by Ace Collins
“But that’s the reason you don’t go to the circus. And you don’t go even though you are fascinated by large cats and really want to see a lion tamer in action.”
“So, what does that have to do with anything?” Reese whispered. “I cheat myself—big deal! I can live without the circus.”
“But what if you had a crime scene at a circus? What if the person killed was a clown? Could you go and investigate without going a bit crazy? Would you hesitate taking the assignment?”
He jabbed back. “Would you investigate a murder in a coal mine a mile underground?”
“I think so,” she admitted. “And that’s why I need to go back in there and ask Jefferson Tisdale one more question.”
“What’s his phobia?” Reese asked.
“White authority,” she explained. “He has been programmed his whole life to not speak up against white people. It has likely been beaten into him. So he’ll answer questions, but he won’t volunteer anything. He knows volunteering information might well get him into trouble. I just asked the wrong question.”
Turning, she retraced her steps and opened the door into the room. The two trustees were still there, Tisdale at his workstation behind the desk.
“Jeff,” she said as soon as their eyes met, “you told me there wasn’t a prisoner who looked like the sketch. Did you know someone else who looked like that drawing?”
“Sure did,” the prisoner replied, slowly, reluctantly.
“Who was it?” she asked.
His gaze flicked to the other prisoner before answering. “A guard who was here for a few years. His name was Mr. Burton.”
Reese, standing in the doorway, glanced to Meeker. After their eyes met, he looked from Tisdale over to Babe. The big man smiled. “I didn’t know him very well. He always worked in a different part of the prison than I stayed in.”
“You got a record of employees that shows their pictures?” the woman asked.
“Sure,” Babe volunteered, “right over here. Jeff, do you remember Burton’s first name?”
“No, sir, he was just Mr. Burton to me.”
“Okay,” the big man replied, “shouldn’t be that hard. Do you remember when he left?”
“Yeah,” Tisdale said. “Right after the big riot. He got taken captive, and a couple of the cons carved on him. He was too scared to come back behind the walls after that.”
“Here’s the file,” Babe announced, pulling it from the cabinet and bringing it back to the central table.
Meeker yanked the sketch from her briefcase and set it beside the small image in the employment record. “Close enough,” she noted. “What do you think, Henry?”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “And note his first name is Mitchell. The initials match. Probably the same guy. But why would he change his name?”
Meeker looked back toward the trustees. Babe shrugged. Tisdale’s expression was a bit more hopeful.
“Jeff,” she asked, “do you have any ideas?”
The trustee looked to Babe. “Do you remember Merkens and Jensen?”
“Yeah, they were bad hombres,” the other trustee said. “Even I was scared of them.”
“Well Merkens was killed in the riot,” Tisdale explained. “Got taken down by a guard’s bullet. That was when Jensen grabbed Burton. He worked him over with his fists during the chaos. When he bloodied him up good, he got a hold of a shiv and started cutting on him. Burton fought back and that really set Jensen off.”
“I heard about it,” Babe said, “but I was in solitary then, so I never saw anything. Did you see what happened?”
“Yeah,” the black man replied. “I was behind a locked cell door, but Jensen went after Burton. After he knocked him out, he vowed he was going to cut off Burton’s trigger finger. I guess he thought Burton shot Merkens. He and Merkens had been friends from even before their days in prison. Jensen was just getting started when Pistolwhip rushed up behind him and grabbed him. An awful battle happened. I thought both of them would kill each other, but McGrew finally won out when he slammed Jensen into the bars and knocked him out. He pulled Burton over into a corner and kept the other cons away from him until order was restored.”
“So,” Reese asked, “Burton’s index finger on his right hand was pretty messed up?”
“I heard he never could use it right again,” Tisdale explained.
Meeker looked over to her partner and announced, “It’s time to go. And, gentlemen, I really want to thank you.” She pulled two tens from her purse and said, “Use these any way you want.”
“Miss,” Tisdale hesitantly added, “Jensen swore he’d kill Burton if he ever got out. I’m guessing that’s why he might have changed his last name.”
“Makes sense,” she replied. “I’ll get Burton’s file back to you when we finish with it.”
Thirty minutes later, the two were out the gates and headed back to Chicago. It had been a good day, but there was still much work to be done. They had to find Burton or Burgess or whatever name he was using now. That wasn’t going to be easy, but they were much closer to that than they had been yesterday. They had a real name and a tie to McGrew and the Packard.
“Henry, you know McGrew,” she said as she drove out of the city limits. “Do you think he was in on the kidnapping?”
“No,” Reese answered assertively. “If he’d have even known about it, he’d have gotten a lot more than ten grand. Burgess was just paying him back an old favor. When you understand what McGrew did for him, the price wasn’t too high either. In fact, it sounds like a bargain to me.”
“You’re the expert on McGrew,” she noted. “Why didn’t you know about this prison riot?”
“Not sure anyone knew about the incident with Burgess other than Tisdale and those that witnessed it. It wasn’t in his files. You know,” he added, a touch of admiration in his tone, “I never picked up on the race angle in dealing with Tisdale.”
“I understand being the underdog,” Meeker said and then shrugged. “Let’s just say convincing Hoover and his crew that a woman can add another sensibility in investigations, and that we might notice things his men miss, ain’t easy.”
Chapter 57
December 6, 1940
Mitchell Burgess might not have existed before his stop in Oakwood, but in just two weeks the agents traced the much more obvious trail of Mitchell Burton clear back to his birthplace in Columbus, Ohio. He was forty-four and had been married three times. In fact, he was still married to all three of his wives even though none of them had heard from him in years and had no idea where he was now. He had no one. His parents were dead, and his lone sibling, a sister in Dayton, Edith Burton Mass, had last seen him in 1928.
Burgess managed to make it through high school, but he never lasted long at any job he landed after that. He’d been a farmhand, was employed as a gas station attendant, then a baggageman for the railroad before landing the guard position at the prison. Those who knew him during his jobs found him rather cold and aloof. The word that kept coming up was loner.
“Look at this,” Meeker noted. “Our man worked on the assembly line at Packard in 1936. Looking at the months he was employed by the company, he was there when I visited.”
“It is a small world,” Reese shot back.
Meeker turned her attention back to her research. The man had been arrested about a half-dozen times for everything from petty theft to driving without a license, but he’d never been convicted on any of those minor violations. Thus, because his official record was clean, he was able to get the prison guard job at Joliet.
He appeared in Oakwood just a few months after the prison riot with his new name. During that time he produced bogus documentation under the name Burgess, likely obtained through contacts he’d established while working at the prison. Yet when he left Oakwood, the trail ended.
The one hope that had been driving the agents was finding a connection between Burton and Hooks and using that to track down Hooks’ wife, Marge. There was nothing. Thus,
five weeks later, after trips across country chasing down several leads, they were no closer to finding the man or the woman he’d lived with in St. Louis.
It was just a few minutes before noon when Meeker wearily glanced up from one of the files and sighed. “Ready for lunch?”
“Sure,” Reese said. “With the cold wind and all that white stuff coming down, may I suggest Mac’s Chili?”
She cocked her left eyebrow. “It wouldn’t matter if it was the hottest day of the summer, you’d still find an excuse to eat at that dive.”
“It’s the atmosphere,” he offered.
“It’s certainly not the food.” She laughed.
She was reaching for her purse when the door flew open. Walking through unannounced was Alvin Lepowitz. He had a smile on his face so large it gave him a third chin.
“What brings you in from DC?” Meeker asked.
“Important work,” he shot back. He studied the woman’s face before taking three steps forward and handing her a large folder.
She didn’t look at the contents, but by the man’s smug demeanor she knew what it had to be. “I’m guessing you didn’t fly in to give us a new FBI case?”
“Actually,” he grinned, “I rode the train. No, the folder doesn’t have anything to do with the FBI, but it is a new assignment. You’re heading back to the White House. ‘The Grand Experiment,’ as Eleanor called it, is over. As I predicted, it has been labeled a failure. Thus the FBI will remain a boys’ club, and no calls from you will change that. Hoover and I have made sure of that. You’re out of cards.”
“What about the Rose Hall kidnapping case?” she demanded. “I know more about it than anyone. And we now pretty much know who did it. All that’s left is finding him.”
“It’s not important.” The visitor was practically giggling. Helen balled her fists. The man went on, “With Europe falling apart and Germany and Japan placing agents in this country to stir up trouble, we have much bigger fish to fry. Now pack your bags, and turn over all your files to Reese. There’s probably some typing you need to be doing at the White House.”
Meeker was boiling. Her instincts demanded she fight to keep her association with the FBI. Yet if there was any way it could have been saved, Lepowitz wouldn’t have made the trip. This was his victory. Just like he’d vowed, he’d finally put her in her place.
“How long do I have to wrap things up?” she asked.
“As long as you need.” His tone changed, suddenly seeming to take on a hint of understanding. He smiled before adding, “As long as you’re out of the office by five today. You’re expected to report to your new job on Monday.”
The big man turned proudly to Reese. “Dixon will be your new partner. I know you’ve worked with him before. Finish up your duties here. Whatever you can’t get done by the end of this month, assign to other Chicago agents. You will be working out of Los Angeles.”
Lepowitz turned back to Meeker, “You have a good trip back East. Oh, and by the way, turn that yellow car over to impound. This case is dead. We no longer need it as possible evidence. We’re going to offer it back to the owners. If they don’t want it back, we’ll auction it off.”
“They won’t want it,” Meeker shot back. “And this is not over. There’ll be women on the front lines of FBI work soon.”
“Yeah, right,” he snarled, “just like they’ll let Negroes play in the major leagues. It’s a white male’s world, sweetheart. Get used to it. I suggest you settle down, find a husband, have a few babies, and learn to cook.”
He was out the door before she could respond. Seething with rage, she grabbed a glass paperweight and threw it at the nearest wall. It shattered into a thousand pieces.
“Feel better?” Reese quietly asked.
“No,” she growled. “What’s going to happen to the Halls? What’s going to happen to all the other women who need to be working here? Women have instincts and intelligence this bureau could use! You know that!”
“Time doesn’t change attitudes very quickly,” he said. “We have to accept that, too. But I can assure you of this. I will tell everyone I know that you were the best partner I ever had.”
“Seriously?” she asked.
“No doubt.”
Chapter 58
It was four thirty when Helen Meeker returned the Packard to impound. By that time she’d contacted Carole Hall. The woman, who was very upset with the FBI for pulling Meeker from the case, assured the agent that neither she nor George had any interest in keeping the sedan. Then, after a soft thank-you, she hung up.
The life she’d loved was over. She’d figured in time it would be. Even though she was being sent packing, she felt good about her work. Yet, the fact that she’d never closed the case on Rose Hall’s kidnapping would, as Reese had warned so many weeks before, haunt her for the rest of her life.
“Here you go,” Meeker said, tossing the keys to the attendant. “It goes up at the next auction. The owner’s address is in the file on the seat. Send the money to her.”
“Got it,” Jinx Stally replied. Dressed in blue coveralls and wearing a Cubs baseball hat, his eyes moved from the woman to the car and back. He seemed to falter for a moment before clearing his throat and choking out, “We’ll miss you. I know what I think doesn’t matter a bit to old J. Edgar, but you were one of the best the FBI had.”
She glanced back to the sixty-year-old man, noted a bit of moisture in his clear blue eyes and a look of genuine affection etched into his wrinkled face. “Thanks, Jinx. And it might not mean anything to Hoover, but it sure does to me.”
Reese was waiting outside to take her back to her hotel room. She had a reservation on the 7:30 train back to Washington, so she needed to get moving. Pulling her coat closer to her body to fend off the strong, frigid lake wind, she nodded at Jinx, stepped outside the garage and into the fading sunset. Fighting tears, she had just about made her way to the passenger side of the agent’s car when it hit her. Opening the door, she looked across to the man and said, “I forgot something. I’ll be right back.”
Retracing her steps, she walked back through the garage door just before Jinx was about to close it. Hurrying as fast as her black pumps would allow, she moved to the Packard’s front passenger door, grabbed the handle, gave a twist, and felt the door spring open. Pulling it back, she looked at the familiar interior one more time.
Setting her purse on the seat, she searched through the contents. Below her billfold and gloves, almost hiding under an address book, was something she needed to return to its place. After fishing out the magnetic, toy Scotty dogs from her bag, she snapped her purse shut. She clutched the twin playthings in her fist for a few moments as she said a quick prayer then reached under the seat. Satisfied they had been returned to where Bobbs had found them, she closed the door, strolled back out to Reese’s car, got in, but said nothing. She was still as mute as a mime three blocks later.
“It’s the Hall case,” Reese finally announced. “That’s what got your goat and your tongue.”
She didn’t answer or look his way but instead studied street scenes outside her window. With snow spitting from the sky, stores displaying holiday decorations, and shoppers crowding the sidewalks, it looked like Christmas. It was the time of wonder and magic for children. It was a time of joy and cheer for adults. Yet if Rose was alive somewhere, would there be any wonder or cheer for her? And what would the holidays be like for her parents?
Pulling her arms over her chest, Helen looked toward Reese. The words she wanted to say caught in her throat. So, shaking her head, she turned her gaze back out the windshield to where the wipers were slowly dusting the snow from the glass.
“I won’t,” the man solemnly said as he pulled up to a red light.
She quickly looked into his eyes. She had to be sure that he meant what she hoped he did. “Won’t what?”
“I won’t quit working on the case,” he vowed as the light changed and he pulled forward. “And I’ll let you know if I find out anythi
ng. I promise.”
That wasn’t nearly enough, but it was something. At this moment, holding on to Reese’s promise of not giving up was all she had.
“And, Helen,” he added, “I am going to find a way to teach you how to have fun someday. Life is much more than work.”
Chapter 59
I wish there was better news,” the gray-headed doctor sadly told the two anxious parents. “There is just nothing more that can be done.”
Nate Coffman looked from the physician to his thirty-year-old wife, Beverly. She was a small woman graced with great strength. He’d always figured she could support the entire world on her five-foot-tall, ninety-pound frame. But he could see in her almost black eyes that this was too much.
“Are you sure?” Nate’s question hung in the air like a foul odor.
The kindly physician pushed his finger through his thinning hair and glanced out a slightly ajar door to the waiting room. There, sitting on a chair playing with a doll, was an energetic blond-headed girl. She appeared healthy, but she was a time bomb waiting to explode. And when she did, her life would be snuffed out in less time than it took to sneeze. Turning his gaze back to the couple, he crossed his arms and leaned up against his desk.
“Nate, I brought you into the world thirty-one years go,” the doctor began, his tone almost fatherly. “I nursed you through whooping cough, the measles, and a half-dozen other illnesses. I fixed your broken right arm, twice. In spite of all that and a number of other things, you grew up into the strapping man that sits before me today. But as much as it breaks my heart to admit it, I can’t do anything for your little girl.”
Walking over behind his desk, the physician eased down into his chair. After making sure both parents were looking directly at him, he continued, “Two months ago when Angel fell off the monkey bars and hit her head on the concrete, I thought it was nothing more than a concussion. That’s all it looked like then. Even when she experienced that mild seizure two days later, it still didn’t concern me that much. I figured she’d get over it. But the second one sent me scrambling.”
