The pounding continued, a rhythmic thump that got louder and louder. I pushed myself up from the sofa and limped to the door, each step accompanied by a grunt at the pain in my ankle. I bent and looked into the peephole.
My father’s secretary, R. W. Wilkinson, in a gray homburg and winter coat, was beating on my door with his fist, his mouth in a tight grimace, his full beard and mustaches shuddering with the effort. It was frightening behavior from the neat, compact, and nearly unflappable man who had worked for my father since we moved to Detroit in 1895.
The fifteen years that had passed since then seemed to flow away. Again, I was that skinny seven-year-old boy, needing my father, or more often Mr. Wilkinson, to make it better.
I swung open the door, squinting against the electric lights in the hallway.
“Thank God you’re home!” He pushed past me into the foyer. “John Cooper has been killed.”
“Cooper? Killed?” My voice sounded phony, even to me.
“Yes. At the factory. In the machining room. Your machining room.”
I switched on the light and pulled out my watch. The hands pointed to 3:53.
Wilkinson took hold of my arm. “Your father wants to know if you need his help.”
I rubbed my eyes, stalling. “His help?”
“Do you need his help?”
“What do you mean?”
“The Victoria is parked beside the factory, and what appears to be your cap is on the bench near the window from which the police say the killer escaped.” He looked me in the eyes. “And there’s not much question about motive, is there?”
“I had nothing to do with it.” I struggled to remember my alibi. “I forgot . . . I forgot to bring the automobile back to the garage after work. And I must have left my cap there yesterday.”
His head tilted to the side, and he squinted a little, appraising me. “Your touring cap?”
I shrugged, trying to look casual. “I wear it at work sometimes.”
“And you say you left the Victoria parked at the factory?”
I broke eye contact. “Yes. I drove it in the morning before work and didn’t have time to return it without being late. I was going to bring it back after work, but it slipped my mind. I came in the side door and left through the front door. I didn’t see it. I forgot.”
“That was foolish.”
“I know, but I always take the streetcar. It’s just habit.”
“You’re lucky it wasn’t carted away in pieces. Or perhaps not, under the circumstances.” Wilkinson frowned and glanced at the doorway. “Your father told the police the car belonged to the company and he didn’t recognize the cap. You do the same.”
I nodded once.
“Now get dressed. We’re going to the factory.”
“Why?”
“The police want you to confirm the identity of the body.”
“Me? Why me?”
“You know . . . er, knew him better than anyone else in the company. Your father mentioned to the detective you were college friends before he realized . . .” He trailed off.
“Realized what?”
Wilkinson set his jaw. “That you may be in trouble. Get dressed.” He pushed me toward my bedroom.
I limped through the parlor. It smelled like a saloon.
He called out from behind me. “I telephoned you twice. Where were you?”
“I was asleep. I’d had a few drinks.” I hoped the smell and the Old Tub bottle on the floor helped confirm my answer.
My hands shook as I dressed in a plaited white shirt, a wing collar, a black sack suit with matching waistcoat, and a striped gray and ivory tie. It took me three attempts to manage a reasonable-looking Windsor knot. I grabbed a new pair of calfskin boots I had been planning to return. Even though they were marked as tens, they were much too large for my feet. This morning I could barely get the right one over my ankle. I hoped if it came up, the boots would also leave a larger footprint than my other shoes.
I grabbed the duster and black derby from the coatrack by the door, and followed Wilkinson outside. The wind had whipped up from downtown, and a cold drizzle slapped me across the face. At least now I had an explanation for my shivering.
My father’s 1908 brewster-green Model L roadster was parked next to the curb. Even in this kind of weather, my father, a robust man, insisted on driving the open-bodied roadster rather than my mother’s enclosed coupé. The Model L was Detroit Electric’s first automobile. Even though it was less than three years old, its appearance owed more to a sleigh or the ancient Curved Dash Olds than an automobile of modern design.
We climbed on, and I sat back, trying to stay dry. Wilkinson started the car and pulled away from the curb, the electric motor silent against the rain pattering on the leather top of the roadster. He turned up Woodward to Grand, where he cut over to Russell.
I tried to prepare myself for seeing the body. It was critical I act like this was the first time. I’d been shocked, surprised, horrified. It didn’t seem a stretch that I would be again.
It finally occurred to me that I had never thought of the most basic question here—who killed John Cooper? And he’d wanted to talk to me about Elizabeth. Was she mixed up in the same thing he was, and if so, was she also in danger?
Wilkinson turned onto Clay and pulled up to the curb in front of the main factory building. Three black 1910 Chalmers Torpedo runabouts from the Detroit Police Department—one shy of half the celebrated fleet of patrol cars belonging to the “Flying Squadron”—were pulled onto the curb a few feet away from the main factory entrance, aimed at the door like three converging sharks. The Victoria was out of sight, parked around the side of the building.
A policeman, in a dark uniform and tall bobby hat, stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, silhouetted by the factory lights behind him. He must have recognized Wilkinson, because he didn’t say anything, just stood aside and waved us by.
Once we were past the policeman’s range of hearing, Wilkinson said, “What did you do to your leg?”
“Fell off a curb and twisted my ankle. I wasn’t paying attention.”
He glanced at me, frowning, before continuing on toward the back of the factory. “You seem to not be paying attention to a number of things.”
The shadows cast by the gas lamps brought back the grisly image of Cooper’s body. My heart pounded. The echoes of our footsteps surrounded us as we passed through the paint department, then the large body shop and its huge woodworking machines. Unfinished automobile bodies, like stripped wooden carcasses, littered the floor. Next came electrical, then the trim department and its stacks of untreated cow and goat hides, their rotten flesh stench making me breathe through my mouth. Finally, about two-thirds of the way back, my department—machining. Other than the motors, which were made at our plant in Cleveland, all our automobile parts were finished here, including the seamless aluminum roofs stamped out by one of the largest hydraulic presses in Detroit.
A policeman slouched outside the wide doors to the machining room. The brass buttons on his double-breasted navy blue coat glinted dully in the factory’s dim light. My father was just inside, sagging against a drill press, next to the general manager of the plant, William P. McFarlane.
I had never seen my father so shaken. His remaining hair was white, and he was no taller than the average man, but his deep-chested frame normally conveyed the impression of someone larger and younger. This morning he just looked small and old.
As I walked in I tried to smooth my gait, but it was impossible. I limped to my father, who reached out for my arm and turned me away from the roof press. Searching my eyes, he whispered, “Are you all right?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He looked over my shoulder. “Did Wilkinson explain?”
I nodded again.
The lines on his face were like the deep grain in an oak barrel, more prominent than I remembered. “And you’re all right?”
“Yes.”
His eyes h
eld mine. “It’s not pretty.”
I looked at Mr. McFarlane, who nodded solemnly. He looked no better than my father. McFarlane was a bony Scotsman, and his long drooping mustaches, with flecks of gray now showing in his natural red, seemed to reflect his state of mind.
I took a deep breath. “Let’s get it over with.”
Two more Detroit policemen were leaning against the side of a welding machine, engaged in a quiet conversation. Another was scraping something from the stack of sheet aluminum into a tin. It was vomit. My vomit.
A short man in a black suit and derby peered into a camera set up in front of the roof press.
The press was open.
We walked to the end of the aisle. Cooper’s body lay there, on the concrete floor. Flecks of matter on the shiny coat and scarlet shirt were the only evidence of his upper torso. Of his head, it was difficult to say what remained.
My knees buckled, and I fell to the floor. It was no act.
One of the policemen behind me guffawed. After a moment, my father helped me to my feet. Now I saw another man squatting just outside the perimeter of blood with a lantern in front of him. To his side was a shiny wallet, the contents next to it, lined up in a tidy row.
Wiping his hands with a handkerchief, he stood and began walking toward me. He was a big man, not so big as Cooper, but six feet tall and two hundred solid pounds. A ragged purple scar cut from his left ear to his mouth, completely ruining his small, almost pretty features. I put him in his late thirties.
He extended his hand. “I’m Detective Riordan. You’re William C. Anderson, Jr.?” His voice, high for a man his size, lilted with just a trace of an Irish brogue. His eyes, shadowed by a black fedora, were ice blue and piercing.
I shook his hand and nodded.
He pulled a cigar from his waistcoat. “What’d you do?” His face was expressionless.
“W—What do you mean?”
His eyes bored into mine. “How’d you hurt yourself?”
“Oh.” I stuttered out a laugh. “I fell off a curb. I’d been drinking.”
He lit the cigar and blew the smoke over my head. “You don’t say.”
I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic.
My father cleared his throat. “Detective, we don’t . . . that is, smoking is not allowed in . . .”
Riordan glared at my father for a moment, then stuck the cigar in the corner of his mouth and turned back to me. He puffed on the cigar and pointed at the mangled corpse. “Do you recognize this . . .” He searched for the word. “This man?”
I shrugged, feeling my face go red.
“I need you to look at something.” He took me by the elbow and brought me past the photographer to the other side of the machine. “Watch the blood.” The pool had expanded another couple of inches. I was thankful for the cigar. It helped mask the smell of the body.
Detective Riordan bent down and pointed to Cooper’s right hand. “Have you ever seen that ring?” The hand and ring were stained red, the ends of the fingers smudged with black ink. On the other side of the aisle, a card lay on the floor, five black fingerprints stark against the white background.
“I . . . I don’t know.” My voice shook. “What kind is it?”
“Look carefully.”
I glanced down at the floor, making sure to keep my shoes out of the blood. Leaning in, I pretended to study the ring. “University of Michigan?”
He nodded.
“1908? Football?”
He nodded again.
I turned away from the body and mumbled, “Cooper . . . John Cooper.”
Riordan touched my arm. “Not just the ring. Does the rest of him look like Cooper?”
I nodded, not looking back. A white light flashed with a whump. I jumped, startled.
Riordan walked around me and looked down into my face. “And the clothes? They’re his?”
I half turned and glanced at the suit and shoes. “The monogram—” Shit. I couldn’t see it from here. “Are the shirt cuffs monogrammed?”
He ran a hand over his jaw and then nodded.
“J.A.C.?”
He nodded again.
“John Anthony Cooper.”
“How about this?” He raised my cap off the deck of a radial saw.
I shrugged. “Could be his. Doesn’t just about everyone have one of those?”
He spoke around the cigar clenched in his teeth. “No.”
“Most automobile enthusiasts, then.”
He glanced at the policemen standing by the welding machine before looking at me again. “Do you recognize this particular hat?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“What do you suppose Mr. Cooper was doing here so late at night?”
I shrugged. “He was here a lot, but he worked for the Employers Association of Detroit. Someone there might know. I don’t.”
“Your father said Cooper ran the labor bureau’s security division for the EAD. I’d guess he made a lot of enemies.”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“Do you know if Mr. Cooper had any relatives nearby?”
“I don’t believe he did. Last I knew his parents lived in Columbus, Ohio.”
A bemused expression played across his face. “A Michigan man from Columbus, eh?” He looked past me to the body. “Interesting guy.” Keeping his eyes on Cooper, he said, “And the automobile out by the curb?”
“It’s the company’s.”
“Who drives it?”
I glanced at my father and couldn’t read his expression. “I do.”
“Really.” Riordan raised his eyebrows and turned to look at my father. “Interesting your father didn’t mention that.” He looked down at me again. “Why is it here?”
“I forgot it and took a streetcar home. I had it out early yesterday morning for practice.”
“Practice?”
“Yes, I drive it for the company. Endurance runs, mileage tests, that sort of thing.”
“Sounds like a pretty important automobile.”
I shrugged.
“It’s surprising you’d forget it. Wouldn’t you say so?”
“It’s the company’s test car. I drove it yesterday morning and forgot it when I left. I never drive to work.”
“But you did yesterday.”
I nodded, hoping I wouldn’t have to say anything more.
He smiled, and the scar spread a grotesque grin all the way to his left ear. “That’s all for now. Thank you.”
I limped down the aisle and cut between two drilling machines, avoiding the blood in front of the press. Detective Riordan squatted down again and inspected a footprint. I hobbled back to my father. He tilted his head toward the door, and I followed him away from the press.
I had just reached the door when Riordan called out again. “Oh, Mr. Anderson? Junior?”
I stopped.
“You were out awfully late last night, weren’t you?”
“What?”
“Where were you?”
“I had a few drinks with some friends.”
“When did you get home?”
“Oh, ten thirty, eleven.”
He pulled a notepad from the inside pocket of his coat and glanced at it. “I asked Mr. Wilkinson to telephone you at one forty-five and two thirty. He let the phone ring for a good five minutes each time.”
“Like I said, I’d been drinking. I was asleep.”
Detective Riordan returned the notepad to his pocket and smiled at me. “Deep sleeper.”
CHAPTER THREE
My father slammed his office door shut and hissed, “What did you do?”
From a burgundy club chair facing his desk, I looked out the window. There was still no sign of dawn. I was numb. “I didn’t do anything.”
He came around to the front of the chair and leaned over me, his face red, a vein standing out on his forehead. “Did you kill John Cooper?” He enunciated each word with precision.
“No. I can’t believe you’d even ask
me that.” If he thought I’d killed Cooper, what chance would I have with a jury?
His pale blue eyes, shot with red, blazed at me. “The Victoria was not here when I left yesterday.”
“I didn’t kill him,” I said, looking defiantly into his eyes.
“Do you swear?”
“Father, I swear I didn’t kill John Cooper. I had nothing to do with it.”
He straightened and shuffled around the desk like an old man. “Then how did the Victoria and your cap get here?”
“I guess I left my cap on the bench yesterday, and you must have missed the Vicky. It was there.”
He sat in his big leather chair, leaned forward, and put his elbows on the desk, looking no more convinced. “They’re going to look at you for this. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes. But I’m innocent.”
His face reflected his disappointment in me. It was an expression I’d come to know only during the past year and a half, having been the golden child for the previous twenty-one.
I was his only son, born eight years after his second daughter, and I was his hope for keeping the company in the family. At one time we’d both been confident that would happen. After prep school, I graduated from the University of Michigan with a degree in engineering and then began my employment with the Anderson Carriage Company. My father had planned on immersing me in our automobile company—Detroit Electric. I was to spend six months in each of the auto factory’s departments, in order to fully understand their workings. I started as the assistant manager of machining. A year and a half later, I was still the assistant manager of machining, and only hanging on to that job by a thread.
He stared at me frankly from across the desk and shook his head. “You know, when I look at you, I see your mother.”
Though he and my mother got on well, I don’t think he meant it as a compliment. She and I were similar in many ways—wavy dark brown hair and slightly recessed brown eyes, prominent cheekbones, thin nose, reedy build, and a melancholy personality. My sisters favored my father more than I did.
He pursed his wide lips. “Take the Victoria back to the garage and go home. Stay home.”
“What about John?”
“They’ll be moving him shortly. Mr. McFarlane and I will get everyone together at the beginning of the day to tell them what happened. Quash the rumors before they start.” He sighed. “Poor Elizabeth. The police giving her this news . . .”
The Detroit Electric Scheme Page 2
