White Collar Girl

by Renée Rosen

  • • •

  I was disappointed that nothing more came of my lunch with Susan, and I didn’t buy what she’d said. Maybe an accident was sometimes just an accident, but I was more and more certain that wasn’t true in this case.

  I sat at my desk and contemplated my assignment. Now that people were questioning the election results, I was looking into the voting machines that had recently been introduced. People were coming forward, saying they were confusing and difficult to use. I made some calls, talked to some election judges and poll watchers. Some claimed their voters, especially in the poorer precincts, were actually afraid they’d get stuck inside the booths.

  While I was waiting for some callbacks and confirmations, I opened my attaché case and pulled out the list of names and numbers I’d jotted down after going through my brother’s notes. I made some calls, getting one wrong number, one hang-up, one deceased. Finally I reached Dale Merkin. Merkin was a former meat inspector with the Department of Agriculture. Now he ran a dairy farm over in Rockford. He agreed to see me.

  The next day I borrowed my father’s car and drove two hours west of the city to meet Merkin at his dairy farm. He was wearing a plaid peacoat over his bib overalls, along with thick rubber boots. It was cold that day, and I wished I’d dressed a little warmer. He walked me through the dairy farm, with its silos and big red barn, the pungent scent of manure in the air. A wooden fence enclosed an endless pasture that I imagined was lush and green in the summertime. The cows occasionally stuck their heads through the wooden slots, straining at the grass on the other side. I’d never seen so many cows before, and he had all different kinds—red and white Ayrshires, brown and white Guernseys, and the black and white Holstein-Friesians.

  “So you say you want to talk about horsemeat being pumped into the system. Well, I’m afraid you’re a little late.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “That was going on back in the early 1950s. 1951, ’52, even up to ’53. But not anymore. Not since Governor Stratton took office seven years ago. His hands are clean. But Stevenson”—he laughed as he reached through the fence to give one of the Holsteins a rubdown—“his office knew what was going on. We called him Adlai Horsemeat. Yeah, his office was in on it. And they weren’t alone. And you can quote me on that.”

  “Who were they working with?” I was writing as we walked, trying my best to avoid the piles of cow dung.

  “Without naming names, let’s just say this one had Mafia written all over it. They were behind the whole thing.”

  I got a chill deep inside my bones. “How did it work? Do you remember?”

  “Most of the horsemeat came in from Kansas. From an outfit called Willis Packing in Topeka. I can’t say for sure how many tons, but I know for a fact that the amount of horsemeat coming into this state more than doubled from 1951 to 1953. It was turning up in restaurants, in kids’ lunches at the schools, housewives were serving it to their families. People were lining their pockets, being paid a whole lot of money to look the other way. We inspectors were even paid—and I’m talking good money—to keep our mouths shut. I couldn’t stomach it anymore. That’s why I got out. That’s why I called up the newspaper and told ’em what was going on.”

  “You?” I almost dropped my pencil. “You called this in? Do you remember which paper?”

  “It was the Sun-Times.”

  My heart nearly stopped.

  “Do you remember who you spoke to?”

  “Some young reporter. I can’t remember his name right off the—”

  “It was Eliot. Eliot Walsh.”

  He turned and looked at me. “That sounds about right. I think that’s who it was.”

  My skin turned to gooseflesh, and it wasn’t from the cold.

  “Well,” Merkin continued, “we set up a time to meet, but I never did get to see him in person.”

  I was expecting him to tell me the meeting never took place because the reporter had died.

  Merkin scratched his jaw. “Somehow it got out that I was talking to the press and they shut me up fast.”

  “They? Who was they? Who shut you up?”

  “A couple young guys—they roughed me up pretty good. Broke my arm and a couple of ribs. They said that was just a warning and that if I said anything else to the press, I’d never talk to anyone again.”

  “Were they with the Mob? Were they Stevenson’s men?”

  “No. I think they were a couple of guys from out of state. I remember they were driving a car with Kansas plates on it. And like I said, most of the horsemeat was coming from Topeka. After that I was good and shook up. I wasn’t about to call that reporter back. He kept trying me, but I wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t say another word about it.”

  My heart about stopped again.

  Merkin grabbed hold of the fence with both hands and gave it a tug. “Actually, that’s not true. I did talk to that reporter once more after that.” He dropped his hands to his sides, kicking dust up off his overalls. “He caught hold of me on the phone one day and I remember I told him to be careful. Said he was dealing with some very powerful people. Dangerous people. I remember I told him straight out, if I were you, I wouldn’t mess with ’em.”

  • • •

  As I drove back from Rockford, it was all I could do to focus on the lines in the pavement. It was hypnotizing, and I was scarcely aware of the cars passing by me or the exit signs along the interstate. By the time I reached Elgin, I had decided not to share what Merkin said with my parents. It would only upset them, and I knew it would be best to hold off until I had pieced this all together.

  After I dropped off my father’s car and dodged his questions, I went back to the city room to finish up another piece about voter fraud allegations. While some people were coming forward to say they were offered money for their votes, others flat-out denied it. It was a mess. I was sorting through it all when I got a call from Danny Finn.

  “Why don’t you meet me at the Gold Star when you get off work tonight?”

  The Gold Star was an old dive on Division and Wood. A fleabag hotel was on the upper level. I arrived before Danny and took a seat at one of the tables, the Formica top scarred with cigarette burns and knife carvings. Some believed the Gold Star was haunted, and while I didn’t necessarily believe in ghosts, the gargoyle above the bar always gave me the willies.

  I ordered a J&B on the rocks and about ten minutes later Danny appeared in a pair of jeans and a flannel red and black checked shirt. His cheeks were tinged pink from the cold. It was one of the few times I’d ever seen him out of uniform, and I was aware of the women inside the bar watching him as he walked my way. He had an oversize brown envelope tucked under his arm.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, sitting down, setting the envelope on the spare chair.

  He ordered a beer and we made small talk for a few minutes before he set the envelope on the table and nudged it toward me.

  “What’s this?” I placed my hands on top of it.

  “I’m gonna hit the head,” he said. “You’ve got ten minutes with that”—he nodded toward the envelope—“and then I need to get it back to the station.”

  As soon as Danny got up, I lifted the flap on the envelope and pulled out a file. The label on top read: Walsh, Eliot, June 9, 1953. My heart raced as I opened it up. And there it was. The original police report, written by Detective Curtis Norton.

  I scanned the report and noticed that a few items had been crossed out on the original, too. But other than that, it looked like any other police report I’d seen countless times, especially back when I was working the night shift. But then something caught my eye. Under the investigation section I read: According to the witness, James Harding . . .

  Witness! What witness? My head suddenly felt too tight, like my skull was about to explode. We were told there were no witnesses. I had questioned that over and over again. I kept reading.

  According to the witness, James Harding, a black Packard with Illinois plates dro
ve up onto the curb and struck the victim before steering back onto the street and driving off, heading south. The driver was Caucasian, in his mid-thirties. There was significant damage to the front of the grille. A broken headlight was found on the ground at the accident site.

  When Danny came back to the table, I was shaking.

  “You got what you need?”

  All I could do was nod.

  • • •

  The next day I tracked down Detective Norton. I found him living in the quiet suburb of Oak Lawn, running a private surveillance business. One train ride and two buses later, I met him at his office in a small nondescript building on 95th Street. The sign on his door was stenciled in gold lettering: NORTON INVESTIGATIONS.

  He was in his early forties and had a slight frame and a nasty-looking scar running from the base of one ear to the center of his neck. He invited me to have a seat in a rickety chair and offered me burned coffee in a paper cup.

  “So what is it that I can help you with?” he asked, pouring himself a cup.

  “I’m looking into a hit-and-run accident.”

  “Uh-huh.” He grabbed a pad of paper and jotted something on the top.

  “It took place several years ago. When you were a detective with the Chicago Police Department.” I paused when I saw the way his expression changed. “I was looking into the police report and—”

  “Look, miss, I’m sorry, but I—I can’t help you with this. I don’t do that kind of work anymore.”

  “Listen, I’ll come clean with you,” I said. “I’m a reporter, but I’m not trying to trip you up. I’m not here as a reporter. I’m here because I need answers. My brother was the victim of that hit-and-run.”

  Though his face softened, he didn’t say a word.

  “All I’m trying to do is find out what happened. What really happened to him. I don’t believe it was an accident. I think he was murdered. I know they altered the police report. I just don’t know why. But I have a feeling you do. You were there. You filled out the report. Do you remember the accident? Back in June of 1953. A young, promising journalist was—”

  “I left the force around that time.”

  “I know you left the force. You left right after it happened. Why did you resign?”

  He set his coffee down and fidgeted with his wristwatch. “I didn’t resign. That’s what I told everyone. That’s what they told everyone. Truth was, they fired me.”

  “Why?”

  He shook his head and looked at a stain on the carpet. “Look, I have a wife and three kids. I’m not putting myself in this position. I’m sorry about your brother—I really am—but I just can’t help you.”

  • • •

  The following day Chicago got an early blast of winter. With six inches of snow on the ground, I trudged up to Rogers Park to meet with the witness, James Harding.

  “I told the police everything I know,” Harding said as he hefted another log into his fireplace, setting off a burst of sparks. The air around us was filled with a smoky hickory scent, and my toes were still frozen after the walk from the el. Harding replaced the fireplace grate and dusted his hands along his back pockets. “I remember I kept waiting for someone to come talk to me some more about it. I even called the police department and they kept saying someone would get back to me. I guess you’re that someone. I just don’t know why the Tribune would be interested in a story like this after all these years.”

  “Actually, the Tribune isn’t. But I am. The victim was my brother.”

  “Aw, no.” He dragged a liver-spotted hand through his white hair. “That’s terrible. I’m sorry.”

  “What else can you tell me about that night? I want to hear everything.”

  “So long ago. Let’s see . . .” He lifted his eyes toward the ceiling, as if trying to recall. “Mostly what I remember is the car. A ’52 Cadillac—”

  “Cadillac? Are you sure? The police report said it was a Packard.”

  “Nope. I’m sure. It was a Cadillac, all right. Tan with a red interior. 1952. I remember because the emblem on the hood—the V—was in gold. They did that on all the cars in ’52 because it was Cadillac’s fiftieth anniversary. See, I used to be a mechanic,” he said. “So I pay attention to all that sort of stuff. Plus, it was a convertible, and I always wanted a Cadillac convertible.”

  “A convertible? It was June. Was the top down?”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s how I knew it had a red interior.”

  “And what about the driver?”

  A spark shot out of the fireplace, through the grille and onto the wooden floor. Harding got up and stamped out the ember and then started poking at the fire.

  “About the driver?” I asked again, thinking I’d lost him.

  “There were two of them in the car. Both white boys. I remember thinking they were young to be driving in such a fancy car,” he said, setting the poker down before he came back over to his chair. “And they weren’t from around these parts.”

  “What do you mean? How do you know?”

  “The plates. I didn’t get the license number, but those were Kansas plates.”

  • • •

  The following morning, on next to no sleep, I sat at my desk, trying to decide what to do. All the puzzle pieces were coming together and at a speed that made my head spin. The answers had been waiting there inside Eliot’s file all this time. That was all that was needed to set everything in motion. It was like I’d pulled a thread and the whole hem had come undone. I didn’t know whether I was ecstatic or scared to death. I only knew that I was overwhelmed.

  “Did you get anywhere with Earl Bush on Daley holding back votes?” Marty asked. He was suddenly looming over my desk, although I hadn’t seen him approach me.

  “Huh? What?”

  “Did you get a reaction from Bush? The allegations that Daley held back votes until they knew how many they needed to put Kennedy over the top.”

  “What?” I heard the words, knew he was talking about the assignment I was working on, but I couldn’t understand.

  “Jesus, Walsh. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I looked up at Marty and stared into his dark eyes until I felt myself starting to shake. “Oh, Marty, I’m—I’m . . .” I brought my hands to my temples and squeezed my eyes shut to keep from crying.

  “What the hell? You okay? What’s going on?”

  “I’ve gotten myself in the middle of something. It’s a cover-up. They killed my brother. I’m going to need help. I’m . . . I don’t know what to do.”

  I knew he could see me shaking, but I hadn’t cried. I wouldn’t let myself cry in front of him. Or any of the others. Without a word, he took my hand and led me across the city room to Ellsworth.

  Marty explained to him what I had said, and then Ellsworth asked me what I meant by a cover-up.

  I took a deep breath and began to tell the story. “I’ve . . . I’ve been looking into a horsemeat scandal. Something that was going on a few years ago. I’ve found out they were selling horsemeat, passing it off as beef. Everywhere. All over Chicago.” I was speaking like a robot, just concentrating on laying the facts out and keeping the emotion at bay. Oddly, Marty was still holding my hand. “I think the Mafia was behind it. Adlai Stevenson’s administration was in on it, too. My brother tried to prove it years ago. Back in 1953. And they killed him before he could finish the—”

  I felt Ellsworth’s hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Walsh. Peter? Hey, Peter, grab Walter and Henry and meet us in the conference room. Hey, Copeland,” he called across the room. “I need you over here.”

  I followed them and sat at the far end of the table, facing Ellsworth, Mr. Copeland, Marty, Walter, Henry and Peter. The whole team. They asked questions and I told them what I’d learned about Detective Norton, about what James Harding had said, about the doctored police report, about my meeting with Dale Merkin. I was calmer by the time I finished. It helped to share all this with my colleagues. Collectively, they were a powerhouse, the
very people who decided what was news. Looking at their faces, I heard Henry’s words from long ago echoing in my head—it was a hard truth, something not to be challenged: You can’t fuck with a member of the press.

  “It’s okay,” Ellsworth said, handing me a glass of water. “We’re going to get these bastards. We’re going to nail them to the wall.”

  I drank the water down, feeling it hit the pit of my hollow stomach. A calmness came over me, as all my scattered thoughts and fears, the swirling of uncertainty that had nearly overwhelmed me, resolved itself into a settled, solid feeling. I was coming to a new place within myself. I was not the same. I would never be the same again. I was stronger and more determined than ever.

  I went back to my desk while my coworkers rallied for my cause. I watched Peter reach for his phone. “Yeah, it’s me. I need a favor,” he said, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder. “I need you to run a check for me. I need the names of everyone in Topeka, Kansas, who purchased a 1952 Cadillac convertible. Tan with red interior.” Peter was the best crime reporter in the business. He had contacts in places that I couldn’t begin to fathom. “And check if you have any records of someone selling a car like that in June of ’53, with possible damage to the front grille, a broken headlight, anything suspicious. . . .”

  Across the room, I heard Henry on the phone with a buddy at the Capital-Journal in Topeka. “See if you can find anything for me about Willis Packing being investigated for a horsemeat scandal back in ’51—going up to ’53.”

  Walter banged his pipe and turned his swivel chair toward me. “Walsh, I’ve got someone down in Springfield who worked for Stevenson. I always got the sense that he didn’t like the governor. I think he knew he was up to something. I’m going to track him down, see if we can get him to talk, and then I’ll call my source over at the Bureau. . . .”