"Well, something happened to change things," Fahey said in a low voice. "Whitnauer is dead. His body got found today. I tried to call you here several times and got no answer."
"I was otherwise occupied, at a refinery down in Whiting."
"Oh yeah, right. Some of our uniforms are down there now, helping out the local force. Anyway, it turns out Whitnauer had been dead for days. People living in the flophouse in Uptown smelled, well...you know what they smelled, and it was not a rat. Somebody finally broke into the locked room and then called us. It looked like he shot himself."
"Which was how it was supposed to look," I said. "Taylor told me about how it all happened just before he made his final move. By the way, Fergus, how did our intrepid Mr. Prentiss happen to show up along the track so soon after Taylor got hit?"
"Somebody heard a shot and told one of the uniformed men on the grounds. He went to Jack, who happened to be on duty tonight, and…" He turned a palm over.
"I can tell you a lot about that shot, Fergus." I proceeded to describe those last frantic minutes leading up to Rob Taylor's death.
Fahey looked for an ashtray and, failing to find one, flicked the ashes from his Lucky onto the plank floor, grinding them under his heel. "So, what made you suspect this Taylor in the first place?"
"As you know, I had what at first seemed like an out-of-left-field idea the fair killings were the work of somebody seeking revenge against railroads–all railroads. So I went through the Trib's clips on train mishaps, and that 1939 case of the three kids on bikes getting killed by a train jumped out at me.
"I mentioned this to my wife, whom you have of course met, and gave her all the details, including the name of the train's engineer, Schneider. Earlier today, Catherine called me and said she had looked up 'Schneider' in a German-English dictionary and found it translates to 'tailor' in our very own mother tongue. Schneider was also the original last name of Fred Metzger, Rob's uncle and the PR head at the fair whom your guys hauled out of here in manacles a few minutes ago."
"I know," Fahey said, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. "So these guys were both related to the engineer?"
"His son and his brother. As Rob and I struggled like two kids on a grade school playground a few minutes before he died, he told me how his father had been persecuted by the parents of the dead kids, among other people. Being a German immigrant, he still spoke with an accent.
"After the accident, he couldn't find work on any railroad–they all apparently figured him for a mental case. To top it off, he got called all sorts of names, including 'Nazi,' and his houses got vandalized. I say houses because the family moved a couple of times to get away from the harassment. They never did escape it, though, and the old man finally hanged himself in his basement."
"I gather Taylor was behind the shooting at the pageant, too?"
"Yeah. He either had a hand in hiring Whitnauer, or 'Sam White' if you prefer, at the fair or got to him once he began working there. Then, and maybe your men will find out how, he got hold of a live round and had Whitnauer load it into one of the rifles."
"He couldn't possibly have known a single shell would kill someone, though."
"No, he got 'lucky' there, if you can use such a word to describe a tragedy. The fellow who fired the fatal shot, as I think you know from his questioning, had been something of a hunter as a kid, shooting ducks with his father out along the Mississippi River. He knew his way around weapons."
Fahey nodded. "And I gather from what you started to say a minute ago, Rob Taylor told you about the flophouse shooting?"
"He did, figuring I wasn't going to be around to tell anyone else about it. He admitted the killing and said he also printed the 'suicide' note."
"So you were right. He didn't want the handwriting traced back to him, or compared against Whitnauer's."
"I was only partly right, Fergus. Sure, Taylor didn't want the handwriting checked against his own. But as to comparing the note to Whitnauer's writing, it wasn't going to happen. The poor bastard couldn't read or write."
"Jesus. He killed an illiterate?"
"Yeah. And for what it's worth, I'll give you a theory–unproveable, of course. I think Taylor may have originally planned only the shooting at the pageant, nothing more. When that resulted in a death and garnered all manner of publicity, he got excited and emboldened and realized he could wreak really big-time revenge against the railroads. So, he started his killing spree."
"Maybe," Fahey said. "Like you said, we'll probably never know. As long as you're dealing out theories, why do you figure Taylor killed the illiterate? Was the guy going to squeal?"
"So Taylor claimed to me. He said Whitnauer wanted more money or he'd go to the police. That may or may not be true, though. I'm afraid I may be indirectly to blame for what happened. As you can see, the walls in this place are just plywood, and it's not hard to hear between rooms, especially if you're trying to. Metzger's office is right next door, and it had to be easy enough for him and his nephew to overhear my phone calls. You'll recall I talked to you about Whitnauer." I did not bother to add that I'd also discussed Whitnauer on the phone with Pickles Podgorny.
"At that stage, I had no idea Taylor was our man, with his uncle as an accomplice," I went on. "So I inadvertently ended up playing right into their hands."
Fahey lit another Lucky and watched the smoke rise toward the ceiling. "We'll go through the office, of course, and both their homes. Do you know anything about whether either one was married and had a family?"
"I have no idea. He never mentioned anybody. The fair's executive office probably has the particulars on Metzger, and maybe Taylor as well."
"Another question, and here I'm just asking for your speculation: Do you think Taylor planned to kill himself right from the start?"
"No. I believe he threw himself in front of the train only after I had prevented him from sabotaging it. He was beaten and he knew it, so he may have seen killing himself as his only option."
The chief scowled. "What a nightmare this has turned into."
"True, but at least the killings are over now."
"That may be, but there's likely to be all manner of investigations, both within the department and by those civic do-gooder groups that like nothing more than to let us know they are not happy with our performances."
"A lot of tut-tutting, right?"
"All that and a lot more, Snap, including periodic cries for change in the upper echelons of the department. You've been around long enough to know how things work. It's pretty predictable. Well, I've got to touch base with the commissioner, among others," he said without enthusiasm, rising slowly and walking out into the night.
Chapter Forty-Five
My phone had squawked twice while Fahey and I talked, but I ignored it. I was pretty sure at least one of the calls had been from the Tribune, so I dialed the city desk. To my surprise, Hal Murray still manned his post.
"I didn't expect to hear your voice this late," I told him. "Not to suggest I'm in any way disappointed, you understand."
"Are you by chance still at the fair?" he barked. "I called you a couple of times."
"You might say I've been tied up for a while. The killer–or should I say alleged killer–of three people out here is now dead himself, as you probably know by now. Plus he's an accomplice in a fourth death here."
"You're damned right, we know. But we don't know a whole lot else, except the police are saying a suspect in the pageant shooting was found dead in his hotel room in Uptown today. What've you got for us?"
"Quite a bit. I can tell you more about the Uptown death, and I also became an eyewitness to a suicide, but I don't want a big deal made out of my role. I had more than enough of that during the Truman business last fall. I'm well aware we are expected to report the news, not make it."
"That's true, although you seem to be the exception to the rule," Murray remarked dryly. "You are to news as a pot of honey is to a hungry bear. Look, just feed Williamson
everything you've got, and the higher-ups here can do the worrying about whether there is too much of you in it."
"Aye, aye, sir. Put Mr. W. on, and I'll regurgitate what I've been experiencing here on this fine Chicago summer evening."
I gave Williamson all the gory details, and being a superb rewrite man, he as usual asked a question after almost every sentence I dictated.
"Look, Eddie, please play down my part in this," I beseeched him.
"Okay, but we have got to keep in your eyewitness description of Taylor throwing himself onto the tracks. You know the bosses are going to want lots of details. It sells and it shows the world the Tribune is always right where news happens. Let the other papers try to match that."
I groaned, but knew he was correct. He did promise, however, to keep my role at a minimum. However, his wasn't the ultimate decision by any means. That got made by Pat Maloney and the other top editors sitting at the big, four-sided desk in the center of the newsroom.
The next morning, the Tribune's banner headline read FAIR KILLER ENDS LIFE! The lead story gave a straightforward account of Taylor's killing spree and death, but sure enough, the editors had included a sidebar headed TRIB REPORTER SEES SUICIDE. It used practically every quote Williamson had wormed out of me when I had phoned in.
"Dammit all," I said as I read the paper at home while drinking coffee after breakfast. Catherine had decreed I was in no condition to go to work at the fair that day, and I did not argue the point. She had been beside herself the previous night when I got home well after eleven o'clock and she took one look at my face.
Her initial shock gave way to anger, which I'm happy to say quickly gave way to concern. Then came the requisite "I thought you said you wouldn't get involved…" admonishment, but she then rapidly switched into Florence Nightingale mode, which I accepted as being a pretty good outcome after what had been one of the wildest days of my life.
"He actually planned to kill you, didn't he?" Catherine asked as we had more coffee.
"Sure seemed liked it," I said, "but for some reason, I wasn't worried, although I'm not sure I can tell you why. Rob Taylor seemed so singularly intent on wrecking the train I became almost an afterthought, a minor irritant."
"Yes, but you were all that stood in the way of making the wreck happen."
"I suppose you're right. He darned near pulled it off at that. He would have if he didn't take his mind off of me, if only for an instant. Even so, I had to make a perfect throw with our trusty flashlight."
"Who would have thought it would come down to a flashlight? In the end, it all gets back to Walt Disney's theory being right on the mark," Catherine said as she looked at me over the rim of her cup. "Now what, Steve?"
"What do you mean?"
"Will you go back to the fair after all this?"
"I really don't know; it's up to the editors. I'll tell you this, however. I think we've pretty much milked the thing dry. There are only so many features you can wring out of an exposition like this. I thought when I got the assignment it was overkill having somebody out there full-time."
"You didn't say anything to your bosses at the time, though."
"True enough. But it pretty much got presented to me as a fait accompli, as you will recall."
"You were plenty depressed then."
"Well, I'm still not exactly doing handsprings now about my future prospects," I told her. "And to top it off, I wake up to find the home-delivered edition full of my exploits. Just what a reporter doesn't want to be: a major player in a story he's covering."
"But don't your editors have to be impressed with you now? Won't all the publicity actually help what you refer to as your 'future prospects'?"
"I don't know…maybe," I replied, draining the rest of my coffee.
"We will just have to worry about those future prospects later," she said with wifely authority. "Right now, I want to change the bandage on your forehead and put another cold compress on your nose. He could have broken it."
"True, but given its original Slavic configuration, almost anything would be an improvement," I said as we went upstairs, where she would further minister to my wounds, both physical and psychological.
Chapter Forty-Six
After a one-day recuperation at home, I persuaded Catherine I had recovered enough to return to the fair. It seemed strange to walk into the pressroom knowing Fred Metzger and Rob Taylor would never be back, although as I started to sit down, I heard noises coming from next door.
I found a slender, balding man in a business suit whom I did not recognize going through the filing cabinets and other papers in the public relations office. He turned as I entered.
"Oh, hello, hope I am not disturbing you," he said amiably. "My name is Gene Hayes, I'm one of the many assistant managers at the fair."
He held out a hand, and as we shook, I introduced myself. "Oh yes, Steve Malek, everybody here knows you, especially after what happened two days ago. I believe you are the only full-time newspaperman on the grounds, correct?"
"Yes. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Oh–now the police have, er, finished going through this office, I've been sent in to see what's in the files and also to try to figure out just how we are going to cover public relations during the last few weeks of the run."
"Afraid I can't suggest a PR boss for you, although I can recommend an assistant."
"Really? Who might that be?"
"Her name is Charlene Miller, and she's a student at Mundelein College up on the North Side. She currently is working as one of the ticket sellers at the main entrance, but clearly she's being wasted there. She was a great deal of help to me a few weeks ago on a project, and I highly commend her. She's lively, eager, and a quick learner."
"Well, that's very thoughtful of you, Mr. Malek. I'll look into it today. Thank you so much."
As it turned out, Charlene spent the rest of the fair's run working as a public relations assistant to a bright young man brought in from one of the local P.R. firms. I got the impression seeing them in the office next door that they might end up being more than working colleagues.
I now faced the problem of figuring out where to find my next feature. I might just have to begin wandering the grounds in search of interesting people and events. Or maybe I could start leading tours, showing visitors where the various murders had taken place.
My reverie got interrupted by the telephone's jangling. "Snap, have you got a few minutes to talk?"
"For you, Fergus, always. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"
"Your colleague Westcott, and of course by extension the others in the pressroom here, all know what I'm about to tell you, but I figure I owe you an update."
"I guess maybe you do. Shoot."
"We went through Metzger's office there at the fair, but we found nothing of interest. Ditto his home, but Taylor's place was quite another story."
"Hmm. Where did he live?"
"With his mother, on the Far South Side–the house they moved to not long after Josef Schneider's suicide."
"Find anything interesting?"
"Just wait till you hear. We got a search warrant, and a team rifled the place. The mother went into hysterics as our men pored over her dead son's effects, and she had to be restrained by a matron who fortunately had been brought along. The woman swore in both German and English the whole time our dicks were there. She even taught them some new curse words.
"But enough. Several notebooks were filled with Taylor's handwritten ravings–I don't know how else to describe them. A lot of it consisted of diatribes against the railroads and how they had destroyed his father."
"The young guy turned out to be a real case," I observed.
"Yeah. He also had a fat scrapbook filled with clippings from every newspaper in town about the accident, the inquest, and a follow-up investigation by the railroad that cleared his father.
"Speaking of his father, one of these notebooks, the spiral-bound kind students use, had nothi
ng in it except notes and letters to the old man."
"That's interesting. He had saved them all these years, huh?"
"No, that's just it! He had been 'writing' to old Josef Schneider right up to the other day. Every letter neatly done in longhand."
"Weird, all right," I said.
"These letters, some just a few sentences, others a page or two, described how he was going to kill somebody at the fair. Others got written after the deeds had been done, so to speak. He kept repeating how he did all of this as a way of avenging his father."
"My God, that's macabre. The papers are going to love this."
"There's more. I don't know if you remember, but the man who headed up public relations at the fair last year died after he fell off a subway station platform in the Loop and got hit by a train as it pulled in."
"Fergus, I think I know what you're going to tell me."
"Maybe you do. One of Taylor's hand-written epistles, told about Mr. Chester Rawlings and how he happened to fall onto the subway tracks."
"Let me take a wild stab. He got pushed by one Rob Taylor, who had hinted as much to me on that last awful night."
"Here, I owe you this. Let me read from his notebook: Chester was such a very nice man, a very gentle man, Papa, and I truly hated what I had to do. Truly I did. I had followed him for several days, getting used to his habits. Finally, he was right where I wanted him to be. The platform at the Monroe Street stop was crowded, and he stood close to the edge. Wonderfully close to the edge. I reached in with one arm and gave a nice, strong shove just as the train entered the station, then I merged back into the crowd as they all began screaming. I don't think he felt a thing. But I had no choice, Papa. I had to fulfill our destiny.
"How's that for macabre, Mr. Deadline Man?"
"It ranks right up there. As I said before, the papers will love this. They'll all run wild with it in tomorrow's editions and in the days to come. Is the heat off of you and your bosses now?"
Terror at the Fair (A Snap Malek Mystery) Page 17
