The Anarchist

by John Smolens

  At one a.m. the Buffalo Commercial distributed an extra edition with the headline HE IS DEAD. Although John Milburn appeared on the front steps of his house to insist to a crowd of reporters that the president was still alive, other papers hastily released editions with similar headlines. Soon after, the county coroner arrived at the house, claiming that he had come to take charge of the body. He was turned away and told that he would be notified when he was needed.

  A few minutes past two o’clock, the president’s breathing, which had been mechanical and audible, stopped. After a short time, he took one more deep breath, and then was still. Rixey put his stethoscope on William McKinley’s chest, and said quietly, “The president is dead.”

  BOOK II

  “NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE”

  Buffalo is a staid city but it required no acute vision to see that more than half the crowds would have been willing and glad to have seen a sudden and violent death meted out to the man who fired the shot, and many a man that before had spurned the thought of lynching as punishment for a crime held his hands firmly clenched, aching to pull the rope that might have been thrown about the prisoner’s neck.

  Buffalo Courier

  Saturday, September 7, 1901

  IV

  MRS. MCKINLEY WAS loath to even consider an autopsy, but after Rixey and Cortelyou discussed the matter with her at length she accepted a compromise: the doctors could examine the heart, lungs, and intestinal organs, but she was adamant that nothing be removed from the body other than small tissue samples necessary for microscopic study. The autopsy began at noon on Saturday, conducted by the Erie County coroner, James Wilson, and Dr. Harvey Gaylord and Dr. Herman Matzinger of the New York State Pathological Laboratory. Present were Dr. Rixey and many of the other physicians who had been involved in the case. The procedure lasted four hours, and before it was concluded Theodore Roosevelt was sworn in as president of the United States in the Wilcox house, which was a short distance down Delaware Avenue.

  The autopsy findings proved to be controversial: a passage in the coroner’s report stated that gangrene had been found on “both walls of the stomach and pancreas following the gunshot wounds.” Within hours of the autopsy hysterical newspaper articles appeared across the country, claiming that the president had died of infection, not gunshot wounds; furthermore, there was embarrassment over the argument that an insufficient portion of tissue had been removed for study. The doctors disagreed about the cause of the gangrene. Dr. Park argued that the damaged pancreas caused death, while Dr. Mann was more interested in the condition of McKinley’s heart. The muscle tissue was pale and extremely fatty, the result, apparently, of the president’s sedentary routine. The most controversial opinion, however, came from Dr. Wasdin, the anesthesiologist, who claimed that the patient’s rapid decline could only be attributed to the fact that the assassin had used poison bullets. Though there was no substantiating evidence, newspapers reported this theory in the most sensational way.

  During the week following the shooting, the press had lauded the medical staff for its valiant efforts; yet within hours of the president’s death numerous articles and editorials cast suspicion on the competence of the physicians involved in the case, many of whom were now prone to acrimonious statements about one another, which were quoted in the papers.

  Oddly, Dr. Rixey was somewhat removed from the controversy, despite the fact that he had been at the very center of the case. His role had not been as a specialist but as a general practitioner who had acted as the one who coordinated the other physicians’ participation in McKinley’s treatment. This new turn of events deepened his remorse and quite exhausted him. He felt almost fortunate that most of his time and energy was devoted to the health and well-being of the grieving first lady.

  NORRIS received a telephone call from Lloyd Savin asking him to come to police headquarters. With the death of the president, an angry mob had again surrounded the building, demanding to lynch Leon Czolgosz. As Norris moved through the crowd he spotted the captain, waiting beyond the cordon of policemen that were protecting the building. Norris was admitted through the line and joined Savin at the top of the front steps. The noise from the street was deafening, forcing Savin to shout, “We’ve requested hundreds of national guardsmen to help out.”

  “It might not be enough.” Norris looked back down at the crowded street. “Maybe you should just throw Czolgosz out the window to them and be done with it.”

  “Perhaps, but I called you because I thought you’d be interested in a certain dead prostitute.” He led Norris down a narrow set of stairs to the basement. “We call these the ‘dungeons.’” Savin’s voice echoed off the stone walls. “Ordinarily we’d hold them over in the city jail, but it’s under renovation.”

  “Them?”

  “We’ve been rounding up suspected anarchists. They claim to know nothing, and most hardly speak English. The one thing they have in common is they all bleed easily.”

  Savin led Norris to the first door, where they could look through iron bars at perhaps twenty men crammed in a cell, some sitting on benches while others were sprawled on the floor. Most were bruised and bloodied.

  “We’ve hauled in dozens with socialist connections, but we haven’t found anyone we can tie to Czolgosz.” Savin lit a cigarette and the smell of tobacco was a relief. “But …” He continued to the end of the hall, where a young uniformed policeman unlocked a heavy wooden door and swung it open.

  Norris followed Savin inside and the door was closed behind them. The room was tiny and lit by a flickering gas lamp. A man was slumped in a chair at a wooden table. He was in his late fifties, and he wore a yellow-and-black-checkered vest and jacket, and a grimy top hat that was stove in on one side. His left ear was clotted with dried blood, and blood had run down his neck and stained his shirt collar, yet he maintained a lopsided grin and a gleam in his eye, as though he were genuinely happy to see them. In a grand gesture, he doffed his hat and bowed with exaggerated grace. “As you may observe,” he said to Norris in a British accent, “their powers of persuasion are without equal.”

  Savin and Norris sat in the chairs across the table from him.

  “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” Norris asked the man.

  “Oh, it’s certainly possible,” he said. “In my prime I performed Hamlet for Queen Victoria herself, but I have now attained a vintage that seems more appropriate to the role of Polonius, who gets run through whilst lurking behind an arras in fair Gertrude’s bedchamber—or even Claudius, the king, who at least gets to dally with said Gertrude before he himself is run through.” As he spoke his hands moved through the air, seeming to coax emphasis and perfect pitch from each syllable. “Suffice it to say that after this interrogation I might be prepared to play the Ghost.”

  “No, I think I saw you in a saloon, somewhere in Black Rock,” Norris said, glancing toward Savin. “Two brothers were trying to convince me that a group of anarchists from Paterson were plotting to sink J. P. Morgan’s yacht in New York harbor.” He looked at the man across the table. “And you, you were up on the stage, singing, dancing, telling jokes, and giving recitations between appearances by—”

  “That would be Lady Godiva, of the long, splendid tresses and the ample bosom, who, gloriously naked, would ride bareback across the stage upon her grand white steed.” He inhaled deeply, as though savoring a fine wine. “Oh, the firmness of those pale, bouncing buttocks as they jounced ever so gently on that handsome mount’s quivering haunches!” He placed his hand over his heart and bowed forward slowly. “I am but a humble thespian, sir. Augustus P. Quimby, at your service.”

  “No,” Norris said, “it was Dr. Quimby, and you sold some elixir as well.”

  “Ah, yes, well, even actors have to eat,” the gentleman said. “That would be Dr. Quimby’s Amazing Elixir, a dash of which I could use at the moment.”

  “That’s the one,” Norris said. “I believe you did recite from Hamlet.”

  “‘Marry, sir,
here’s my drift,’” Quimby said. “‘And I believe, it is a fetch of wit.’”

  “The problem is,” Savin said, “he’s forthcoming, but only up to a point. And then we get a shitload of Shakespeare.”

  Norris took his cigar case from inside his coat and laid it open on the table. Slowly he prepared the tip of a cigar with his knife, never once looking at Quimby. “So you’ve been persuaded to help us—in what way?”

  “To proffer my assistance, of course, like the good citizen that I am!” Quimby said.

  “You’re a drummer, a huckster,” Norris said. “Why should we believe you?”

  Quimby raised his chin as though to deflect the insult. “Dear sir, I am many things to many people.” Then, leaning forward, he said, “‘For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak with most miraculous organ.’”

  Norris said, “We need information, not an entertaining quotation.”

  “Information, quotation,” Quimby said with delight. “That makes a fair rhyme—I must remember it. Why, sir, you’re a poet and you don’t even know it.”

  Savin reached into the outside pocket of his suit coat and produced a wad of cloth, which he laid on the table.

  Norris spread it out with his fingers. “Satin, I believe. Yellow with blue flowers, a pattern that suggests a woman’s dress—and these brown stains: Blood? I think so. That’s interesting.” He handed the cigar to Quimby.

  Savin struck a match and lit the cigar. “Quimby saw fit to give us this piece of material before we went to work on his other ear.”

  Once the cigar was lit, Quimby relaxed in his chair, his legs crossed.

  Norris concentrated on the preparation of a second cigar. “This material might have been torn from the dress of a woman,” he said. “Perhaps a prostitute who went by the name of Clementine and worked at Big Maud’s establishment.”

  “Exactly—and a great loss it was.” Cigar smoke enshrouded Quimby’s head.

  “She was working down on the canal, when somebody beat her to death. I suppose we could check with the girls at Big Maud’s to see if Clementine had a dress like this.”

  “I assure you, sir,” Quimby said, “she came down to the canal in that dress.”

  Norris leaned toward Savin, who struck another match and lit the cigar. “She was found naked except for a yellow hat—not unusual, considering her profession. I think she was beaten with something like rope, the kind used on the docks and barges.”

  “Precisely,” Quimby said. “A short length of line tied into a knot known as a monkey fist. A rather popular weapon among canawlers.”

  “Tell him how you know this,” Savin said.

  Quimby drew on his cigar, and then pondered the ash.

  “I must admit,” Norris said to Savin, “that I’m philosophically opposed to interrogation methods that result in bloody skulls because there are other parts of the body that are far more vulnerable, and though the results aren’t as apparent to the eye, the results—what you learn from such encounters—are invariably not only true but useful.”

  “You must give me a demonstration,” Savin said pleasantly.

  “For instance, I’m particularly fond of the dislocated shoulder,” Norris said. “It’s quick and easy, and there’s no chance of bloodstains on your suit. It’s also easily corrected. Out, in.”

  He pushed back his chair, but stopped when Quimby cleared his throat, and said, “There is barge called the Glockenspiel.”

  Savin said, “Belongs to that German, yes.”

  “Klaus Bruener,” Norris added. He opened his palm on the table, a sign of mild disappointment. “That’s where Clementine was found, Quimby. We know that.”

  “But you didn’t find her dress there,” Quimby said, in mock surprise.

  “My men went over every inch of that boat,” Savin said.

  “The Bruener boy hid it,” Quimby said. “That poor, dear, mute lad.”

  “How’d he have her dress,” Norris asked, “if he found her naked in the canal?”

  Quimby’s eyes grew large with wonder. “That is the very question, isn’t it?”

  “You saw something,” Norris said.

  “More like what I heard, but you know how utterances can fuel the imagination.” Quimby folded his arms, his stare suddenly hard and uncompromising. “I want my release, and enough money to get out of Buffalo. Fifty dollars.”

  “Right,” Norris said. “Your comrades down the hall aren’t going to take kindly to the fact that you’ve been in here, chatting with the police and smoking cigars.”

  “Indeed, this presents me with a dilemma.”

  “And consider another side to your dilemma,” Norris said. Quimby shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “This piece of cloth,” Norris continued. “If it belonged to Clementine—and I don’t doubt that it did—we have to consider how it came into your possession: rape and murder, and then you throw her in the canal, where this mute boy finds her.”

  “Yes, a likely scenario,” Quimby said. “But why would I keep the evidence?”

  “A memento?” Norris said. “A reminder of a few moments of carnal bliss?”

  Quimby laughed, revealing gnarled brown molars and a chipped incisor. “Surely, that theory will hold up in court about as well as my aged member.”

  “Give us the rest,” Savin said as he got up from his chair suddenly, “and you can walk with your fifty dollars. Think it over, Quimby. We’ll be back after we have a drink. Or rather, Detective Norris will be back. You know how persuasive Pinkertons can be.”

  “Yes, in and out.” Quimby watched Norris stand up. “You’re a Pinkerton?” For the first time there was no pretense, just awe shot through with fear.

  “Jesus H., you didn’t mistake me for a policeman?” Disgusted, Norris turned away as Savin opened the door. “Could use that drink first,” Norris said as they left the room. “I haven’t separated a shoulder since I left Washington.”

  When Savin closed the door, he said, “That’ll give him something to think about during intermission.” As they walked down the corridor, the young policeman came to attention, his back to the stone wall.

  They went upstairs to Savin’s office, a well-appointed room in a corner of the building, which was quite dark because there were blankets hung over the windows. “In case of rocks,” Savin said. He went to his desk, where he took a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from one of the drawers. “I’ve hardly been out of this place for days,” he said, pouring them each a dram. He placed one of the glasses on the far side of the desk, and then sat down.

  “Why don’t you give me ten minutes with Czolgosz?” Norris sat in the leather-padded chair that faced the desk. He took a sip of whiskey, strong, peaty stuff. “I’ll deliver the name of every anarchist between here and Chicago, with Emma Goldman’s name at the top of the list.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not possible at the moment. He’s not here.”

  “Czolgosz has been moved?” Norris glanced toward the blanketed windows. “A good idea, considering this mob.”

  “For the past week he’s been kept downstairs.” Savin got up and went to one of the windows, where he held back the corner of the blanket and looked down into the street. “This crowd ever breaks through, they won’t find Leon Czolgosz, but they may find a cousin or brother.” He lit a cigarette and placed it on the rim of a large chrome-and-glass ashtray that was full of butts. “When word spread that the president was failing, we decided to move Czolgosz. We’ve told no one other than those who were responsible for the transfer.”

  “Where is he?”

  “The county penitentiary for women,” Savin said. “It’s about a mile from here.”

  “Are you trying to reward him?”

  “Hardly. Now that the president is dead, Czolgosz will be arraigned Monday, so tomorrow we’ll have to bring him back here. The president’s body is going to lie in state at city hall all afternoon and we want to transfer Czolgosz then. The procession will draw thousands to pay their respects.”


  “And the newspaper reporters will be distracted,” Norris said.

  “Exactly.”

  “I want to be in on it.”

  “Thought you would,” Savin said. “I’m organizing the transfer, and I want to do it so that we don’t draw attention. We’ll have plenty of guards at the penitentiary and here, but I want to keep the trip itself very low-key. Two carriages. No sign of uniforms.” For a moment he stared pensively at the sinuous filament of smoke as it rose from his cigarette. “I’ll need you and one other Pinkerton.”

  “Of course,” Norris said. “Always when there’s dirty work to be done.”

  CZOLGOSZ was kept alone in a cell in what seemed an empty wing of a large prison. There was a small window that allowed him to watch the rain on the cobblestones, and occasionally he heard voices echoing from other cells across the courtyard. They all sounded like women: some high, sweet, even angelic; others angry and demented, keening.

  And the guards sitting outside his cell barely spoke to him. Clearly they’d been given instructions to avoid conversation with him. They whispered among themselves, and he came to realize that they didn’t know he was Leon Czolgosz.

  Now that the president was dead, he felt an odd sense of relief. If the president had lived, Thomas Penney had suggested that the sentence for attempted murder could be ten years. The thought of a decade in a cell frightened Czolgosz. He would have failed, and he would certainly go mad. Now they would have to execute him. His work was done. It would be over soon.

  He remained at the window, listening for the women. He believed Emma Goldman’s voice would rise up from them. That must be why he was here now, in a place where women were imprisoned, their voices hopeless. Emma understood such despair. She would emerge to lead them all away from here. It was only a matter of time. They were all waiting, and it was in the waiting that they found belief, they found faith. The president was dead. There were no leaders. There were only themselves, and they could not be confined any longer. Together they would find freedom. That too was in the women’s voices.