“I think you’re on to something.”
“But here’s where I’m going with this. Remember how I said I couldn’t figure out a money angle? There was no treasure. Why was I being followed? You told me it’s always about money. I’m just following your advice.”
“Sometimes I’m so brilliant, it amazes even me,” said Nick.
“That gun—the verified pistol that shot John Dillinger dead in Chicago, July twenty-second, 1934, at the Biograph Theater—that gun might be worth . . . I don’t know . . . thousands . . . hundreds of thousands . . .”
“It should go to the Bureau.”
“It should. But if somebody who knew the rare-gun trade, who had contacts, who had connections in the black market, and knew a lot of wealthy collectors—let’s take it another step—maybe then there are other guns from that era that my grandfather somehow ended up with—that trove of guns, all of them verifiable by serial number—Jesus Christ, now I see it—maybe even Baby Face’s Monitor, we could be talking millions.”
Then he sighed.
“Now all we have to do is solve the map and prove that Charles was in fact in the Bureau.”
“Details, details,” said Nick.
Part IV
42
ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA
August 23, 1934
“THERE HE IS,” said the St. Paul detective, Sergeant Brown. “He’s walking a little gimpy, but they say he’s been loopy since he got shot in the head.”
Charles and the three St. Paul officers, including the chief and the ex-chief, watched from their unmarked Ford as the man dipped across the broad, busy expanse of University Avenue at Marion Street, a perfectly unremarkable crossroads in a perfectly unremarkable section of a perfectly unremarkable city.
It was indeed Homer Van Meter, as Charles had stared at the photos for hours, committing the man’s surprisingly pleasant features to memory: the thick hair, parted on the left, combed right; the lanky frame; the prominent nose and strong chin; the dark eyes. He had a gangling roll to his stride, looked confident, solid, like a taxpayer with no worries in his head, if just a bit shabby. Hard to believe—but, then, it always was, that was the mystery of these fellows—that, inside, he was a cool-handed killer.
This one was tricky. It was Sam’s suggestion, after Uncle Phil had given Charles a solid where-when on Van Meter, that the Division take a low-profile approach on this one, unlike, say, the Dillinger arrest, where they’d flooded the street with agents.
“If the Division came crashing into town, there’d be squawks, tiffs, turf wars, lots of bitter squealing, lots of feathers sent flying,” Sam had said. “Not good. Leaks would spring, and Homer’d take off for Kansas City. Moreover, rancor and contempt between the Division and the St. Paul cops could get the Division a size-18 reputation in law enforcement circles, something the Director is keen to avoid.
“So, Charles, I want you to handle this as quietly as possible. I’d make it abundantly clear to our St. Paul friends that the Division has no interest in Homer on the subject of Minnesota corruption. We could care less. Our task is to take down the big interstate bank gangs, member by member. That’s all we want. What we do with Homer once we get him singing is something yet to be determined.”
“I got an idea they’d prefer him dead to singing. Those detectives don’t want nobody messing with their business. They may see this as a way to erase someone who knows a little too much about them. One squirt of the Thompson and a whole lot of trouble goes away.”
“That’s the issue you’ll have to deal with, Charles. You know what our goal is: Homer in custody, a long, long talk with him until he sees his best interests are served—maybe avoiding the fryer for that cop he killed at South Bend—if he gives us Baby Face or Pretty Boy.”
“Well, gents, let’s get this done and go have a drink,” said Chief Cullen, who was with Brown in the front seat. That Cullen was the chief and Brown the ex-chief showed how much juice the arrest warranted. They weren’t leaving this one to the rookies.
“You sure you need that subgun, Brown?” asked Charles, all amiable-like. The bone of contention was the Thompson gun with full-up fifty-round drum Brown carried. Charles had argued against it, since the arrest would be on public boulevards amid civilians and a wrong-way burst with a Thompson could have disastrous repercussions. But then, as now, the St. Paul officers weren’t to be denied.
“Mr. Justice Department, Homer’s fast to pistol and fast to fire. We need all the help we can get,” said Chief Cullen, as he drew a Winchester ’94 from between the seats, ran the lever to check and make sure a .30-30 was set to chamber, then slammed the lever home. At the same time, Brown hoisted his twelve-pound weapon from the floor, slid back and notched the bolt atop the gun, keeping his finger far from trigger, as a touch could let fly a maelstrom, and secured it tight to body for movement. Meanwhile, the fourth detective threw the pump on his Winchester riot gun.
The four emerged just as Homer made it across, moving away from them, and though bent low to support their guns and hold them close to the shoulder, they increased their pace to overtake him. It was like running to ground a fox who didn’t know he was being hunted. They closed swiftly as Homer lollygagged along, enjoying the relatively cool air, the sense of freedom, whatever a normal man enjoys not knowing that his executioners approach.
As for Charles, it was clear he was hopeless to prevent what the St. Paul boys were determined to make happen, and he felt a twinge for having been a part of the setup, which was looking more and more like a Capone-style rubout than an arrest. He separated ever so slightly from the three and moved his hand closer to the .45 under his left arm, though with so much firepower on scene, he knew it was doubtful he’d need to shoot.
When the range had closed to within twenty-five feet, it was Chief Cullen who, lifting rifle to shoulder, shouted, “HOMER!” Homer turned, and Charles saw the flash of panic overtake his face, but just as fast the recognition of the guns bearing down on him. He went the hard way, thrusting his hand inside the jacket he wore for his own iron and, instantly, scuttling sideways for cover in an alley.
The Thompson settled the issue. Brown had time enough to come to shoulder, put weight against the gun to fight recoil, aim cleverly, and unleash. The hammer of the burst shattered the benign Midwestern air, and banished all other noise, as the fire stream roared into Homer and ripped him up bad. Brown was a good gunner, with lots of work on the Thompson, so it wasn’t a broad sweep of bullets, kicking up a commotion over a large area, with Homer in the middle; the bullets instead went to and stayed on him, all the way through the fall, only a few puffing the dust. He went down, his jacket smoking and torn from the fusillade that had ruptured him. Maybe the chief fired too, and maybe the detective with the riot gun, for shots of another declension sounded, but the noise was lost as Sergeant Brown fired multiple coups de grâce into the fallen man, causing his body to twitch and shudder. Then, silence.
The usual: the cops approached stealthily, as if a man could survive such a blast, while the chief raised his arm and began to shout, “Police action! Stand clear, folks, stand clear. Police action!” but the citizens became a circus around the torn figure at the center of it all.
Brown and the shotgunner knelt by the body, and Charles approached to note that among the wounds inflicted on the man, a string of slugs had evidently struck his right hand, which was so mutilated, it hardly seemed human anymore, the thumb removed as if by surgery, the fingers twisted in ways they were not meant to twist, the whole glistening with fresh blood.
“That’s the way we handle it in St. Paul, G-Man,” said Brown, evidently proud of his role in the drama. “He ain’t going nowhere, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah,” said Charles, holstering his automatic, “but you’ll be up all night reloading that drum.”
Homer did go somewhere, eventually—that is, to the morgue, after the
morgue truck arrived, following on several patrol cars, whose inhabitants set up a perimeter that kept the public from scuffing up the crime scene. It was the usual police theater: photos, reporters with notebooks, from somewhere a city attorney, a few other sub-chiefs, white-coated morgue guys with the gurney—familiar in form, if not content, from the Dillinger business, though not quite as electrically charged as that, for Homer hadn’t been as electrically charged as Johnny.
43
McLEAN, VIRGINIA
The present
NOT MUCH FOR TODAY. Just go over it, go over it, go over it. Maybe something would happen. Or maybe a break: one of the emails or interviews he’d sent out would bear surprising fruit. It hadn’t happened yet, but maybe today would be the day.
Swagger had finished his shower and was dressed. The next step was coffee and a muffin in the hotel coffee shop while he diddled with his iPhone to check emails, and then someone knocked at his door. Too early for housekeeping; they knew he usually didn’t leave for his coffee until 8:30.
It was Nick. Surprising, because Nick always called or emailed when he had something and their meets took place in Nick’s big workroom.
“What’s up?” Swagger asked.
“Something came to me. It was shortest here, no need to go all the way back.”
“Okay.”
Nick went to the desk in the suite, which was clear, and set down a sack from CVS pharmacy. He removed a freshly packed small file, a couple of No. 2 Eagle pencils, an unopened bag of plastic gloves, a ream of 8½ × 11 paper, and a $5.95 magnifying glass.
“Is that a junior-detective kit?” asked Bob.
“Nope, you have to be at least a GS-22 to get one of these.”
“I love to watch a professional at work,” said Swagger.
Nick picked up his briefcase.
“I was returning the handgun policy memo downtown,” Nick said. “But something about it was turning in my mind. Don’t know why, something seemed provocative about it.”
“Maybe that it’s an original, not a photocopy,” said Bob.
“No, some feature beyond that. Some feature that takes off from that.”
Bob tried to list features.
“It’s thin, it’s dry, it’s fragile, it’s old, Donovan was such a powerful typist that her periods blew clean through and opened little holes—is that what you mean?”
“Okay,” said Nick, “let’s see if I’m as brilliant as I think I am. Or even more brilliant.”
He put on his reading glasses, snatched up the hotel-issue coffee mug and turned it over, setting it on its rim, presenting its clean, slightly concave bottom to the world. He took up one of the pencils, opened his pocketknife, and whittled a point of exposed lead into the flat end. He opened up the file package . . . Oof, why did they pack these things in superstrength, human-finger-indestructible Kevlar?
“You need the file to open the package,” he said, “but the fucking file is in the package.”
He got the file free and delicately applied it to the exposed lead of the pencil. A small dust of lead particles began to accumulate in the cup’s concave bottom.
“I hope you’re not in a rush,” he said. “This may take some time.”
“I’m Available Jones today,” Bob said.
In five minutes or so, he’d accumulated a little heap of powdered lead in the cup surface.
“Okay, here’s where it gets dicey,” he said.
He ripped open the ream of paper, took out a sheet, and laid it on the desk.
Next, he opened the bag of gloves and, like a surgeon, pulled one onto each hand.
“Don’t tell me to bend over,” said Bob.
“Ha!” Nick laughed. He opened the briefcase, reached in, and removed one of the ancient handgun memo’s pages, holding it by the corners only and as gently as possible.
Holding it up to the light, he located the blot of ink where, eighty-three years ago, some administrator had applied waterproof ink to the capitalized letters signifying authorship, the imprimatur of office standard practices. He held it up to the light.
“Can’t see a thing,” he said. “I’d hoped the initials of the author would stand out.”
“They knew what they were doing,” said Bob.
“But the one thing they didn’t count on was the speed, power, and accuracy of Elaine P. Donovan, the best typist in Western Civilization. She typed so hard, and the paper was so thin, her keystrokes carried through to the other side of the paper. This was especially true of letter arrangements her fingers were familiar with.”
He laid the memo facedown, next to the white sheet. The paper was so thin and crackly, the offending blot showed through it.
“Okay, Dr. Watson, watch this.”
Taking the cup to the memo, tilting it a bit, he used his pocketknife blade to skim off some lead particulate onto the obverse side of the blot. Then, with the blade, he tidied the pile so that it was evenly applied over the blot.
“Here we go,” he said.
Taking the memo up again, he neatly flipped it and laid it across the white, pristine sheet of paper. Then with his knife blade’s dull edge he gently rubbed back and forth, applying enough pressure for his task, but not so much as to shred or damage the paper.
“See, they blotted out the top side. They didn’t realize her powerful typing inscribed the letters through the paper. So now I’ve coated it with a light dusting of lead and pressed it against a sheet of paper. It’s like Gutenberg’s Bible; the raised surface of the letters should leave an impression.”
And they did:
CFS/epd
Author: Charles F. Swagger / typist: Elaine P. Donovan.
“Welcome back to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Special Agent Swagger,” said Nick.
44
SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS
Late August 1934
HELEN AND J.P. were stunned by the weight of Les’s grief. The news floored him, and he—uncharacteristically, without a tie, shoeless, sockless—just sat, face slack, eyes empty, locked in depression. He stared at nothing, and out of respect for his agony, they treated him like an infant, tiptoeing around him, speaking in whispers and mutters.
“Honey, you haven’t eaten all day. Do you want me to fix you a sandwich and a Coca-Cola?”
He didn’t respond. He just sat on the sofa with the newspaper in front of him.
GANGSTER VAN METER SLAIN, it said in a bold, eight-column headline, and underneath, in smaller type, COPS MACHINE-GUN DILLINGER PAL ON STREET.
There was a gaudy picture of Homer on the slab in the morgue, his head held alert by some sort of armature so that the wide-open eyes, the gauntness of his frame, the abrasions where he’d gone to earth, stood out starkly. He’d had better days. It was a grisly specimen of how unremarkable newspapers and citizens held death in the midst of both a crime and a heat wave, and a dead mobster on a slab, all his holes displayed against the alabaster of his skin in black-and-white photography, sold a lot of papers, as the national indoor sport had become keeping track while the law shot down the surviving Dillinger boys.
“It don’t look like the Division had a hand in this one,” said J.P. later in the afternoon to his silent best friend. “It sounds like the St. Paul boys decided they didn’t want him hanging around town, they didn’t want him bringing in the Division and having them looking too closely at things, so they just decided to deal with the situation themselves. I mean, they had to know he was there; they could have done this kind of thing anytime, they just happened to decide to do it yesterday.”
Les didn’t answer. He didn’t make eye contact. He sat still in his coma, oblivious. Finally, lethargically, he called into the bedroom, “Honey, can you bring me a Coca-Cola, please?” Then he turned to J.P.
“You got it exactly. Why now? Why all of a sudden? Where does it come from, this sudden
need to kill Homer? Something’s not right here.”
“Les, the guy’s the object of a manhunt. He ain’t as smart as you. He goes back to St. Paul where everybody knows him, he’s easy to find.”
“He thinks he’s safe there. And he is safe, until something changes. What changed? That’s what I’m asking.”
“I don’t know,” said J.P.
“The deal is, they leave us alone if we don’t do jobs in St. Paul. That’s why St. Paul is safe. And far as I know, he was too daffy to work after he took that pill to the head. Remember, the night before they got Johnny he was supposed to go to that meet with us in Glenview and the guy never showed. That shows he was cuckoo in the clock tower. Not clear, not whole, not thinking.”
J.P. knew it wasn’t time to remind Les that he, Les, had been enraged with Homer for letting him down and that previously he’d even told a number of people he meant to kill Homer for his idiocy in not putting together the South Bend job well, for his endless spew of bad jokes, and for hanging around with that Mickey Conforti, who had entertained legions of admirers in her time, a liaison that Les felt profaned his own, richer love for Helen.
“Poor guy,” said Les, taking a Coca-Cola on ice from Helen, then suddenly going all dramatic on them. It just poured out of him.
“I did four jobs with Homer. He was a professional. He was a guy who knew what he was doing. But what I remember best is that long run down the street to the car in South Bend. Cops everywhere, all of them shooting at Les, plus Les’s got twenty-five pounds of bulletproof jacket on, twelve pounds of machino, and four or five twenty-round mags of .45s, plus one used-up drum, so Les’s not exactly Red Grange. He’s a slow boat to China, and all the cops have to do is take one second to aim and Les’s head is splattered all over Indiana. Meanwhile, Les’s pals are ducking into the car and they’re happy as hell to have the cops shooting at Les and not them. But who saves Les? It’s Homer. Homer doesn’t run for the car. Homer stands there, a man’s man, a soldier’s soldier, a hero’s hero, straight out in the open, and very carefully lays down .351s everywhere he sees a cop settling in for the finisher on Les. That’s Homer: he doesn’t give a damn about himself, he just gives everything up for a buddy, for a guy he don’t even like, for a guy that’s teased him about his girlfriend, for a guy that never laughs at his jokes and wants to wring his neck more often than not. Homer just stands there and saves all of Les’s bacon, and when Les, with more crap on him than a doughboy going over the top, makes it back to the car, he’s unhit and good for more action, only then—then and only then—does Homer himself head to the car to get the hell out of town.