“Are you any closer to finding the killer of the Haymore brothers?” a police inspector was asked by a Defender reporter. “We are still hunting for a clew that will bring this case to resolution,” the inspector replied.
“Is it true that nothing was taken from the Haymore brothers’ home, and that their wallets and personal effects were not disturbed?” the inspector was asked.
“Yes, that’s correct,” the inspector told the reporter.
“Are there theories behind the mutilation of the dead bodies?” the inspector was further asked. “It is said unspeakable things were done to them.”
The police inspector declined to answer this or any further questions.
The killings of the Haymore brothers are the ninth and tenth reported murders of negro men in the city this year.
Though multiple conjectures exist regarding the ways in which the twin brothers were allegedly mutilated, they are unprintable in a family publication.
Flip put down the newspaper clip and tried to think.
He had heard nothing of these brothers or their killing, but the location was very near his beat. He racked his brain to remember anything of it.
When nothing came, he went into his bedroom, opened the broken armoire that leaned permanently in a corner so that it did not topple over, and began to assemble his nicest suit of clothes.
ELEVEN
The next day at half past eleven, Flip and Drextel Tark hopped on a streetcar and headed up to the Loop.
In truth, they hopped on several.
In an appeal to the votes of workingmen, Chicago politicians had passed laws mandating that no streetcar ride—from one end of a company’s line to the other—could cost more than five cents. The streetcar companies had responded by swiftly breaking themselves up into several smaller companies—all, ultimately, owned by the same people—so that now any commute worth making involved transferring lines at least two or three times.
Flip and Tark stepped off their final streetcar in front of the public library, a tall limestone monolith that seemed to take up an entire city block. Flip told Tark to wait outside and not to get into trouble. Then he walked up the steps of the great, grey building, carefully adjusted his necktie, and slipped inside. Flip had been to city libraries before, but never to one this far north. Or this grand. It was the finest library in the city, if not the entire United States.
The lobby was all stone and brass, like a poor man’s imagining of a rich man’s house. Flip did not know where to go. He asked a receptionist behind a desk where to find the Grand Army of the Republic room, and was directed to climb several flights of stairs past walls covered in tiled mosaics. When he reached the uppermost landing, Flip saw an open doorway. Seated on a bench beside the doorway was Salvatore Crespo. There were also three other men—hired muscle, it looked like—milling in the hallway. They wore tight, ill-fitting jackets.
The Italian rose.
“You look like you just came from a wedding,” Crespo said.
“Only suit I got,” Flip answered.
The men shook hands.
“What’s going on?” Flip asked.
“I don’t even know how to tell you,” Crespo said. “The mayor wants you to meet some more people; I guess is the shortest version. You ready?”
Flip shrugged to ask if that mattered.
They walked through the high open doorway. The room beyond was marble, wood, and tile. The ceiling held the largest stained glass dome in the world, oppressive in its sheer magnitude. The room was conspicuously empty—like a large ballroom between events—with the exception of a small cluster of well-attired men. They stood close to one another, like bums huddled for warmth in the winter. Despite being inside the finest room of one of the city’s finest buildings, they looked uncomfortable and out of place. Flip immediately noted that one of the waiting men, the largest, was the mayor. And the others, he gradually realized, were the most powerful men in Chicago.
Wrigley, McCormick, Marshall Field, Oscar Mayer. And those were just the ones with faces Flip recognized from the newspapers.
Flip felt his gorge rise. Butterflies suddenly seemed to be flapping about in his stomach. The mayor was one thing, but this? This was fighting in a whole other weight class.
Crespo placed a hand on Flip’s shoulder to steady him.
“Come on,” the Italian whispered low. “They shit and piss just like you do, champ. Just like you do.”
Flip wanted to add that—while this might be true—their ancestors had also likely owned his ancestors. That one word from them could still end a man’s career (in virtually any industry, but certainly in law enforcement). And that most of them were wearing clothes that—even if you didn’t count the gold watches and diamond stickpins—cost more than a Chicago police officer made in a year. (Some of them, just the pants would get you there.)
“This is the officer in charge of the investigation,” Flip heard the mayor saying as Crespo walked him over.
Flip felt like a bride being conducted to the altar, or maybe a man being led to an execution. Perhaps they were the same. The feeling was a total loss of control. It seemed to Flip that he floated rather than walked. Crespo pulled him like a child’s toy balloon.
They reached the mayor and joined the orbit of his awesome girth. Crespo patted Flip twice on the shoulder and released him. He had done all he could. Now Flip was sailing under his own power.
Instinctively, Flip straightened himself, standing rigid and at attention. Yet in a trice, he realized this made him the tallest man in the room. Concerned that the all-powerful might not enjoy being overshadowed, Flip slowly, imperceptibly began to lower his shoulders and spine until he was only eye-to-eye with the tallest of them.
The rich men smelled like ten different colognes. Their clothing did not fit like clothes most men wore, but had been cut custom to give them shoulders and conceal their bellies. Their teeth were clean and mostly straight. Their fingernails had no dirt underneath.
“Mister Mayor,” Flip said.
“Officer, these gentlemen are some of my best friends,” the mayor announced with a wink.
Flip was relieved that Big Bill Thompson—at least outwardly—was not made nervous by the presence of these captains of industry.
“And my friends have taken an interest in the case you are pursuing,” the mayor continued. “In fact . . . they believe they may be able to be of some assistance to you.”
“Mister Mayor,” Flip stuttered. “When we met, you asked me to give you a progress report in a week. With all respect, that gives me two more days. And I am making progress.”
The mayor smiled as though Flip’s terror was amusing.
“Of course, officer,” he said. “We are not here to force a premature update, or to question your methods. You were selected precisely because your methods seem to be the best on the South Side of Chicago. Perhaps the best in the city! No. . . We have only asked for the pleasure of your company because my friends have some information that they believe may. . . make your job easier.”
The mayor nodded to the rich men, and one stepped forward. It was the youngest. He looked no more than thirty. Flip recognized him as one of the several Marshall Fields. A man with Roman numerals after his name and unspeakable reams of wealth.
As he approached, Flip wondered why the others had made Field their spokesman. Perhaps speaking to a policeman was an unpleasant task—a vulgarity—and the others had avoided it through simple seniority.
The young man opened his mouth, but—suddenly, before he could get his first word out—a different man in a cloak raised a hand and cleared his throat. This senior man looked to the mayor, then at the many doors set into the walls of the GAR room. Flip realized the man was embarrassed . . . or frightened.
“Ahh yes,” the mayor said. “Of course.”
The mayor motioned to Crespo, and the Italian made a quick circuit of the room, closing every door and locking them whenever they had locks. When he’d finished, he retur
ned to the mayor and stood at attention. The mayor tilted his head to the side, testing the silence like a chef might sample a broth. When no sound came back, the mayor yielded the floor once again to the young Marshall Field.
“First of all. . . officer . . . it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Field began awkwardly, extending a gloved hand. Flip shook it.
“All of us—we all appreciate very much what you are doing.”
Flip wondered why any of these men—much less all of them—should give a second thought to Negro twin murders in the south part of town.
“And, ah,” the young man continued, a quiver in his voice, “as the mayor says, we have some information that we believe may be useful to you, in helping to stop these crimes.”
Flip said: “More information never hurts.”
The Field nervously looked back at his compatriots. Most were not actually paying attention to what was happening. They looked down at the carpet or up at the enormous dome of glass. One of them—the one Flip recognized as Wrigley—gave Field a scowl that said ‘Get on with it!’
Field turned back to the policeman.
“There was a man named Durkin who used to work for us,” Field said. “He performed . . . certain tasks on our behalf.”
“He worked for all of you. . . together?” Flip asked. “As an employee?”
“That’s right!” Wrigley called sternly, as if to say Field should be allowed to continue uninterrupted.
“Yes, he worked for all of us,” Field affirmed. “He did a variety of things, but usually he was reserved for jobs requiring discretion. You might say we employed him so as not to waste the time and resources of the Chicago Police Department. If there were matters that he could handle for us, then we did not need to take an officer such as yourself away from an important investigation. Say, if you were solving a murder—such as you are now—or catching a defiler of women, that would be more important, frankly, than the private concerns of wealthy men. So we employed Durkin as a sort of courtesy to the department.”
“A generous act of municipal charity!” boomed Big Bill Thompson, patting Field on the shoulder. “The equivalent of a most generous donation to the city’s coffers. And Chicago thanks you for it!”
Wrigley rolled his eyes.
Field continued nervously.
“But, while on business for us, Mr. Durkin, we believe. . . unfortunately. . . became involved in inappropriate things. Frankly, horrible things. Because of this, he was dismissed from our service. In a very permanent way. Yet, apparently . . . he still persists.”
Flip thought for a moment.
“What did he do to warrant this dismissal?” Flip asked.
There was moment of silence. Big Bill Thompson coughed.
And in a trice, Flip knew and the breath nearly went out of him. Crespo was standing on the other side of the room now, and would not catch him if he fell. Flip spread his feet wide and shifted his weight on his heels, hoping he would not tumble forward onto the carpet.
A moment later, he felt steady once more.
“I see,” Flip told the men evenly. “Then this is indeed important to my investigation. Central, in fact.”
Field nodded.
“We thought it might be.”
“So. . . Durkin is. . . dismissed?” Flip asked carefully.
“Yes,” Field said. “But. . . Ah. . . As I said. . .”
Suddenly, Wrigley pushed his way forward. He was all stern and hard. He towered beside Field and gave the younger man a look that said he was done. Pulled out of the game. Field slunk back to the group. Wrigley shook his head in frustration. It was clear that—as perhaps with so many other things in Wrigley’s life—if he wanted it done right, he would have to do it his damn self.
“We think our man—Durkin—is the one who killed your twins,” Wrigley said. “He went rogue. Went insane. The problem is that once we realized this, we had Durkin taken care of on or about the ninth of June. . .”
“And there have been at least two twin murders since then,” Flip told him, completing the thought.
Wrigley’s expression showed that they were finally getting somewhere.
“The people who ‘took care of ’ Durkin for you. . . For, I am guessing you did not do this personally?”
Wrigley smiled.
“The men who did the job are not contactable. They wanted it that way. Required it, in fact. They were hired through an outfit in New York. Came to town special, and cost us an arm and a leg. And, it appears, they were not worth even that. They said it was handled. They even gave us a photograph of the body. But they would not say where they had disposed of it. Against policy, they told us. Now, we believe the entire thing may have been forged.”
“A forged photograph?” Flip asked.
“We suspect Durkin fell into league with them,” Wrigley said. “He could have bribed them to fake the photograph instead of killing him—lord knows, we have all given him enough money over the years that he is quite well-to-do in his own right. He could have pretended to be dead while they took the picture, and then high-tailed it. Promised to disappear and not to kill again. And our friends from New York? They would get paid twice.”
“May I see the photograph?” Flip asked gently.
Wrigley nodded so vigorously that the age lines in his forehead bounced up and down.
“Who has it?” Wrigley called. “McCormick?”
One of the wealthy men came forward and produced an envelope from his jacket. He handed it to Wrigley, who in turn proffered it to the policeman.
Flip carefully extracted the photo inside.
It showed white man. Middle aged. Wiry but tough-looking. Beginning to bald. Lying on his back in a rocky shoal that might have been somewhere along Lake Michigan. He was wearing a white tuxedo and had been shot twice in the chest. His eyes had rolled back in his head and his mouth gaped unnaturally. To Flip, it looked real. The bullet holes. The man’s expression. Even the pallor of his skin. It looked completely real.
Flip handed the photograph back.
“This appears to be the correct man?” Flip asked. “To be Durkin?”
“It does,” Wrigley confirmed. “His face is bit different dead, but I think it is him.”
Flip took a step away from Wrigley. He began to pace slowly around the room as he thought.
“If Durkin is dead, then why do the twin murders in my neighborhoods keep happening? Either he is not dead, or someone else is committing these crimes. Any other explanation doesn’t make sense.”
Wrigley nodded as he watched Flip pace.
“When he was in your service, and when he was. . . functioning correctly. . .” Flip said carefully. “Did he ever have cause—in the course of this correct function—to do the kind of thing-”
Wrigley cut him off.
“No. At least. . . not like this. We may have asked him to ‘solve problems’ for us before, yes, but we never instructed him to. . . nor would we have allowed him to. . . and never, ever children. . . with such ghastly disfigurement. . .”
Flip glanced over at the group of rich men. Their faces said that Wrigley was telling the truth. Discreet problem solving was one thing, but mutilation quite another.
“He has become a devil!” one of the rich men cried. “He is a literal devil from the pit! I rue the day that you introduced me to him, Wrigley. For when you dance with the devil, he will eventually choose to lead the dance. And then God help you!”
Wrigley shot back a look that said such words were not constructive and could wait for a different time and place.
“Do you know if Durkin had anything to do with the murder of two brothers named Haymore?” Flip asked. “Passed in a similar way, some years back.”
Wrigley considered.
“I don’t know anything about that,” he said. “But if there was another case where identical Negroes were beheaded—and you’re asking me if it could have been Durkin—I’m not here to say it wasn’t.”
“Did Durkin ev
er work in the stockyards,” Flip asked. “Ever work around cutting or draining meat? Deboning? Slaughter?”
Wrigley looked to the group. The gentlemen exchanged shrugs.
“We have recently—upon consultation with one another—learned that Durkin provided each of us with a different history of himself,” Wrigley said. “They are inventive tales, I’ll give Durkin that. But, apparently, all lies. From safari guide in Africa, to decorated veteran of the Spanish War, to a man who rode horses in Hollywood movies, to an accomplished jewel thief. Probably, none of them are true. If you’re asking if it’s possible that Durkin once worked in the Chicago stockyards, your guess is as good as ours.”
Flip considered this silently.
“What else?” the gum baron pressed. “What else have you got? You must have more, yes? You have been on the case for several days now. . .”
Here, Big Bill Thompson intervened.
“William, the processes of our most effective law enforcement agents must be respected. Interrupting an investigation still underway-”
Wrigley raised a hand. He turned back to Flip, put his other hand on his forehead, and sighed. A mask seem to come off.
“Officer, do you believe it is possible for a man to kill from beyond the grave?” Wrigley asked. “Your colleague, Mr. Crespo, has told us your expertise may extend to such extra-natural matters. Those of us here. . . some of us. . . have concerns that this may be what is occurring now. Every day, we learn more. With each passing moment, the advancement of science tells us more about the hidden world. That world which is there—just there—beyond our seeing or hearing. But now, finally, we are beginning to hear and see it. You are familiar with spirit photography, yes? And with the disruptions in phonograph recordings that experts think may be attempts by the dead to communicate with us? We stand at the beginning of a new age, officer. What I would give—my entire empire, assuredly—to have been born one hundred years hence. That will be an age of marvels we can only but ponder. So much will be revealed. As it stands, we are like men fumbling in the dark, only beginning to detect the first variations between shades of gray. But a floodlight is coming. It is coming most assuredly.”
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