“He came across a cardboard box marked ‘Arkansas.’ Went through it, nothing of note but an old reel of magnetic-tape recording. He played it. Nothing on it but a recording someone had made in early December of 1934 of the Walter Winchell Show. Know him?”
“Some big news guy?”
“Gossip, more like. Claimed to have the inside scoop. New York columnist, syndicated all over the place, got a network radio show when network radio was the TV of America. He was pals with lots of big shots, including a certain Director of the FBI, which wasn’t even the ‘FBI’ until six months later.”
“Okay. It has to do with Arkansas? So what?”
“Let me play it for you. If the voice is familiar, it’s because you’re old enough to have watched The Untouchables as a kid, and Winchell was the narrator on that show.”
Nick moved the cursor to an icon in the text of the message, hit “Enter,” and a voice emerged from eighty-odd years ago over the speakers, stentorian, witless, full of rectitude and certainty.
“Now, I’ll never criticize Mr. J. Edgar,” said Winchell into a radio mic the size of a hubcap in a studio in Manhattan on that cold December night, and Nick and Bob listened to it through technology Winchell couldn’t have imagined eighty-three years later, “and the job he and his boys are doing against vermin like John Dillinger, Pretty Boy Floyd, and Baby Face Nelson, Public Enemies Number One, who are now Public Enemies Number Dead. But even J. Edgar makes mistakes. It seems one of the boys wasn’t up to the task of going gun to gun against the Tommy-toting gangsters and he cut and ran—all the way to Hicktown, Arkansas, where he came from. Quitters never win and winners never quit. What that shows is two things: first, Mr. Hoover is capable of making a mistake. He’s human too, after all, and admits it. Second, there’s no room for yellow among the red, white, and blue.”
“Can’t be Charles Swagger,” said Bob. “That old bastard didn’t have any run in him.”
“I’m not saying it is,” said Nick. “But it could be aimed at Charles. It meant to destroy him. Someone in high places used Winchell to smear the only man in Arkansas who’d been in the Division. Really, to crush him. It’s like erasing. I don’t know what he did, but he managed to get folks real angered.”
“A coward? No,” said Bob, but, even so, he didn’t like the feel, the sound, the direction. He shuddered. “A bastard. A crook, maybe. A drunk, absolutely. But a coward? No way.”
40
CHICAGO
August 1934
ANOTHER STAKEOUT. This one was off a Purvis tip, so Purvis ran it. It was pure theater. Charles knew that he’d hear about Baby Face from Uncle Phil alone, and any other source was almost certainly bogus. But protocols had to be observed and so he and a team of young fellows set up in cars on the North Side, around a joint called The Yellow Parrot, once a favorite of Big Al’s, and said, for tonight at least, to be a spot where Baby Face might make his presence known. In the cars was enough heavy artillery to make him regret the decision.
Charles, a Thompson with a fifty-round drum in his lap pressing heavily against his legs, sat breathing through a tailor-made in Division car number 13, a big Hudson, with Ed Hollis behind the wheel, his Browning rifle in the backseat for a fast grab if it happened, which it wouldn’t. They smoked, they felt their wristwatches ticking the night away, they watched the occasional drunk stagger this way or that from one North Side gin joint to another, they tried to stay alert and ready.
“It’s not going to happen, is it, Sheriff?” asked Ed.
“Probably not.”
“I thought Baby Face was a homebody. He’d be screwing Helen, not prowling jazz cribs on the North Side.”
“That’s what they say. But maybe it’s a professional meet, a job-planning session. That might get him out on the town.”
“Wouldn’t you see other faces on the wall in there by now?”
“You would. Inspector Purvis said he got this from a State Police informant inside a downstate car-theft ring, who’s known to sell heaps to the bank gangs. It could be legit. It ain’t, but it could be.”
Both men sighed, smiled, and settled back. These things were usually called off around 2 a.m. And that was an hour away, so there was nothing to do but squirm after comfort, stretch cramping neck muscles, keep the hands loose and flexible, and eat up time diddling with the makings of yet another tailor-made.
Suddenly a phantom swept before Charles on the right. It was Purvis. Charles rolled down the window.
“Charles, can you do me a favor?”
“Sure thing,” said Charles. “Name it.”
“I owe a reporter a favor. I also owe myself a favor because everyone thinks I’m just out promoting myself. So this guy from the Herald-Examiner got wind of tonight’s operation, and he’s showed up. Can you chat with him a few minutes? He’s pretty solid, can be trusted, okay?”
“Sure,” said Charles, “but I don’t know what I could tell him.”
“Tell him Dillinger’s last words. It’s something we haven’t released yet. He’ll appreciate it. It’s Page One for him. Then tell him you’ll return his phone calls. But of course never return his phone calls.”
“I never do,” said Charles.
He set the Thompson down, after pushing the SAFE lever into position, and slipped out of the Hudson. His legs issued distress as they unfolded and found themselves required to perform labor again. He twisted, stretched his back, and followed Purvis down the dark street and into an alley, where a man awaited.
Purvis handled the intros, and the fellow was a Dave Jessup, Chicago Herald-Examiner, one of the more respectable rags, and immediately impressed Charles as someone never to play poker with. Feral, over-alert, a little nervous. City rat, knew the angles, the deals, where the bodies rotted. Oh, and of course wiseguy. Smart aleck. Fast lip. Wanted to write movies and hang out with stars.
“So, I guess that you’re him?”
“Him?” asked Charles.
“You know, the cowboy gunfighter who plugged Johnny. Your outfit wants Mel to be the face of it, but I figure it had to be someone more cowboy than Mel, who’s a little uptown for that kind of work.”
“Sir, the policy is not to release details. I was there, I did my job as it came up, and that’s all I can say.”
“They wouldn’t have put you there unless you’d been there a lot of times. It’s the kind of game where experience counts, right? A lot of time behind a pistol. See it, hit it, bury it?”
He had an eager aggression that almost caused his face to shine.
“It’s okay if you tell me,” he said. “Off the record means off the record.”
“Until it don’t,” said Charles.
“No, no, when I say it, I mean it. Ask around, you’ll see that I keep my word. We’re not the Trib, or the Sun or the Times. We run a class outfit and shoot square all the way.”
“Well, I’m not the type that talks things up. I just did what was required by circumstance, and that’s all I’d be comfortable saying, record or no.”
“Okay. But I have heard you got to him first when he went down. You heard what he said.”
“I did. Truth is, it didn’t make much sense.”
“Can you tell me?”
“Something about the way he was dressed.”
“I guess he thought he was a dude. You remember the exact words? Something I can put in the paper?”
“I’m thinking it was”—what was it?—“something about wanting to be ‘dressed right for people.’”
“Was it a joke?”
“He had a hole the size of a tomato in his face. His brains were on the sidewalk. I don’t think he was trying to be funny.”
“You know it, I know it, but the rubes don’t know it. Say, pal, you’re okay. I’m thinking something like, But I ain’t dressed for church. Or, I’m not even wearing a tie!”
“He was wearing
a tie. No jacket, though.”
“Then, I’m not dressed for this.”
“It might have been something like that, I suppose. But there was another element. I’m not dressed for folks, maybe. Or, I’m not dressed for company.”
“So if I say his last words are ‘I’m not dressed for company,’ you’re not going to call me a liar?”
“I’m not going to call you anything. I’m not going to call you.”
“That’s all I want. You just got me a bonus. ‘I’m not dressed for company’—swell, the rubes think Hollywood writes everything, they want a snappy end line. Here, let me give you my card, it’s got my number at the Examiner, and if there’s anything I can do for the real hero of the day, you let me know. See, I know stuff, I know folks, I do favors and find things out. I always know the real story behind the story I print and I know the story I print is basically bullshit. Maybe I can do you a favor someday.”
“Sure, and some day pigs will star in movies.”
“Good one,” said Jessup.
Charles slipped the card into his pocket and watched the fellow slip away, happy with his little fake prize.
—
CHARLES HAD ANOTHER NIGHTMARE that night, a particularly bad one. The war; men jostling and climbing to meet the bristling fire; gray, muttering faces, masked with fear—Jesus, when will it stop?—and, in the aftermath, the men who’d died, the paleness of their bodies against the mud, the reaching white limbs, the results of ballistics against the tenderness of flesh, the smell of shit that occluded the Western Front from start to finish. He woke, blinking and sweaty, glad at least he hadn’t screamed. He was okay. But it was mid-morning and there was no point in trying to get back to sleep. He rose, showered, dressed, slipped the .45 in the shoulder holster, and left. Not much business at the diner, and he had a nice breakfast of eggs, bacon, coffee, juice. That would keep him going until a late dinner.
He got in about 11:30 and noticed it right away. It was a note from Elaine: “Call your Uncle Phil as soon as possible.”
41
McLEAN,VIRGINIA
The present
“OKAY,” said Bob, “you got me all excited.”
“This one is big. I think you’ll be pleased.”
They were in the study, sometime before dinner, and Bob had just arrived after a hasty call from Nick.
“I got another call from History itself,” Nick explained.
Swagger knew that was the senior historian, who could find anything in the vast array of frayed papers stuffed into filing cabinets and cardboard boxes that occupied the entire floor of the Hoover subbasement, as he had with the Winchell recording.
“He was on another project, but he came across this and saw immediately how it might fit in for us.”
Bob took the document, and looked at it closely. Unusually, it wasn’t a photocopy but the real thing, typed on four pieces of real paper, each secured in a plastic sleeve to protect it from the elements, human touch especially.
“I was running late; he was running early,” Nick explained. “He had a speech to give. Photocopying was backed up. He said, just take this one, but have it back on Monday. And be careful. Otherwise, no significance. We just can’t make a paper airplane out of it.”
It was a closely typed report of some sort, whose typeface, nomenclature, official seal, and catalog number all accorded with Bureau paperwork protocols as Swagger had encountered them. The title read
RECOMMENDATIONS FOR HANDGUN POLICY REVISION
Below that, it said “Submitted, June 18, 1934, by REDACTED.”
Scanning the brief accumulation of pages, he saw also that at the bottom right of each page it bore the notation “REDACTED/EPD.”
“EPD typed it,” said Nick, “we know her. That’s our favorite gal, Elaine Donovan, the hardest-working gal in showbiz. She also typed the thing from South Bend, or at least the original pages.”
Bob began reading.
It was, clearly, in a voice of a man knowledgeable in handgun fighting, physics, mechanics, maintenance, and training; clearly, a man who had won more than a few gunfights. His suggestions also seemed radical for the time. He didn’t believe in the concept of the static range, where agents stood still in rigid target positions and fired one-handed at silhouette targets twenty-five yards away. Instead, he recommended a “dynamic action” course of fire, in which agents would draw from concealment, move, engage sculptural targets from concealed positions at unusual angles, sometimes firing down, sometimes firing up, sometimes firing at movers, sometimes at chargers. They would be encouraged to fire two-handed, instead of the conventional one, to always use their sights, and to load under time pressures. It was just like the latest SEAL or SWAT doctrine. He encouraged high-hip carry, cocked-and-locked .45 automatics or Smith & Wesson Heavy Duty .38s on .44 frames, with much practice on draw and first-shot placement, followed by rapid movement toward cover or, if cover wasn’t available, to evade return fire. For raid or arrest teams, he urged special training in maneuvering off a base of fire, based on army raiding techniques; use of short-barreled fully automatic weapons, such as Thompsons, with the stocks removed, or .351 Winchesters or .35 Remington semi-autos, tweaked to go full rat-a-tat-tat. He believed in a sniper component as part of deployment, and took it further by recommending establishing a sniper school, for he felt that the precise long-range shot was a useful tool in the law enforcement repertoire. He recommended the heavy-caliber bullet for both automatic or revolver, in the year before the .357 Magnum was developed and adopted.
“It sounds Swagger, doesn’t it?” said Nick. “There may have been other fellows around who had the experience and had thought rigorously about the issue as well, but I don’t think any of them worked for the FBI at the time.”
“Someone fixed the grammar and spelling, for sure, but that’s him. And he knew what he was talking about,” said Bob.
“In that time period, only a few did, but they didn’t have the Bureau’s ear. I’m thinking of Elmer Keith, Ed McGivern, maybe some others. The other handgun-and-tactics writers and thinkers didn’t come along until after the war.”
Bob nodded.
“It really seems to cement the case,” said Nick.
“Well,” said Bob, “still in the goddamned ‘circumstantial’ zone. But maybe there’s something else here.”
“I missed something?”
“Not at all. But this paragraph, page 4, bottom, and on to page 5, top, is interesting.”
Nick read:
“‘It is also suggested that the Division field offices hire or place under part-time contracts professional gunsmiths, as opposed to the current practice of appointing an armorer from among the agent pool. Gunsmithing is a fine art, and a man who has mastered the intricacies and nuance of firearms can contribute a great deal more than simple maintenance, cleaning, minor repair, and cataloging, which is the limit of the armorer’s abilities. A gunsmith, for example, can transform a stock automatic into a far more useful fighting tool that will give our agents the advantage, particularly in close-range public arrest situations that are so likely to occur. A Government Model Colt .45 ACP, for example, can be improved for reliability by judicious filing of the joinery between frame and barrel; its tiny sights, almost worthless in any kind of shooting event, can be replaced with larger sights, which are easier to pick up in the blur of action. The sights can also be painted red or white, again for faster visual acquisition. The grip safety, which all too frequently prevents a quickly drawn pistol from coming off safe if the agent misplaces his hands, can be neutralized, either temporarily by a rawhide tie-down or more permanently by the usage of a tapped screw. The safety lever on the frame can be enlarged, so that the thumb naturally falls upon it and depresses it with one hundred percent reliability in emergency situations. Finally, the trigger can be rendered, by polishing certain interior surfaces, much smoother, so that th
e gun is not apt to betray its shooter with a pulled shot when the uneven or gritty trigger pull torques the muzzle off target.’”
“I did see that,” said Nick. “As I recall, the pistol you recovered from the strongbox in the foundation had been worked on in exactly that way.”
“It had. I shot it, I think I told you, and it was a solid piece of work.”
“But you think it has other significance?”
“Hmm, maybe. Maybe he did it right away, when he was issued it. But he was very busy, he was trying to impress people, first-day-on-new-job bullshit, he wanted to hit the ground running, maybe he didn’t have the time. Maybe also he wanted to wait a bit until he’d built a reputation and was respected by management before he took a file to a piece of government-issue equipment. Some might have considered such an enterprise vandalism of government property. He’d want cover before he did it.”
“Unprovable, but it makes sense via the universal workplace rules that apply everywhere, from the Third Reich to the building of the Pyramids and back, on up to NASA: the star gets to do what he wants. But I’m still not sure where this is going.”
“Given that, what would impel him to take the file to the metal?”
“An upcoming arrest,” said Nick. “Potential for action. He had to get the gun up to his standards if he knew he was going to a shoot-out.”
“That’s it.”
“I get it. You think he was on the Dillinger team. He shot John Dillinger.”
“It was his kind of party. It was what they brought him in to handle.”
Nick chewed it over. The identity of the agent who shot Dillinger had never been released, as per the Director’s mandate that no individual got the glory, the outfit did. Most people assumed it was Melvin Purvis because he was the “face” of the Division in those days, though Purvis himself had never made such a claim.
“I wonder if there’s any way of proving it?”
“The serial number was recorded, even if his name was redacted. It was one of ten pistols received from the Postal Department, C-variants shipped to the Chicago Field Office. That particular one was marked ‘Duty Loss,’ but the other nine remained in service until they were retired, whenever. If we know that the agents they were issued to weren’t present during the Dillinger shooting—those being the only issued .45s in Chicago—then that lost pistol had to be the one. That seems pretty airtight.”