“I believe our suspect left Boise on the night of the murder.”
“Why do you think that?”
“A man by his description left on the 7:15 to Cheyenne.”
“Which man?” McParland barked. Over the decades of his rise through the Pinkertons, he had assumed a Gatling-gun manner of questioning subordinates. With it, he could extract not only what they wanted to say, but often what they didn’t. This was in sharp contrast to his other manner—desultory and dawdling—that he began thirty years earlier while an undercover operative in Pennsylvania’s anthracite coal mining region. There he learned that a leisurely cadence relaxed the murderous Irish gangs, the Molly Maguires, resulting in his infiltration of their ranks and leading many of them to the gallows. With a four-second count held before speaking, it had both lulling and maddening effects, causing targets to fill the gaps with unnecessary, but often revealing, words. And when he was openly interrogating a suspect, the truncated style gave time for paranoia to percolate in their minds. But with his men, like this operative before him, he preferred his fast style—no four-second holds. This tended to separate them from their prepared answers, revealing truths that might pop loose, while also allowing him to evaluate their mental acuity.
“Which man?” Farrington repeated McParland’s question.
“Aye. Which one left on the train?”
“The murderer.”
“Which one?”
Farrington paused. “I thought there was only one.”
“You did?”
“Yes, Sir. The man who called on the governor that afternoon, summoning him to his office. The man—”
“The supposed insurance man?”
“Yes, Sir. Him.”
“Were you not listening at the scene?”
“I was.” Farrington’s brows tightened.
“I said clearly: two men.”
“Perhaps there was just one.”
“Why are you questioning this?”
“I wouldn’t, Sir.”
“Two men— Two confessions.”
“I thought—”
“Good,” said McParland. “Do more of that.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“So, one of them … You know he left? He was observed?”
“He was seen—”
“The man who pulled the fishing line?”
“I don’t know, Sir, but—”
“But what?”
“The description provided by the girl, and the wife—”
“Mrs. Steunenberg.”
“Yes, Sir, Mrs. Steunenberg’s description of the man she saw on the porch, talking with their daughter. And the drawing you requisitioned. This one.” Farrington nervously unfolded the drawing of a bird-beaked man who slightly resembled Adams. “We have three witnesses, including the ticket agent, who attest this man left—”
McParland poked at the drawing. “We have witnesses saying this false life-insurance salesman boarded a train?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“He boarded a train?”
“He bought—”
“Operative Forty-Two, did anyone see that big nose actually get on board the 7:15? Or did he just buy a ticket?”
“Board, no. But he purchased the ticket. Thus, I assumed he—”
“Yes, you did.” McParland smoothed his colossal gray mustache while locking eyes on the man. “Steve Adams.”
“Who, Sir?”
“Your man here.” McParland held up the drawing. “Steve Adams is his name. Goes by others too. A more murderous son of a bitch I’ve not known. Makes pussycats of the Molly Maguires. Two days ago, in Ogden, he boarded the Overland to San Francisco.”
“Are we certain—”
“Of course. We have men trailing him. We’ll see where he goes, see where he leads us. He’ll be our second confession, I believe. So, now, find me the real killer.”
Farrington huffed. “If you already knew that, why’d I waste my time tracking down the depot witness?”
“If I assign you something, Forty-Two, by definition it is not a waste of time,” snapped McParland, noting the young man’s pluck.
Farrington frowned. “We might be letting the killer go while we chase a phantom.”
McParland’s eyes narrowed. This pretense was not pluck, it was hubris. Perhaps insolence. He had finally pushed this fidgety operative into revealing something of himself. Exactly what, McParland wasn’t sure, but there was more to Wade Farrington than met the eye. A double? Perhaps. He would take Farrington off operative status and back into Pinkerton dress code. That would make it easier to observe him. And no assignments out of Boise. He would keep this young man close. Put another man on him.
“May I go?” asked Farrington, pacing agitatedly.
McParland nodded. “Sure.”
Farrington moved to leave.
“It’s good to keep things running in parallel,” said McParland, his voice looping across the office to snag Farrington back. “That way you shake things up, see if the two investigations come to the same conclusion.” And a good shaking also helps sift out spies—but he didn’t say that out loud.
“Yes, Sir,” said Farrington as he left.
Experience had taught McParland to be wary of agents and operatives who show impatience for certain outcomes—those who are too quick to assume and hold indefensible positions. In their fragility, two dangers lurk—one born from their fear, the other from their resolve. Where facts are thin and fissures spread between knowledge, fragile men become frightened and pour into those gaps half-truths, expedient plaster filling uncomfortable crevasses. Especially in this profession—one of lies and curiosity, where a man trusts to his peril. The other danger arises from the strength of their ignorance and zealous ambitions—the overconfidence of the insecure. That kind of fragility can birth false intelligence, leading an investigation into dead-end alleys, wasting time and money, threatening success. And when false resolve solidifies into beliefs, devils can use the man, reaffirming his underlying lies, birthing the insidious danger of an effective counter-intelligence operation—a spy within Pinkerton ranks. McParland knew Haywood was good at manipulating weak Pinkertons—just as he, McParland, had done with weak Federation men. So, now that he knew Farrington was fragile, he needed to discover which danger the man represented—one from fear or from resolve. He suspected from both.
<><><>
– 18 –
SUNDAY
January 13, 1907
The road from Denver to Castle Rock was well worn, and not only because of the hundreds of wagons and horses stirring it up every week, but recently due to the addition of a few go-like-hell machines. Haywood loved them. The joy of bumping along without a team of horses to contend with, flying at thirty miles an hour in his personal train car, free from the constraints of time tables and tracks. A year earlier, $2,750 from Federation coffers bought him this four-cylinder touring beauty—a midnight-blue Packard Model S with a collapsible black cloth top, two leather club chairs up front, two broad rear seats, smooth fenders over Continental tires around spoked wheels, a mahogany dash, and right-hand steering wheel. He also loved the loud, gurgling, pourt-pourt sound from its four-cylinder, forty horsepower engine. Plus the smell, the feel, the cool wind, the passing snowy landscape. George Pennington and the accountant were wrong to suggest it an impropriety of expenditure. Goddamn them. There was nothing wrong with this automobile, and no one deserved it more than he did.
Haywood drove wearing a green cap, goggles, and driving gloves, his fur coat tight to his neck, while puffing a Romeo y Julieta cigar and listening to the occasional banter of his equally goggled passenger: Captain Swain, the leader of the Thiel Detective Agency. Behind them rode an expressionless soul, shotgun at the ready; and beside that man was Haywood’s recently deputized bulldog, Claus, sporting his own goggles.
“What does that lawyer of yours think?” asked Captain Swain.
“Clarence?”
“I heard a Mr. Darrow. Same fella?”
“Yeah,” replied Haywood, downshifting for an embankment. “Chicago man.”
“Damn.”
“Do you hate everything from Chicago?” Haywood shouted over the wind and engine. “Maybe you’re right ... except for the heroes of the Haymarket.”
“Brave men.”
“Brave men,” repeated Haywood. “I led their cry for an eight-hour workday. That’s all they wanted. Shot in the streets like dogs.”
“You were there?” asked Swain.
Haywood focused on the rough road before replying. “The bomb those men used, defending themselves from the murderous police, where do you think it came from?”
Swain watched the passing landscape. “I didn’t know that.”
“Only killed seven of those company men, those hired guns in police uniforms. Should have killed more. And the Tribune had the goddamned audacity to call the labor men anarchists. Good men only wanting a fair wage for an eight-hour day. So, yes, there are some good men in Chicago, including my lawyer.”
“It’s the Pinks I don’t—”
“Vermin,” said Haywood. “You met Robert during your year with them?”
“No.”
“Clarence admires their ‘collective force of will,’ as he says.”
Swain frowned. “He saying I’ve got none?”
“No. Not at all.” Haywood pulled the hand brake for a contingent of mule-deer ambling across the road, thirty feet ahead.
“Too many indecent little shits in the Pinks,” stewed Swain.
Letting the car idle, Haywood turned. “All depends, I suppose.”
“You think so?”
“Captain, I don’t need a virtuous detective.”
Swain pulled a breath. “I do what’s necessary for my clients.”
Haywood resumed the cleared road. “I wonder if you know something. Did you know that we, the Western Federation of Miners, far exceed in headcount any other organization, including the Pinks? Ten times the men and guns, west of the Mississippi. Everybody knows we’ve got a special responsibility. And not just to our members, but to every American. And one of those responsibilities is to keep the Pinks under control. Tar and rail, ax handle … lead when it gets to that. Unless I can buy em, like at the Bunker.”
“No agency can help you more than Thiel,” said Swain.
“Oh, I don’t know, Captain. We’re mighty powerful without a small outfit like yours from … where? Seattle?”
“Spokane. Right in the blame-middle of all this coming maffickin. I know the whole northwest. Better’n any Pinkerton.”
“But you’re here in Colorado.”
“This coming thing is gonna be in Idaho. You’re gonna need me. And your Chicago man, the lawyer, he’s gonna need me too. Mightily so. No doubt the Federation can Sherman over the Pinks in open battle, but this is gonna be an alley war.”
“Don’t oversell your position.” Haywood glanced at him. “I’ll give you the contract.”
“Mighty obl—”
“But only week to week. If I’m pleased, another week. I don’t need your muscle and guns, Captain. I need information. Information. Understand?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Haywood hoisted his dead eye’s brow. “I already have people in Boise. All over Idaho, Washington, Utah. Get me better information than they can.”
“I’m confident—”
“Any turncoat against us will be dealt with as such. Whether he’s a governor, judge, lawyer, Pink … or a Thiel man. Are we of common mind?”
“We are,” said Swain, grasping the dash as the Packard found a gully.
“I don’t like that you hired your men out to that rat-governor for his imprisonment scheme—the very goddamned thing that got him killed.”
“I was hired by Senator Borah, but—”
Haywood blustered a laugh. “The sagebrush dandy?”
“We saw your men, the union men, home peaceably.”
Haywood downshifted. “How do you feel bout killing a man?”
“I don’t lose sleep, if that’s your meaning.”
“Steve Adams. Know him? Big, parish-pickax nose. Goes by Addis some.”
“Might’ve heard of him.”
<><><>
In Denver, Neva’s bare left leg was exposed from under sheets embroidered with the words: METROPOLE HOTEL. The limb was a twisted piece of mushy driftwood, atrophied and shorter than the other. She could feel it, but not tell it what to do. It ached, but not with the arthritic pain that occasionally shot up her right leg, the one that did all the work. George, wearing just trousers, was on the bed’s edge. He lifted her left leg to rub liniment into her squishy thigh.
“Noodle is so cold,” he said, referring to her gimp leg by the nickname they’d given it.
“She feels normal to me,” said Neva. “Just achy.” She snuggled the duvet higher, covering her bare breasts.
“Hey, I was looking at those.”
She laughed. “They were looking at you too.”
“I noticed,” he said.
She snorted a drowsy laugh.
“Can you lie back?” he asked. “Just relax? If you fall asleep, that’s fine with me. Would mean I’m good at this.”
“Oh, you’re good at it,” she said, her voice sleepy syrup. “But, as we haven’t squeaked the bed yet, I’d best keep an eye on you.”
“Yes, you probably should,” he said gently, and added, “In the morning, darling.” He kept rolling his hands, pushing the oil into her flesh.
“Yes,” she breathed, sinking into her pillow, closing her eyes.
When she reached to feel for him, to give him a grateful pat, he noted her wedding ring and lifted her left hand. “May I?”
“Mm-huh,” she said blearily, eyes still closed. “Just put it where I’ll find it. Don’t lose it … like we nearly did.”
He slipped the ring off and placed it in a porcelain ashtray on the nightstand, next to the open bottle of Sloan’s Liniment. Then he kissed the rosy, straight scar across her thin wrist.
She liked that he did those things she could never do.
***
Neva contracted polio in 1894, during her first and only visit to New York City. Her father and Reverend Sanders were there, over from Walla Walla, Washington, both serving as ambassadors for the Seventh-day Adventist Church, seeking to procure donations for the newly formed Walla Walla College. Believing it would be a wonderful experience for his eldest daughter, Nevada, he brought her along. She was nineteen, fidgety, and in windswept love with William Haywood, a thirty-two-year-old rising star in the labor movement—and importantly, a man her socialist father liked. But, at the time of their New York visit, and unbeknown to anyone, a noxious, poliomyelitis epidemic was pushing through the city’s crowded, elevated railcars. Neva began feeling lethargic on the three-day trip home.
After a few months and a period of improved health, she and Bill married and moved to Denver. Their daughter Vernie came nine months later. A year later, Henrietta. But by then, Neva’s leg was failing her, as was Bill. He was convinced she had fallen victim to a plot against him, a poisoning by the New York-based Mine Owners Association. He became progressively hostile, sardonic, if not furious, at her oft-strained expressions, her huffs of discomfort, her grinding immobility—just as he was ascending to the Federation’s oak-paneled offices. She was thus overjoyed when her young sister, Winnie, moved in with them, helping attend to her as her life in an invalid chair commenced.
But rumors mounted and doctors echoed them: poliomyelitis was transmittable, and children were particularly at risk. Within days of that news reaching the Denver Post, Neva saw women hustle their chi
ldren from her path, their vituperative glares scolding her: How dare you come near my babies! A few weeks later, Bill arranged for Vernie and Henrietta to be placed in a special wing of St. Vincent’s Orphanage in northwest Denver, a wing funded by the Seventh-day Adventists with money donated by the Federation. (Two years later, they would be moved to the St. Agnes School for Girls, a class-floored Episcopal boarding school, also in Denver.)
As St. Vincent’s was an orphanage, Neva was not allowed there. At the time, she agreed with the rule—no one feared her girls contracting polio more than she did. That meant she and Bill also feared them coming home, even for short periods—the one exception being Christmas week. So, Neva wrote them. And she phoned them—once telephones was installed on both ends. She tried. But she couldn’t maintain it. Finally her spirit broke, and then imploded—culminating in a hot bath and wrist slit one evening when Bill and Winnie were away. By happenstance, grace, luck, or divine intervention, George Pennington stopped by the Park Hill Heights house that night and found her.
In the aftermath of her “little doing,” as Bill called it, aching disquiet hung like mildewed heirloom linens, corrupt and manifest, yet impossible to discard. A smell to be borne. Bill attempted a more caring posture, but it was a false flag. He stayed home more, even played pinochle with the sisters, but his advances towards young Winnie amplified: more flowers, dresses, jewelry, lingering shoulder rubs. But Neva couldn’t entertain the idea of divorce. What would that life be? With the disease? She would be alone, unwanted, would never see her daughters again, and her next “little doing” would surely not fail.
But if she could allow things, then she could live this life, a new life of sorts. And not just any life, but a life of significance at the center of what mattered. Soon her daughters would be old enough to rejoin them. Bill would allow it. She need only be patient. And this new life meant Winnie would stay near. They could laugh and stay close. And here Neva had money, could travel, and had her refuge in Park Hill Heights. But to have this life, she had to release her antipathy toward it, had to accept it. All of it. She had to value it to the point of protecting it—had to defend it, even encourage it. Thus, when her sister came to her with disclosures and concerns regarding Bill’s intimacies, Neva didn’t blink: Winnie should allow it. She knew Winnie anxiously attempted to hide her affections for Bill, that Winnie’s protestations were masquerading petitions for permission. Why deny them both what they wanted, only to lose everything she needed? Let them be, Neva thought. The affront was necessary for this life. A price for continued admission. As distasteful an elixir as ever there was. But by releasing herself from the fight, she found an accompanying release from the shame. Besides, she had George, didn’t she? This life was a good life. Good enough, she told herself.
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