainty as to the identity of the kidnapper is based on his voice and his voice alone?”
“Yes, it is.”
“And you say his voice was discernable based on a couple qualities. Chiefly that he spoke with an Irish brogue?”
“That’s right.”
Ritchie massaged his chin with a smirk. “Well, now, that is rare. I can’t say I’ve ever heard anyone else in this city who speaks with an Irish accent.”
The court laughed again, laughed as hard as they might at a punch line in a vaudeville routine, and Judge Sutton was liberal in the use of his mallet to silence them.
“Mr. Cudahy, do you know how many citizens of this city are first or second generation Irish immigrants?”
“I cannot say. I’m sure there are many.”
“Many is right. Let me illuminate for you just how many,” Ritchie said and read from a small
notepad. “According to the 1900 census, the twelfth census conducted in this country, one of the questions asked was the place of birth of each individual and the place of birth of the parents of each individual. The figures reported in the Omaha Daily News about that 1900 census listed the population of our city at 102,555. Now, of that number, some fifty-four thousand residents listed their place of birth or their parents’ place of birth as Ireland. That’s almost exactly half of our city’s population that were first or second generation Irish Americans who, no doubt, would have spoken with what you called an Irish brogue.”
“Objection,” Black yelled. “This pantheon of pathetic statistics doesn’t disprove that my client was familiar enough with the defendant’s voice to have been able to recognize it no matter how many others may have shared his heritage. He’s misleading the jury.”
Ritchie replied, “Your Honor, it was only minutes ago you allowed Mr. Black to continue with his questioning of Mr. Cudahy to establish the identity of the kidnapper based on the familiarity he had with the defendant’s voice when I argued otherwise. You allowed for him to gather what he could from that inquiry, and now I would ask you grant me that same freedom.”
Judge Sutton weighed the proposition for a moment. “Overruled. But let me warn you, Mr. Ritchie, that your trajectory seems thin to me, sir. Very thin, indeed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. But I would say that sheer proven numbers as collected by our nation’s government is not thin at all. It proves something of serious weight in this case. The ability for Mr. Cudahy to be able to distinguish the voice of one man from nearly half a hundred thousand other citizens of this city who share his so-called Irish brogue would be quite a feat,” Ritchie said and redirected his attention to Mr. Cudahy.
He asked, “Mr. Cudahy, what is your occupation?”
World, Chase Me Down Page 24
