by John McEvoy
Harold Rexroth choked to death on a piece of lamb chop nine years earlier. This had happened when he was having dinner in a New York restaurant with four RexCom executives, none of whom, they claimed later, was familiar with the Heimlich Maneuver.
Harold’s son Harvey Rexroth inherited control of RexCom, whose other family-member minority shareholders he treated like steerage passengers on his great ship of commerce. He was as penurious, conceited, and arrogant “as his daddy,” Tirabassi said, “but there is one big difference between Harvey and Harold—Harvey is as twisted as they come. His old man may have been a tyrant and a tightwad, but he was no crookeder than his competitors. You can’t say that about Harvey.”
“Other than being rich and famous, what crime has Harvey committed?” Doyle asked.
“That’s where you come into the picture, Doyle,” Tirabassi replied. “Rexroth is involved in thoroughbred racing and breeding in a number of ways. You’ve had some exposure to the racing part of it. Exposure of a criminal nature,” the agent added accusingly. “But before we get to your role, you need to hear some additional background.” He nodded to Karen.
“RexCom for the most part is a thriving company,” she began. “Harvey, despite his numerous quirks, has been a very able businessman, following in his father’s footsteps—with one very major exception.
“About ten years ago, Harvey entered thoroughbred racing as a partner with some of his RexCom executives in a couple of horses. The partnership did well. One of the horses ran in the Kentucky Derby, to which Rexroth reacted in characteristic fashion. He was so excited about the horse’s future after it ran second in the Derby that he forced his partners to sell out their interests to him. Since these men worked for him, that was pretty easy to accomplish. Then he changed trainers and began buying horses by the carload. He spent millions to acquire a beautiful breeding farm near Lexington, Kentucky. In other words, he jumped into racing with both hands and a wide-open wallet. There were plenty of Kentuckians eager to welcome Harvey and his money.
“Harvey’s racing stable did okay,” Karen continued. “Nothing fantastic, no more Derby starters at least to date, but he had a few stakes winners. He also had a number of trainers. He is a very impatient man, and if the horses didn’t perform to his expectations, no matter how unrealistic they were, he usually fired the trainer. But he always paid these men well, so he never had trouble finding a successor for any of them. He was far more liberal in his payroll practices regarding racing than in any of his other businesses.
“Four years ago, a newspaper called Racing Daily ran a long story detailing what it termed Harvey’s revolving door policy regarding trainers.” Karen paused to smile at Elaine, who reached across the table to freshen their coffee. “To say that Harvey took offense at this story is putting it very, very mildly. He was enraged. He threatened a lawsuit, until his attorneys pointed out the folly of that. He made angry phone calls to a man named Walter Sandler, whose family had owned Racing Daily for over fifty years. Rexroth never received the satisfaction he was seeking.
“It was at that point that Rexroth made what was probably the first serious business error of his career. He was so angry at the Racing Daily for the story that he decided to strike back by going into competition with it. He decided to launch his own national racing paper.
“Rexroth spared no expense. He hired away some of the Racing Daily’s people, brought in big-time talent from other publications. He called his paper Horse Racing Journal. By virtue of spending money faster than his horses were running, he got this project off the ground in less than six months. He made all kinds of public pronouncements about how his new product would dominate.
“The problem was that Rexroth let his desire for revenge cloud his business judgment very badly. He completely misread the situation regarding horse racing and its need for daily publications. The old paper, the Racing Daily, was already tottering. Its circulation was way, way down from previous years. Horse racing itself was staggering. In contrast to years past, when racing was the only legal means of gambling all over the country, things had changed tremendously. States had developed lotteries, they had casinos, and there was a whole younger generation that had very little interest in racing. As a result, the Racing Daily was already on the downward slide.”
Karen paused to thank Elaine for refilling her coffee cup. Tirabassi shifted impatiently before Karen continued.
“When Rexroth came in with Horse Racing Journal, which was pretty widely recognized as a good product,” she said, “he believed he’d blow Walter Sandler’s paper off the map. He undoubtedly knew that the shrinking market couldn’t support two such papers, and he was very confident that his glittering, new, highly promoted publication would take over the market that was left.
“Rexroth was wrong. What he had failed to take into account was the extraordinary loyalty of the Racing Daily’s aging fan base. There were thousands fewer of them than in the earlier glory days of racing, but they had read Racing Daily all of their horse-playing lives, and most of them decided to stick with what they knew.
“Rexroth was stunned by this negative reaction to his pride and joy. He remained in denial for almost a year. He continued to pour money into his new paper, but it didn’t work. He couldn’t pry away enough readership from Sandler’s paper to make even distantly future profits a possibility. Rexroth soon imposed all kinds of editorial changes, ordered huge cutbacks in staffing, slashed expenses and overtime, but without really improving his bottom line. After an early show of interest, maybe because of the novelty of the paper, readership leveled off. And it was at a level that cost him a bundle. Rexroth is a very stubborn man. He took a huge financial hit.
“But that wasn’t what bothered him—the bulk of the Rexroth fortune remained intact. No, apparently what really affected Rexroth was the embarrassment he had suffered in this failed venture. He pretty much retreated from public life, spending most of his time on his farm in Kentucky. He’d only occasionally visit the racetrack to see his horses compete. The disastrous experience with Horse Racing Journal left a big scar on his monumental ego, a scar that hasn’t healed.”
Doyle said, “Okay, I get the picture regarding Rexroth and his financial flop. But so what? He lost a ton of money. What’s illegal about that? Where does the FBI—and me, for that matter—come into the picture?”
Tirabassi said, “Doyle, sit back and hear us out. We’re getting to the part that has to do with you. In fact, Karen, let me take it from here, okay?” She nodded her assent.
“A couple of years ago,” Damon said, “the Bureau—along with several other agencies, I might add—succeeded in cracking a small ring of horse killers. There were six of them, most from the Northeast. What they did was accept contracts on horses from the owners of those horses, if you can believe that. This ring—these people—all were figures in the world of show horses. You know, the equestrian shows. This is kind of a society sport, and it’s expensive to be in, but most of the people have money. As it turned out, some didn’t have as much as they thought they needed. That’s why they hired these killers.”
Doyle held up his hand to stop Damon. “Hold on a second. You mean to tell me that people who own horses, and presumably like them, would cold-heartedly have them killed anyway? That’s kind of a stretch for me, pal. I’ve been around the racetrack, remember. I’ve seen how those animals are cared for and treated—very, very well, is how. What you’re describing is hard for me to picture.”
“Jack,” said Karen, “take our word for it. It’s true. In fact, the only way that we finally cracked this ring was when we got a tip on one of its members and turned him with a promise of immunity. He testified about who was working with him, and who they were working for. The list of their employers included some of the biggest names in the show horse world. This was a sensational case.”
“Yeah, I remember seeing something about it in the paper,” Doyle said. “But refresh my memory—what was the motive for
these people to kill their own horses?”
Damon responded, “It was a way for them to recoup their investments. Say a guy has paid a hundred grand for a top hunter/jumper prospect. He has the horse a couple of years, and it turns out to be a loser. Can’t win ribbons at any of the major shows, can’t win much prize money at the minors. He’s got this horse insured for at least a hundred grand, the price he paid, but it turns out he couldn’t sell it for more than twenty-five thousand. Rather than eat this loss, he calls in the horse killers. The horse suffers an ‘accidental death,’ one that is hard to discern—many veterinarians were fooled by the methods used and thought the deaths resulted from natural causes. Or the vets and insurance examiners thought the accident looked strange, but couldn’t prove it. In a few cases, a veterinarian was a willing accomplice of the horse killers.
“These guys were very discreet, very clever, very good. It’s quite possible that they’d still be operating if there hadn’t been a classic ‘falling out among thieves’ that led to the tip that led to their arrests and convictions. When those cases were finished, believe me, all the agents involved breathed a sigh of relief. Case closed, everybody thought.
“But,” Damon said, “it wasn’t over. These show horse guys were finished, all right. But they were succeeded by crooks working the thoroughbred side of it, primarily involving thoroughbred breeding stock, stallions and mares. There’s huge money involved here, far more than at the show horse level.
“It started in Louisiana, one case three years ago, two the next year. All involved deaths that looked kinky to the insurance investigators, but they had to pay off. These were not major horses, by the way. The best one was insured for two hundred thousand, the others for quite a bit less.
“Then, about eighteen months ago, deaths of this sort began to occur at a major Kentucky farm. It’s called Willowdale, and it’s owned by Harvey Rexroth.”
Doyle looked at the agents with disbelief. “Don’t try to tell me that this Rexroth, the guy who inherited a gazillion bucks, is knocking off his own horses for profit? What the hell would his motive be for that?”
“I think you’d have to know Rexroth to understand this,” Karen replied. “From the time he was a juvenile delinquent saved from jail by his family’s influence, up to this very day, he has continually flaunted the law. He was the kind of kid—we know this from doing deep background on him, back in his hometown—who blew up cats and set fire to dogs. Pulling the wings off flies was too tame for this weirdo. When they packed him off to prep school in the East, he was twice almost expelled for cheating on tests. And for no reason, really. He’s got an IQ of one hundred and seventy-five. But he wants to do things his way.
“When he was in his last year of prep school, he and two other miscreants were believed to have bullied a freshman fraternity pledge into accepting a dare that led to his death. It involved alcohol, and this poor kid drank nearly a fifth of vodka at the urging of Rexroth and his pals. The kid died. Rexroth was reprimanded—there was no proof he was directly responsible—and that was the end of that.
“In his business life, Rexroth has been similarly bullying and overbearing and cruel—all from behind the protective wall of his big money. We’re sure he bought off witnesses in at least one death he caused when driving while drunk. This is a bad, bad man, Jack. He should be wearing a scarlet A on his chest for amoral. And the sad part is that he’s gotten away with every rotten, illegal, or near-illegal thing he’s ever tried.”
“But I still don’t get why he’d kill his own horses.”
Damon nodded. “It’s true he doesn’t have do it for the money. But the money, by the way, isn’t exactly chump change. One of the Rexroth stallions that died was insured for seven million. He collected. There was another for nearly two million. So we’re talking major money.
“Who knows the motives of a man like this? But he’s probably doing it for two reasons. He’s angry at the failure of these horses to live up to the value he placed on them, and he’s found a way to recoup his losses. And, far simpler, because he can. He can get away with it, he believes. So far, he’s been correct. He must be laughing his ass off at the people he’s deceived and cheated and made fools of.”
Doyle said, “Why don’t the insurance companies drop him?”
“Believe me, they’d love to,” Damon said. “They’ve even threatened to do so. But if they fail to pay off a claim of Rexroth’s without having proof that he’s cheated him, or if they refuse to insure any more of his horses, he’ll crucify them in his newspaper and chase them right into court seeking damages besides. Despite their suspicions, the insurance people don’t have a scrap of proof of any wrongdoing on the part of Rexroth. That’s what they are desperate to come up with. So are we. And that’s where you come into the picture.”
Suddenly, Doyle let out a laugh. The agents were startled, but there was no way he could hold back. The absurdity of the situation hit him like a good left hook. Here he was, less than twelve hours from having been held up and stripped of his gleanings from a gambling coup, and agents of the federal government were trying to enlist his cooperation in bringing down one of the country’s richest men. He laughed again before saying to Tirabassi, “Okay, let’s have it. Let’s have the explanation of how Jack Doyle, unemployed sales rep and retired horse groom, is going to come to the aid of his government.”
Karen was the first to respond. “About two months ago,” she said, “we had an inquiry, an anonymous inquiry, whether we had made any progress in solving the mystery of the two sudden deaths of the two expensive horses at Rexroth’s farm. It was a man who called us, one with a very noticeable accent—we later identified it as a New Zealand accent. Anyway, we had to tell him, quite honestly, that we were stymied. We said we’d welcome any help we could get. He said he’d call back. It was a short conversation, and the call was untraceable.
“A week went by. The man called again. This time, he asked to set up a meeting. He wouldn’t give his name yet, but he said he would explain everything when we met with him. The date was two days later, at a forest preserve parking lot on the northwest side of Chicago, not far from O’Hare Airport. Damon and I both went that day, and that’s when we met Mr. Bolger.”
Damon picked up the narrative. “Bolger, it turns out, is the farm manager at Willowdale, a job he’s had for slightly more than a year. He came to this country from England, where he’d worked on some big horse farms. Before that, he’d gotten his start in the horse business in New Zealand. He’s a native of New Zealand—a ‘Kiwi,’ as he put it. He’s pretty proud of it, too.
“Bolger said that he was positive something ‘wonky,’ as he put it, was going on with these horse deaths at Willowdale. He said there’d been two horses die since he’d started work there, both healthy animals who all of a sudden, late at night, keeled over from heart attacks. He didn’t believe these were natural heart attacks. Bolger said he didn’t know how it was being done, but he was convinced these animals were being murdered for the money they were worth in insurance. He was very emotional about this, and very angry. Obviously, the man cares about horses.”
Doyle tapped a finger on the table. “Hold it right here. I’ve got a question. If Bolger is so put off by this business, why doesn’t he just quit his Willowdale job, haul his ass back to Kiwi land?”
“The reason,” Karen answered, “is that he wants to stop what he believes are these murders of horses. He told us it only took him a few months before he came to thoroughly dislike Rexroth. He thought about quitting then. Then the first horse died, the second only two months later. Bolger is determined to get to the bottom of this, and he believes that can only be done if he stays on the job at Willowdale.
“We spent a couple of days, Damon and I, talking this through, then the two of us consulting with our superiors, trying to determine how best to utilize this information. The consensus finally arrived at was that we couldn’t depend solely on Bolger. After all, two of his predecessor
s had been dismissed by Rexroth. We tracked both of them down, but neither—one was a guy named McCollister, the other an older man named Doherty—would volunteer any information. It’s possible Rexroth either bought them off, or threatened them, in order to insure their silence. Our concern is that Bolger himself might be a target of threats. He sure doesn’t seem to be the kind of man who’d buckle under, but you never know. We can’t take that kind of chance.
“What was decided, then, was to keep Bolger in place and introduce someone to assist him on-site at Willowdale Farm. Naturally, we wanted to use one of our agents, but we couldn’t find one available who had any experience with racehorses, or their breeding. The person we needed had to be convincing enough to be given the job after we had provided him with phony work references, ones good enough to gain him an interview. We also were to have Bolger introducing his name to Rexroth, saying he’d heard he was a good man and worth hiring.”
“It was at that point that you kind of fell into our laps, Doyle,” said Tirabassi, permitting himself a small smile.
“This goes beyond mind-boggling,” Doyle said, again unable to contain his laughter at what he deemed the absurdity of this scenario.
“I don’t know the first thing about a thoroughbred breeding farm,” Doyle said forcefully. “Why would you think I’d be able to pass any inspection I’d get?”
“Because,” Damon said, “Bolger will be the man doing the main inspecting, as you put it. He can brief you on the basics. Doyle, we know you’re a smart guy, and a fairly quick study—you showed that when you worked for Angelo Zocchi. We think you’re just the man for this job.”
