“What about the ones that sell photographs? Are they wrong too?”
They were in sight of the pond. “Let’s stop there, at the bench just beside the gazebo, to put on our skates.” Emily took Mason’s arm and sat close beside him. “You’re right to ask. It’s a difference of degree, in a way—people who sell photographs of the victims, of Powers, benefit by the curiosity and fascination we feel at news of a terrible thing. Images make the story real, so that we understand and question it.” She took their skates from her grip.
“The boy tried to help his sisters,” Mason said.
“You read that in the newspapers you are filing.” She looked into the air, which danced with snowflakes. “Yes, Hart Eicher was a brave boy.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. Here, perhaps, in the snow that’s falling, happy you’re using his skates. He can fly along above the ice without them, or that is what I imagine.”
Mason knelt to pull his laces tight. “Will Eric skate? Or William?”
“Eric is going by the Gore, to leave off his cameras. He’ll rejoin us soon. And William is already here, skating far out there somewhere. I’ll put Duty’s coat on him and lace my skates, but you go ahead. You’re a lovely skater; I love to watch you.”
“You’ll come out later.” He was walking the short distance to the pond, sinking in hard snow to his ankles.
“I will, Mason. Go along.” The boy needed to move in the cold air, get out of the hotel, away from cutting and pasting such words. Was it an education? Not a good one, but a real one, she supposed. And the adults near him now, to guide and help him, were some compensation.
Tomorrow, on the eve of the trial, she had an appointment at Grimm’s office. The forms were prepared. She must speak with William today, and secure his permission if not his blessing. If Mason were her ward, he would know the nature of her commitment to William. She would tell Mason of his father’s death and offer her protection, her home, away from this place. “Duty,” she told the dog softly, “you must make it all right for him.”
Mason, skating, turned to wave. He executed a small circle, then doubled back and sailed past her, once and again, his long white muffler streaming.
She applauded. The sound echoed over the ice, cracking in the air. Farther out she glimpsed William, a lone figure skating in a racer’s powerful stride.
William Malone: Open Ice
The pond is solid as granite, frozen to its depths. William leans in, gliding, and skates for the open ice. Clarksburg is a near carnival of reporters and press. Curious throngs tromp the snowy streets. No vacancies at the Gore Hotel, named for a respected Southern family, he knows, but, as Emily says, the Gore Hotel.
Tomorrow the trial begins. William will see Powers in the flesh, onstage: a repellent entertainment. William’s box seat will overlook Emily’s; the first dozen rows of the orchestra are reserved for press. He skates full out, leaving the town behind.
Emily has told William details the public will not know. That Powers mutilated the boy, and her deduction that the murderer displayed his trophy to the last victim, pleasured himself before killing Dorothy Lemke, is too abhorrent to imagine. William clasps his arms behind him and leans in low against the wind. The pond is perhaps a half mile across, large enough that the far side is open ice. He turns sharply to cut his blades against the surface and skates backward in a sweeping curve, the snowbound edge of the land an undulating line.
Alone on the ice, he lets himself acknowledge that Emily’s acute perception of these horrors frightens and amazes him. That she is not unaffected by what she knows makes her seem all the stronger. She is stubborn, sometimes disconcertingly impulsive, for she is so sure of her instincts, and healthy, sound, yet in moments of deepest intimacy, sometimes in the rippling paroxysm of climax, she sobs as though reaching some bottomless grief and pouring it from her.
She says she cannot escape this labyrinth without him, that together they are living opposition to Powers’ cruelty, that such goodness—she uses the word repeatedly—flies in the face of darkness. William cannot define goodness and bids her not speak in absolutes, but she references an understanding to which he’s long ascribed, that the appearance of a thing is a mere hint or indication of its reality. Superficial judgment of their situation, certainly the judgment of the state, would label them wanton adulterers, engaged in betrayal of his unknowing, invalid wife, but superficial judgment is meaningless.
He looks up at the gazebo across the pond and starts back across in the falling snow. He knows he will recognize Emily from some distance, her long coat that draws in at the waist and flares nearly to her ankles, the fur hat that frames her face, her way of moving.
How ironic that Powers will hang for the last murder, as though the Eichers never existed. William skates faster, gaining the center of the pond. The Eichers did exist. Hart’s look, that day in the bank, reproves William daily. What must he do, now that it’s too late? Unbidden, Mason’s eyes and expression, the image of his face, fills William’s mind. The Eicher boy was fair. Mason is darker, and watchful, with the look of the hurt child who survives on wit and speed rather than charm, but they both have square faces, regular features, the straight backs and broadening shoulders of natural athletes, though he’s certain Emily’s orphan has never engaged in sport. William skates faster, turning to approach the gazebo. The snow is thick, the flakes big as popcorn, though the sun is shining. He looks to see Emily gliding toward him across the ice, holding Mason by the hand, both of them skating and stepping by turns, and Duty in his knitted coat, gamely keeping pace.
Emily Thornhill: Only Children
The arc of the ornamental gas lamp cast a mild light in the fleecy snow. Eric arrived as they were leaving the ice, and William retrieved their possessions as the rental kiosk locked up.
“William,” Emily asked, “might you walk by the pond with me? Eric and Mason must go back, for poor Duty has ice in his paws.” She turned to Mason. “You and I will have supper in the room tonight, warm and cozy. I’ll be back very soon.”
“I shall look after them,” Eric said. “Mason, I’ll take the skates, and you the dog, and we’ll walk back double time.”
She watched them go, pulling her scarf close around her, and turned to William. “Do you mind? Are you cold?”
“Never, this close to you. Was that a wholly transparent excuse? Are we headed for the gazebo?”
“No, darling. The element of surprise is lost.” She laughed and took his hand as they walked along the path skirting the pond. “I must talk to you, and Duty is not my concern.” She stopped, and embraced him. “William, I’ve been wanting to speak to you about Mason.”
“Have you? You’ve known the boy scarcely a month.”
“And he is the same boy, day to day. He is not educated, but he’s bright, and learns quickly. And he is still young, not twelve until Christmas Eve. His mother died in October, and his father will not claim him.”
“How do you know this, Emily?”
“Because I asked Sheriff Grimm to go to the boy’s home, as Mason described it, to find the father, and the mother’s grave.”
“And did he?”
“The mother’s grave is there, marked. And the father was in his bed, frozen to death, with his jugs of whiskey near him. The sheriff, there in Randolph County, was with Grimm and identified the man. Neighbors were relieved to hear that Mason is in Clarksburg and has a place to sleep.”
He stopped and turned to her. “When did this happen?”
“Just yesterday. I asked Grimm last week for his help, in finding the facts about Mason’s situation.”
“Does he know his father is dead?”
“No. I haven’t told him yet, until I knew what else to say. What shall I say, William? What shall we do? For whatever we do, we must do together.” She turned to face him. “Understand I am not asking you to commit your resources; he is my responsibility. I want to become his legal guardian; his home would be with me.”
“What does he make of me, I wonder.”
“I believe he looks up to you, and finds you a very different sort of man than he has known before. You are kind to him. Eric is kind, as well. He knows you are both . . . my friends.”
“Eric will not be making love to you in the same apartment, and drinking coffee with you at breakfast, in Chicago.”
She smiled. “There is always the Drake, and taxicabs. And he may spend school terms away at some point. I suppose I will need a bigger apartment.”
“I suppose you will.”
“And Mason will need to learn discretion. He is a private sort of boy, an only child, like us. Eric will be a kind of uncle to him, I think. We must trust one another.” She turned to face him. “Come with me, William. Come with me in this, for I cannot turn from my responsibility, or give you up, or allow anyone to come between us.”
“Come with you, Emily? Nothing can keep me from you. If he is your ward, your family, he is mine. We shall widen our circle, and do what we can for the boy. Are you crying? No need.”
“Oh,” she said, “there is need. I love you so and believe in you, and now I love you more, which I did not think possible—”
“Don’t cry, Emily. The tears will freeze on your lashes.”
She took the handkerchief he offered and held closely to his arm.
XV.
Photos Trace “Powers” from Iowa Farm to Slayer’s Cell: As Harm Drenth, son of a Dutch immigrant farmer, in Iowa, in 1910. As Joe Gildaw, of Miller, S.D., in 1924. He was then a matchmaker, writing love notes. As Harry F. Powers. Photo taken after his arrest here on August 27, 1931. As Cornelius O. Pierson, he wore glasses.
—The Clarksburg Telegram, December 5, 1931
Stage Set, Powers Trial Begins: An advance delegation of special newspaper writers and photographers arrived here yesterday to “cover” the Harry F. Powers murder trial beginning tomorrow. . . . It is believed that 70 seats reserved in Moore’s Opera House for the press will be occupied during the trial. . . . Several out-of-town telegraphers arrived yesterday and transmitted the first stories over the 29 special wires.
—The Clarksburg Exponent, December 7, 1931
December 7–9, 1931
Clarksburg, West Virginia
The Trial
December 7, 1931
Emily made her way to the opera house over streets of hard-packed snow. She went early to avoid a scene, but the scene prevailed, for the truly intent had queued up at dawn on South Fourth Street. State troopers patrolled the sidewalks, attempting to move the crowd along. The police intended orderly first-come, first-served general admittance, but a mad surge would ensue when they opened the doors. Overflow was allowed in throughout the day, one person admitted for each “audience member” departing. Regardless, box seats, reserved seats, the press rows in the orchestra were off-limits to the merely curious. The town fathers would bring their opera glasses, and the town wives their furs, for the businessmen leasing the opera house had turned the heat on only this morning.
Emily could see her breath in the lobby. Eric was across the street, photographing the crowd. She clutched her valise and stenographer’s notebook, intending to take down actual testimony rather than wait for its release by the court reporter. She downplayed her knowledge of such mundane skills, but her transcription was so fluid that it served to anchor her perceptions. The words were but the spoken lines; the story wove between them, and the meaning lay deeper still.
Aisles carpeted in crimson separated three broad sections of seats, while the balcony, box seats, and second-floor gallery were set off as though held aloft in sculpted gold seashells. It was charming and odd, for acres of deep snow were the only ocean afforded these inland mountains. Journalists’ seats were assigned, as though to a performance. Emily stepped over ropes marking off the press section to her center seat, second row from the stage. Excellent seats. Grimm had taken a hand, she suspected. She heard a rumbling all about her, and felt it in the floor, for the throng was filling the hall.
Reporters filed in. Some of the men wore press cards in their hatbands. Emily looked for Eric and saw Grimm, standing far left, first row aisle, checking his pocket watch as though timing the start of a performance. He wore a light brown suit—creamy it was, nearly beige—a white dress shirt buttoned to the starched collar, and a light satin necktie. He was a gentleman sworn to the forces of light, should anyone need reminding, while Law, walking onto the stage now in his pinched black suit and overcoat, tall and wraith thin, with his yellowish white hair and sparse mustache, defended the very devil.
Emily sat back, momentarily blinded by the flash of Eric’s camera, for he stood just at the edge of the proscenium, shooting the house itself. Suddenly the lights dimmed, a signal it seemed. Eric gave her his camera and stepped nimbly over an empty front-row seat to his place. She trained her unbroken gaze before her.
Judge Southern took his seat on a platform in the center. The jury, all men in dark suits, walked in together. The paneled jury box, swinging door and plush theater seating intact, had been moved from the courthouse and reassembled here. The jurors sat as one group, as though rehearsed; most retained their overcoats, pulling their collars up for warmth.
Emily had stood upon the stage. She’d promised Mason he would see the opera house, and so Grimm had brought them last week to see the cavernous empty theater. Mason stood peering into the balconies, enchanted, while Duty plumped to his haunches and looked off toward the wings. Grimm had switched on the overhead “border lights.” Dozens of red, white, and blue lamps, unseen by the audience, hung from the ceiling, bathing the stage in tones that duplicated daylight. She remembered panels of scenery, covered in draping. Amazingly, these were now revealed, and the border lights shown down upon them.
Tall canvases depicting forest trees were arrayed behind the assemblage, concealing the wings of the stage. The branches, daubed with pastel leaves, glittered as though dusted with mica. Directly behind Judge Southern was a rendering of a small-town street; the church was just to his right. The “town” seemed nearly lost in trees. How might the branches sparkle so? The illusion of depth was startling. Prosecutor Will E. Morris and defense lawyer J. Ed Law now walked on from opposite wings and seated themselves at counsel tables downstage.
Every seat in the opera house was occupied, yet the house fell silent. Emily heard boots marching. The audience subtly shifted to view stage right. A detachment of state troopers led Powers in. His wrists were handcuffed, his feet manacled. He walked stiff-legged, looking narrowly ahead. The metal dog collar around his neck was attached to a long chain, and the chain hung down his back, for the trooper in charge had just unlocked it from the metal cuff on his own forearm. Powers looked dumpy and unremarkable, despite the armature restraining him. His light brown hair, carefully combed, billowed up to one side. Full, ruddy cheeks, a small bow of a mouth, thin, compressed lips: he was a bit less florid after three months in custody, his short, powerful arms concealed in a standard-issue black suit. White shirt, tie; shoes newly shined. He looked almost bored, like a clerk wandered into the wrong hall, forced to observe mundane proceedings. He sat in a swivel chair near his counsel, his back to the audience, turning only once to survey the hundreds of faces watching him.
Law stood and began declaiming, filing a motion for a change of venue: the community “was strong against” his client; a gang had “mobbed the jail and tried to lynch him.” Powers didn’t flinch. Judge Southern denied the motion. Law demanded the defendant be removed from Sheriff W. B. Grimm’s custody due to “the shameful way he and his deputies treated my client.” Denied. Morris rose to review the case.
Emily leaned forward to capture his exact words. He recited the facts: investigation of Powers’ matrimonial racket, the subterranean death chambers at the Quiet Dell garage, removal of five bodies from a drainage ditch behind the building, all due to “information received from Park Ridge, Illinois, that Mrs. Asta Eicher and her children had vanished with a Clar
ksburg man.”
Law was on his feet. “Exception! We are not trying the Eicher case!”
Powers yawned audibly, eliciting chuckles far back in the balcony gallery, and gazed at the ceiling.
“Bastard,” Eric whispered.
Southern trained his withering gaze high over the footlights, reproving the spectators farthest removed from his influence.
Morris stood center stage, stating that Powers was charged with all five murders but indicted and tried for only one: that of Mrs. Dorothy Pressler Lemke, a crime for which the state “demanded the execution of the accused, that he hang by the neck until dead.” Morris glared at the gallery, requiring silence, then called Chief of Police Clarence Duckworth to the stand.
Morris addressed him. “When you went into the Quiet Dell garage of the accused, what did you discover, if anything?”
Law, seated, raised his fist. “Question objected to!”
Southern banged his gavel. ”The objection is overruled.”
“Exception!” Law replied.
Duckworth spoke so laconically that his account seemed indisputable. “I noticed some of the books had Mrs. Eicher’s name on them, and some of the children’s names.”
Law stood, gesticulating. “I move to strike testimony referring to the Eichers’ names.”
“The motion may be overruled,” Southern said.
Morris stepped to the edge of the stage and turned to Duckworth. “Did you have to go outside of the garage to get down to the under compartment?”
“No, go down from the inside, right hand corner.” Duckworth spoke as though directing himself at the scene. “A trapdoor that would let down, but it was open. . . . I entered into the basement with a flashlight, and it was about four rooms . . . over one of the doors I found blood had run down . . . for a distance, very distinctly . . . and we tore off . . . some of the soundproof wallboard, and blood had come through on that in large clots.”
Quiet Dell: A Novel Page 35