Assassin of Shadows

by Lawrence Goldstone

  The Tower of Electricity always had waiting lines, as did the exposition’s most popular venue, the Pabst Pavilion. The fair even had its own official flag, a three-paneled diagonally divided pennant, one outside panel in blue, the other in red and, in the center, a golden eagle crowned by a halo of sunlight clutching a green ribbon in its talons on which was proclaimed “Pax, 1901,” a design chosen from 300 submissions for which a Miss Adelaide Thorpe of New York City had been paid $100.

  The grounds, as Walter and Harry arrived, had added to the usual odors of dewy wood and stale food, the unmistakable aroma of anticipation. McKinley’s shooting might have been a nightmare for the coppers, but it was a boon to the merchants. Even at midmorning, coffers were filling from mobs of the curious, who, because the president had survived, were allowed to appear festive rather than stunned, pleasantly shocked rather than morbid. Fairgoers peered about in breathless expectation, as if the attempt on McKinley’s life had been staged, a grand part of the planned entertainment, and today would bring an event of similar scope and surprise. The enthusiasm of the customers stood in stark contrast to the grim, angry coppers. Sour-faced men in uniform lurked everywhere as if Czolgosz’s act would spawn dozens of imitators stalking the midway with revolvers secreted in bandages.

  Just inside the north entrance a couple of smartly dressed, rouged young women smiled at Harry and Walter through the bright red lip paint that announced them as prostitutes. The day promised a windfall to their particular brand of commerce as well. They followed Walter and Harry for a few steps then, discerning no interest, returned to their posts.

  “A little early, don’t you think?” Harry mumbled as they walked on.

  “You’re slipping, Harry. Used to be that any time was good for you. I remember the whorehouse in Bismarck. You and that old Lakota squaw . . . what was she . . . about three-hundred pounds?”

  “Ha, ha, ha, Walter. I was drunk. As I remember the chink you ended up with had one-eye and no teeth.” Harry turned back. “Those two look pretty nice though. Quite classy.”

  “Just one of the many attractions of The Pan,” Walter replied.

  The restaurant was at the far end of the main esplanade, in the shadow of the Tower of Electricity. It was too early for lunch, so only a sprinkling of diners were present at the restaurant. Harry showed his badge and said something to the girl waiting with menus at the entrance. She scurried off, presumably to fetch Parker.

  James T. Parker emerged from the kitchen. Harry grinned as he saw Walter’s reaction. Parker was at least six-feet-six-inches tall, a good three inches taller than Walter, and at least thirty pounds heavier. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, chocolate-skinned, with a wide nose and full lips. Unlike most excessively tall men, Parker walked erect, not bent slightly forward to make himself appear more normal. He wore a waiter’s white shirt and black trousers, although where the restaurant had found a uniform to fit him was anyone’s guess.

  “Now you know how the rest of us feel when you walk in the room,” Harry whispered.

  Parker smiled shyly as Harry and Walter approached him, making no effort to hide his discomfort with celebrity. That will serve him well when the celebrity fades, Walter thought. As it inevitably will.

  “Mr. Parker,” Walter said, stepping forward and extending his hand, “it is an honor to meet you. It isn’t every day that a man saves the life of the president of the United States.”

  Parker grinned dopily, now fully embarrassed. He had a tooth missing on the upper left. “Tell you the truth, sir, it was kind of an accident. I just jumped on the man before I thought about it. By the time I did think about it, I had the gun. He was kind of little. Wasn’t that hard. He did try to get off another shot though.”

  “We’d love to see exactly the way it happened. Why don’t we walk over to the Temple of Music and you can show us?”

  “I’ll be pleased to help you gentlemen as long as I can be back before the luncheon business starts. People work hard enough without having to cover for me.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Parker,” Harry said, patting the colored man’s enormous forearm, “we won’t keep you long. Will we, Walter?”

  “No. I’d just like you to describe what happened. Just a few minutes.”

  As the trio strolled the esplanade, passersby glanced Parker’s way and whispered to each other as they went. Parker could not have helped but notice, but tried to pretend they were looking at something else. He continued to minimize his heroism. “I was next in line, you understand. It wasn’t like I had to run to tackle the bastard.”

  “Still, you are the bear’s claw right now,” Harry noted.

  “It’s true, Mr. Swayne. Newspaperman told me I was the most popular nigger in America. A woman came up to me on the way to work this morning and asked for a lock of my hair.” Parker snickered. “I offered her a kink.”

  Walter congratulated himself on his luck. James Parker, “Big Jim,” as he was unsurprisingly called, was going to turn out to be the perfect witness; honest, forthright, and one of those people you met only occasionally who were totally without artifice. Everything he heard from this towering colored man would be absolutely the truth as Parker had experienced it.

  As soon as they arrived at the Temple of Music, Walter realized he had been wrong in anticipating incongruity. “Temple” was precisely the right term for this immense, almost impossibly gaudy square monument to the muse. The building stretched 150 feet across on each side, with cylindrical, domed appendages truncating each corner to give the impression of roundness. Predominantly red, with gold and yellow trim, and panels in blue and green, the structure was topped with a dome almost two hundred feet high and festooned with ornate sculptures paying homage to the glory of the Great God Music. To the extreme disappointment of the gaggle of fairgoers loitering outside, a ring of coppers had been placed around building to prevent anyone from visiting the crime scene.

  Inside, with seating for more than two thousand, the Temple of Music had the largest capacity of any building in the fair and had thus been the site for President McKinley’s speech and his ill-fated hand-shaking session. The vast floor of the hall had been cleared of chairs, save a line from the entrance curving to the far wall and then back to a spot in the center, almost directly under the center of the dome. A small “X” had been lightly painted where the president had greeted his admirers. A row of tall potted plants stood behind, placed there to protect McKinley’s rear.

  “Is this the way it looked yesterday, Mr. Parker?”

  “Yessir, Mr. George. The chairs was lined up that way to keep everybody who wanted to shake Mr. McKinley’s hand in one line.”

  “And where were the police?”

  “There was officers all along the line, ’cept near the president. There was about five or six men on either side of him. Lots of other folks too. Politicians. Least they looked like politicians.”

  Walter walked around the line of chairs. He rested his hands on the back of one and stood for some moments, taking in the scene. A long single file, snaking through the hall, operatives on both sides of the president watching the well-wishers inch closer. McKinley shaking hands, greeting each person and passing a few pleasantries. The lines of sight were perfect. How could Czolgosz have gotten so close? The bandaged hand should have been like red to a bull. So easy to have checked it.

  “Mr. Parker, how did Czolgosz carry himself? Did he favor the hand with the bandage? Hold it across his chest, maybe?”

  “No, Mr. George. He wasn’t holding his arm like it was hurt at all. It was down at his side, like he didn’t want no one to see it.”

  “But you saw it.”

  “Couldn’t miss it. O’ course, I was standing right behind him. I’ll tell you, Mr. George, it was real odd about that hand. The bandage, I mean. It was twice the size of what his hand woulda been. Then, when he got to Mr. McKinley and raised it up, I remember thinking, how’s he gonna shake hands with that? Maybe that’s why I jumped on him so quick. Like
I smelled something wrong without knowing it. Something else . . .”

  “What?”

  “It was wrapped over his sleeve, not underneath. Now who waits to bandage a hand hurt enough to be completely covered until after they put on their suit?”

  “Who indeed? You have a very good eye for this, Mr. Parker.”

  “I was a constable in Georgia. I’ll tell you, mister, we’d have known what to do with that bastard down there.”

  “You gave up being a constable in Georgia to come to Buffalo and be a waiter?”

  Parker smiled. “You ain’t never been a black man in the south, Mr. George. I get a whole lot more respect waiting tables here than I got as a constable there.”

  “What happened before the president was shot. Show me.”

  Parker walked to the X. “The president was standing like so . . .” He moved to where the line would be. “I was here, right behind that little bastard . . .”

  “So you were all sideways to the president until you reached the front of the line.”

  “Yeah. But everyone was turned a little bit. You know, to see him better.”

  “And Czolgosz’s right hand would have been on the far side of president until he turned toward him.”

  “Right. Mr. McKinley had his hand out when the little coward turned. Then, instead of shaking hands, he fired. You could see the bandage kind of explode with the first shot. Then I jumped on him.”

  “What happened to the president?”

  “Mr. McKinley fell backward into the plants. He knocked over two of them but they’re back the way they were now. I was wrestling on the floor with the bastard when suddenly someone jumped on both of us and slugged the little bastard in the jaw. Found out later it was Mr. Foster. Then a bunch of other folks jumped on as well. Your folks had to drag them off to keep them from killing the guy.”

  “Did Foster slug Czolgosz before or after you had gotten the gun away from him?”

  “After.”

  “You certain?”

  “Oh yes sir, Mr. George. Definitely after.”

  “And no one else looked suspiciously at this guy the whole time he was in the line.”

  “Not that I could see,” Parker said. “They all seemed to have turned away . . . ’cept the one looking at me.”

  “Did you see anyone else? Not just helping Czolgosz, but even just standing around who looked like they didn’t belong. Maybe someone off to the side who didn’t try and join the receiving line.”

  “Not that I remember. Everyone like that rushed to help when the president was shot. I figured they was all detectives, like you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Parker. You’ve been a great help.”

  “Really, Mr. George? I hope so.” Parker looked down and shuffled his feet a bit. “Uh, Mr. George, I heard that President McKinley has asked to meet me. To thank me an’ all. I’m kind of nervous.”

  “Don’t be, Mr. Parker. I’ve met him. He’s a very fair and decent man.” Walter realized he had used Mark Hanna’s phrase.

  Parker’s feet did not stop their little dance. “It’s not just that, Mr. George. Don’t say nothin’ please, but I voted for Mr. Bryan.”

  “You saved President McKinley’s life, Mr. Parker. I don’t think he’ll hold your vote against you.” Walter did not bother to mention he had voted for Bryan too.

  “Thank you, Mr. George. I like you. You’re the only one around here who calls me ‘Mr. Parker.’”

  “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

  “Not to some.”

  Walter and Harry walked outside and bid James Parker good day. They watched him saunter off toward the restaurant. He hadn’t gone fifty feet before a man in a derby and woman in a pink dress had stopped him and asked to shake his hand.

  “Foster and Ireland around?” Walter asked Harry. “Now’d be a good time to talk to them.”

  Harry shook his head. “Wilkie sent them back to Washington. Not hard to figure out why.”

  “No. Not hard at all.” Walter reached under his hat to scratch his hair, although he realized his scalp didn’t itch. “Odd though,” he mumbled.

  “What’s odd?”

  “Nothing. Forget it.”

  “What, Walter? This is the second time you’ve said something is odd. Now what is it?”

  “Just funny how Foster and Ireland could have been so . . .”

  “What? Been so what?”

  “Dumb, Harry. How could they not check out a bandage on someone’s hand big enough to hide a .32 when some colored waiter could tell it was suspicious?”

  Harry grabbed Walter by the forearm and turned him so they were face to face. “What are you saying, Walter?”

  Walter shook off Harry’s hand. “I’m not saying anything.”

  “Oh yes, you are. You’re wondering whether Foster and Ireland might have let that Polack through, then turned away on purpose.”

  “No, Harry. That’s not . . .”

  Before Walter saw his hand move, Harry had stuck his manicured finger into the middle Walter’s chest. It felt as if someone had jabbed him with a poker. “We’re looking for anarchists, Walter. Anarchists. The people who threw the bomb at the Haymarket. The people who kill coppers. Who want to overthrow the government and give it to a bunch of slobs who don’t even speak English. We’re not looking for our own.” Harry raised his finger off Walter’s chest, then jabbed it back without being delicate about it. “Whaddaya think, Walter, that Foster, Ireland, and the Polack knew each other? Or that Foster and Ireland had taken money to let McKinley get shot? I know you’re not saying that either of them did it because they was anarchists themselves.”

  Walter swatted Harry’s finger away. He had often wondered, if the two of them really went at it, who would be left standing at the end. “I’m not saying anything about anything, Harry, so keep your damned finger to yourself. I said it was odd. And it is odd. That’s it.”

  Harry pulled the offending digit back. “Walter, you asked if Foster and Ireland could be so dumb. Well, I’ve learned from eight years in the army and four on this job never to be surprised at how dumb people can be. Why don’t we just leave it at that?”

  “Okay, Harry. Anything you say.”

  7

  When Walter and Harry arrived at Buffalo police headquarters, a squat, rectangular building, two stories high, the air in the lobby chilled noticeably even before they announced themselves to the sergeant at the front desk. They were obviously expected. The sergeant, a ruddy-faced fellow whose bovine neck bulged over his uniform collar, made to look through papers before acknowledging their right to speak to the prisoner. After a few minutes, Harry cleared his throat, but the sergeant merely raised a fat finger and returned to his shuffling. Finally, he must have tired of the theatrics because he dropped the papers back on his desk, looked down at Harry and Walter like they were insects, and flicked his left index finger toward a far door. A uniformed copper stood guard. When Walter and Harry turned his way, he crossed his arms, and moved his feet slightly apart.

  “Harry, why don’t you sound out the coppers while I’m talking to Czolgosz?” Walter said softly.

  “Sound them out for what, Walter?” Harry glared around the room. “They don’t want to talk to us, wouldn’t you say? You trying to get rid of me?”

  “They’ll talk to you, Harry,” Walter whispered. “Everybody talks to you. It’s your animal magnetism.”

  “Fuck you, Walter.”

  “I’m serious, Harry. Not about the animal magnetism. But if there really was a plot, there must have been someone else in on it here in Buffalo. Do you think Emma Goldman, or anyone else for that matter, would send some kid to kill the president and not send along someone to make sure he didn’t screw it up? We need to find out how much the coppers know about Czolgosz since he got here, and how well they checked his comings and goings.”

  Harry considered the reasoning. “While you question Chol . . . the prisoner . . . by yourself. Shit, Walter, why do they all have those jaw b
usting names?”

  “Part of the plot. You know it’s better for one person to talk to him. You want to do it? I’ll talk to the coppers. But it might be tough, though, if you can’t even pronounce his name.”

  Harry mulled it over. “No. You go ahead and talk to him. You’re better.”

  “Don’t worry, Harry. I’ll tell you what he says.”

  “Sure.”

  “Does he know McKinley is still alive?”

  “Probably.”

  Walter walked past the uniformed copper through the door towards the cells, neither man offering pleasantries. The area was pretty clean as lock-ups go, but the smell of stale urine still hung over the place like a calling card. There were eight cells in the room, set in one long row. They were generally used as holding facilities until a suspect could be carted to one of the larger jails. For Czolgosz, though, the other seven had been cleared. A sergeant sat just inside the door, making certain that the prisoner didn’t chew through the bars or vanish into thin air. In one of the center cells, on his cot, back against the wall, feet up, was Leon F. Czolgosz.

  The would-be murderer of William McKinley could not have been more unlikely looking. He was tiny, less than five-foot eight and not one-hundred-fifty pounds, with a smooth, open, boyish face, light blue eyes, and sandy hair. He did not appear to need to shave more than once every three days. A bandage was stuck on his right cheekbone, where Foster had delivered his left. Czolgosz glanced toward the door as Walter walked through, showed a bit of surprise at Walter’s size, but otherwise he seemed unimpressed. With all the attention he had been getting, one more lawman was not going to be much of a difference.

  The sergeant stood up as Walter entered and strode to the entrance of the cell. He grasped one the bars above the keyhole with his right hand, as if to say, “This is my prisoner, buster.” Then he stood, looking Walter in the eye, challenging the federal man to ask him to leave.