“Humph,” the justice replied. “Doyle made a mockery of Holmes’s genius. I’ll not read his tripe again.” Once the Pinkerton escort was gone, Goddard continued, “What is your need of me? State your business, James.”
“It’s a sensitive matter,” replied McParland. “Urgent, in fact.”
Goddard rubbed his nose and took a seat. “You’re back here in Denver intent on arresting William Haywood, I presume.”
McParland sat in the chair nearest the justice. “It troubles me, Your Honor, that you know that. We’ve maintained—”
“My dog could work out what you’re doing, Detective, scuttling around with secret meetings like this—right as you’ve ginned things up against the man.”
“I haven’t ginned anything. I—”
“You’ve come to capture him.” The justice drummed his fingers on the desk. “Then what? Take him out of the state? To Idaho? I presume you’ll transport him through Wyoming first.”
McParland hesitated, blinked a few times, and finally nodded.
“I cannot let that happen, you understand. And Mr. Haywood should be made aware—”
“You are famed for your integrity and independence,” said McParland. “You wouldn’t alert the defendant about—”
Goddard stiffened his neck. “But he is not a defendant, is he?”
“Not yet, but secrecy is of the order here, and—”
“Who will be the special prosecutor? The much-too-daring-for-his-own-good Senator Borah?”
“Yes, Your—”
“Then why is he not here seeking this irregular—and ipso facto improper—request? An officer of the court should submit this.”
“As it isn’t a legal matter, as such, I thought—”
“Not a legal matter?” snorted Goddard. “Not a legal matter? So, why are you bothering the chief justice of the Colorado Supreme Court with it—with this non-legal matter? Why am I being hustled aside by a Pinkerton of all things?”
McParland took a breath. “It’s not a legal matter exactly, but—”
“I see nothing legal in kidnapping a man under the color of the State—for any purpose. It would be illegal on its face. Contra legem prima facie. You are overzealous, Detective—blind to your weakness. Your friend Sherlock would see that.”
“My weakness?”
“One can hardly blame you. Your entire profession is wrapped in the inquest of others’ deceptions such that you cannot see your own contrivances. I know you. You’re a clandestine and deceitful sort. Perhaps that’s what is necessary, what must be done to find success within all the lies and inquiry—to create your own. To catch the deceiver, you must deceive. Is that it?”
“Haywood is to stand trial in Boise. That’s what is necessary.”
“Necessary for whom?”
“For justice,” tried McParland.
“Justice? That’s rich coming from a glorified gunhand.”
McParland narrowed his gaze. “I meant no offense.”
“Well, I did,” quipped Goddard. “William Haywood is a full citizen of the United States, is he not?”
“Aye.”
“And he is a citizen of the State of Colorado?”
“I believe so.”
“Do you have any evidence indicating he was in Idaho on the date of the assassination?”
“No, Sir.”
“And yet you presume you can waltz in, seize the man, and transport him across state lines?”
“It’s necessary, I believe—”
“You believe. But you’re not an attorney, are you? You’re not—”
“I represent—”
“You represent nothing, Mr. McParland.”
“We will be taking Mr. Haywood.”
“Then you will be arrested for kidnapping and contempt of court. And the Pinkertons will—”
“I’m confident that won’t happen.”
Justice Goddard exhaled through his nose, frowning at McParland who returned the glare, unblinking. “This is a judicial matter, to be handled by officers of the court. Trained attorneys. The Idaho judge handling this, as well as Senator Borah, should’ve explained to you how this must work—if it is to work at all.” He paused again, as if examining the impassivity of the detective before him. “You cannot extradite a Colorado citizen, legally or otherwise, without securing the governor’s signature.” He rubbed his chin. “And to get that, you need me.”
“I’m here, Your Honor.” McParland had let this “man of the law” bellow and stamp, condescend and insult—but now he felt things turning. Perhaps his patience would begin to reap its rewards. He had two cards yet to play: a king and an ace. He tried the king first. “As a brother in the Benev—”
“Benevolent Order?” Justice Goddard snapped. “You and I have not strained to force a friendship where none exists. Let us not feign such familiarities now. Robert Pinkerton and his bootlickers have repeatedly circumscribed the laws of this state, and he is now attempting, for the purposes of doing what he deems necessary, to conduct one of the most severe violations of habeas corpus and prosecutorial fraud that I have yet to witness. And by your hand, Detective,” he said, spitting the title as if it was coated in shit.
So much for the king, thought McParland. He wanted to interject that not only was this plan happening “by his hand,” but it was entirely his idea—not that of Robert Pinkerton. Though yes, Senator Borah had assisted. And General Dodge.
Goddard was going on, though now quieter. “I can commiserate with your desire in this matter. No doubt Mr. Haywood carries some culpability and most likely should hang. But your actions will only set him free from prosecution for years, if not decades. I harbor no allegiance to any cause in this state, other than upholding its laws. That notwithstanding, I’m sympathetic to the governor’s alliance with the mine owners, and his dogged defense against the Federation’s socialist demands for the eight-hour day. But that will not persuade me to fly against my conscious and my distaste for the thuggery of the Pinkerton Agency in this state.”
McParland gave a dissembling smile. “I regret the Agency has earned your low esteem.”
“It’s the secrecy. Robert Pinkerton operates with impunity—like a private army for hire. It is unconstitutional.”
Alright, that’s enough—time for the ace. “We’re a detective agency,” said McParland, dropping all supplicative pretense. “We gather intelligence for our clients—in this case the State of Idaho.”
“Unless you have some ‘intelligence’ that—”
“Governor Steunenberg was on a list of several public officials who were to be assassinated.”
The chief justice peered at McParland. “A list? In whose hand? William Haywood’s?”
“We believe so. Our witness, Mr. Orchard, saw that list, and told us its contents.” McParland withdrew a sharply creased piece of paper from his jacket’s inside pocket, unfolded it, and began to read: “There were three others on the list I saw. All were to be killed.”
Goddard pointed at the paper. “Is that it? Is that the list?”
“It’s a transcription of Orchard’s confession. Shall I continue?”
“If you wish.”
McParland counted to four before resuming. “After Governor Steunenberg, the Idaho man, I was to kill two others. Actually, one other. Steve Adams was to kill one of them. Here I asked how he knew about the other two, and he said: Mr. Haywood wrote me a list. The governor of Colorado—he was for Adams to shoot, I think, and Justice Goddard, a judge there—he was for me to handle. I don’t know why for sure. I guess because them two had oppressed the Federation some.” The detective paused for effect, meeting Goddard’s wide eyes before continuing. “Next I asked Mr. Orchard by what means he was to have handled—assassinated—you.” He scanned the paper, finding his place. “Mr. Haywood wanted me to use a bomb. So, I set one
at the judge’s house. One like Steunenberg’s ten-pounder that had worked so admirably.”
“What?” Goddard stammered. “What are you telling me?”
I’m playing my ace, you pompous blowhard, thought McParland. Instead, he said, “I’m doing my duty, Your Honor. Alerting you to this distressing information that the Pinkerton Agency obtained—obtained by whatever means we deemed necessary. There’s more, if you wish to hear it.”
Justice Goddard nodded.
“When I asked him about the bomb at your house, he said, and I quote: I planted it by his gate, same as the other, but it must’ve been faulty because it never exploded when I went to pull on it. My guess is the acid didn’t uncork properly.”
“Are you telling me— Goddamnit! There was a bomb in front of my house?” The justice got to his feet. “My house?”
“Aye. It would appear so. I don’t know if it’s still there, but—”
“It’s still there?” Goddard shouted.
McParland raised his shaggy eyebrows. “It may be. What we know is that Haywood ordered Orchard, a known assassin, to build it and place it there, intending to kill you with it. And, according to this confession, Orchard tried.”
“I must get home.”
“Be careful. Don’t dig it up,” said McParland, standing.
Goddard was wide eyed. “You do it. Send someone. Now!”
“I have men on the way to your house.”
“You do?”
“Aye. They may have already arrived. For your protection—in case Orchard was telling the truth.”
The justice was shaking, moving to leave.
McParland continued calmly, “When you get there, they can look for the bomb. And disarm it, if you wish.”
“If I wish?” Goddard growled, running to the hotel’s front door. “Of course they should disarm the goddamned thing!”
McParland walked behind him, stopping just inside the wood-and-glass doors. “Of course,” he whispered as he watched the justice hurry aboard a waiting hansom cab driven by a Pinkerton. Then McParland went to the registration desk, took the telephone, clicked the hook, and told the operator, “Connect me to Justice Goddard’s home.” After a moment, he said, “It’s me. His wife and kids are still upstairs? (pause) Aye, he’s on his way—fifteen minutes. (pause) No, Charlie Siringo made it. Now, mind you, he’s the fellow you bested in poker—so when you dig it back up, it could still kill you. (pause and a smile) Good. (pause) The dirt’s stamped, looks worn? (pause) No, don’t go out there again. She might see you. (pause) Aye, when it’s signed, bring it to me.”
He hung up and pulled his fob chain to study his watch. It was 2:25 in the afternoon. By his estimation, by 5:30 he would have Chief Justice Goddard’s signature on an ostensibly illegal order to extradite William Haywood from Colorado to Idaho on charges of capital murder—a murder which occurred when Haywood was not in Idaho, and for which the prosecution had only one of the two required witnesses. Contra legem prima facie, indeed.
McParland had the signed order by 4:45.
<><><>
– 38 –
THURSDAY
March 14, 1907
9:30 a.m.—A telegram was sent to Cecil White at Denver’s Oxford Hotel, reading:
200 BEEF SHORTHORNS
$36 PER. TODAY.
***
6:00 p.m.—A cadre of Federation men shouted at Charles Siringo when he strolled into the Gassell Saloon on the first floor of the Pioneer Building. When one approached, suggesting the “goddamned Pink traitor” was ill-advised to be there, Siringo replied by placing his red-handled revolver on the bar. The man walked away, and a bit of hooting commenced from afar. After finishing his drink, and another, Siringo left. Outside, a Federation guard spat at him as he hailed a cab. Siringo loudly declared to the driver that his destination was the depot as he was bound for Texas. “Good riddance, rat,” growled the Federation man. At the depot, Siringo boarded the 7:15 Colorado Central to Pueblo.
***
11:15 p.m.—All was dark, other than what was illuminated by the moonlight when it emerged from behind fast clouds—cold light brushing a timid glow across the stone façades of Denver’s downtown buildings. Everything was in place. From inside the black window of a barbershop, McParland leaned on his cane and studied the Pioneer Building across Fifteenth Street—its street-front empty save two guards standing firm and one lonely whore shuffling by. From what he could see of the first floor, the Gassell Saloon hosted two sleeping drunks and a table of undercover Pinkerton operatives in a mock-heated card game. They were under orders to drink (in moderation) tonight, lest they be suspected of not being the new-in-town union lackeys they were impersonating. McParland looked at the second floor—the headquarters of the Western Federation of Miners, and specifically Haywood’s office. He saw no life there behind its gloomy windows. On the third floor, one window gave light from the Haywood suites, while further up, the fourth and fifth floors were as dark as the second. The roof, he knew, bore a lone Federation guard who was probably drunk and thus away from the edge lest he stumble.
McParland stepped out through the barbershop’s front door—quietly, as the door’s overhead bell had been muffled with a bit of cloth. Both of the guards flanking the entrance to the Pioneer Building observed McParland, but they did nothing—they being Pinkertons pretending to be Federation (the originals having been stealthily hauled off at gunpoint minutes earlier). McParland heard an operative step from the store behind him, and then he saw a female figure pull the curtains across the third-floor’s lit window.
“His wife’s in there?” breathed the operative.
“No,” whispered McParland, checking his pocket-watch.
“Who’s in there with him?”
McParland motioned to the operative’s shotgun. “Loaded?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Check again.”
On the opposite side of the Pioneer, away from view of McParland or anyone on Fifteenth Street, three other Pinkertons were busy, each having been chosen for his mountaineering experience. One had already scaled the back side of the building, tied a rope to a chimney and draped it down to the alley five stories below. Once the other two had soundlessly ascended, all three squatted in a murky corner. Then one whistled to draw the attention of the Federation guard who was leaning against the far roof-access door. The man approached, his rifle aimed at the mysterious sound. As he disappeared into the corner’s darkness, a muted thump and thud were followed by two of the Pinkertons emerging into the moonlight and moving quickly toward that same door. One confirmed the door was unlocked while the other lit a match to check his own pocket-watch.
At the same time, in the saloon far below, one of the card players also checked his watch. He then rose, declaring it was time for him to go home, and exited the building onto Fifteenth Street. Seeing the man coming out, McParland crossed the street, passed between the two Pinkertons masquerading as Federation guards, entered the building, and approached the elevator. Before the elevator arrived, two of the once-card-players stood alongside the chief, shotguns at their sides. McParland drew his pistol from his shoulder holster. His left hand held a piece of paper bearing Neva’s drawn layout of the third floor. The elevator bell rang, and, from inside, one of the roof Pinkertons opened the door and cage. McParland spoke as he and the two from the saloon stepped in. “Only his mistress is with him. Not his wife, kids, or any of the staff.” The elevator began ascending. “Remember: fast and loud. Hesitate and he’ll have you. Most importantly, whatever happens, do not kill him.”
***
Inside one of the third-floor bedrooms, two electric lanterns washed the room in dull gold. Haywood sat on the bed, waiting. Though his coat and tie were draped over a blue-upholstered chair, he was otherwise dressed—including wearing his shoulder holster containing his Browning .38 revolver. His Colt .45 was on the
nearby cabinet, while the FN automatic was in the inner pocket of the coat on the chair. He inhaled a long breath of contentment, then blew it out slowly, beaming a smile toward the wooden divider-screen behind which Winnie undressed.
He was glad Neva had gone to their Park Hill home. He always had more fun with his mistress when his wife wasn’t in the next room. He craved Winnie, and she truly loved him, he told himself. She was more than his objet de fantaisie. She was a partner with him in his work. She chose to be involved, to risk herself. She gave a brilliance and illumination that he wanted, that he needed, that he deserved. Winnie was necessary. Neva could never be necessary. Winnie was his, and he was devoted to her. Yes, she made him cover his dead eye, but— Oh damn, he thought, scrambling to slip his eye patch over his head. Just then, Winnie’s lithe silhouette stepped from behind the screen. She dropped her silk shift, liberating her naked curves. What red-blooded American man wouldn’t prefer this young, supple wonder over an aging, diseased wife?
“Bear,” Winnie said with a feline growl. “You’re still dressed.”
“Yes … Oh, yes,” Haywood muttered, kicking off his boots and pulling at his belt. Then his shoulder holster thudded to the floor. Soon his big frame floundered and flailed—shirt landing over the holster, then his undershirt, and then trousers and drawers—revealing himself to her.
Having giggled at his flourishes and flops, she approached with a beguiling smile. “That’s better,” she cooed.
Haywood pulled her against him and turned her, easing her back toward the bed where she collapsed, her arms around his neck, him atop, kissing her lips, and then her slender neck, moving toward her breasts, her bellybutton, her—
Winnie screamed at the explosion of noise. Both thought the bed had fallen, but in the same instant saw the blast had come from shoulders smashing the hallway door from its hinges, crashing it to the floor inside—eight feet from where Haywood scrambled toward the Colt on the cabinet.
American Red Page 31
