by Ace Collins
“You must be in the chips.”
“I’m getting there.” He laughed. “Or as we say in the south, I’m walking in high cotton!”
“What do you do?” she asked as she scribbled down the order.
“I sell aluminum to the manufacturing industry.”
“Really?” she quipped, her eyebrows lifting halfway up her forehead. “You’re not going to believe this, but there’s a guy a couple of tables over who comes in every day. His company builds farm equipment, and he uses a lot of the stuff. He’s always talking about how difficult it is for him to get enough to keep his plant running. Maybe you should talk to him.”
Landers grinned. “Where is he and what is his name?”
“The name is Biggilo … Mick Biggilo,” she explained as she pointed over her shoulder. “You see that huge hunk of a man wearing the gray suit in the corner booth? Well that’s Big Mick.”
Big Mick had earned his moniker. Even sitting down he looked tall. His hands were twice the size of a normal man’s, and he used them as his spoke. At this moment the man with him was getting more than an earful as Mick’s mitts were flying in all directions to emphasize his every word.
Beyond his hands, Mick’s shoulders were wide as a yardstick and his neck would have dwarfed the trunk of a ten-year-old oak tree. Clean-shaven with a thick and unruly crop of blond straw on his head, the man’s green eyes sparkled like a lake on a summer day.
Landers shook his head and noted, “The guy’s grandfather must have been Paul Bunyan.”
“Yep.” She giggled. “You’re not the first person to say that. But he’s really a teddy bear. He tips great, too. Do you have a business card? I’ll take it over to him.”
Landers fished in his coat pocket and pulled out a card. As he handed it to the woman, he glanced back toward Big Mick’s table. The factory owner was still involved in some heavy conversation with the smaller, thin man. Whatever they were visiting about seemed pretty serious, too, as neither was smiling.
Bill’s eyes followed the waitress as she pushed through the crowd to Mick’s table. Once there she leaned over, handed the large man the card, and pointed to where Landers were sitting. Mick nodded, gently slapped the woman on the shoulder with his big right hand, and pulled himself from the booth. Five steps later he was peering down at the Arkansan.
“Says here your name is William Landers.” His deep, booming voice matched his size.
“I am, but most folks call me Bill.”
A ham-sized hand came forward, and a second later Landers was experiencing a grip firmer than any he’d ever known. He half expected to have to see a doctor when the big man finished the greeting. Finally, Big Mick dropped his massive frame into the seat opposite Landers. He wasted no time spelling out what he wanted.
“This tells me that your company can fill anyone’s needs for aluminum. Is that right?”
“I believe we can,” Landers assured him, “and our price is right, too.”
“Price is important, but not as important as volume. I can’t make enough of a newfangled hog feeder I designed. Everyone wants to buy them. And now I’ve developed cattle feeders as well. May not sound like much when compared to the aircraft industry, but I can assure you there are a lot of pigs and cattle in this world that have to eat, and farmers want feeders that will stand up in the weather. So I need a lot of aluminum. You see where I’m headed here?”
Smiling even though his right hand was still stinging, Landers nodded.
“Bill, I’m going to write a figure here on this napkin. You take a look at it and tell me if you can deliver anywhere near that much to my Muncie plant each month.”
The big man took out a pencil and scribbled a number on the white paper. He then pushed it across the table toward the salesman. Landers could feel Big Mick’s stare as he studied a number that was ten times what he expected.
“Mr. Biggilo.”
“Call me Big Mick.”
“Big Mick, would you give me time to make a call to our office? I want to guarantee how much we can deliver before I commit.”
“There’s a phone in the back.” He pointed to a door that had OFFICE written in six-inch blue letters. “Tell Plunky that Big Mick will pick up the long-distance charges.”
Landers hurried across the crowded restaurant to the office. He knocked and waited for a voice on the other side.
“Come in.”
“Big Mick sent me back here to make a long-distance call,” Landers explained. “He said he’d pick up the charges.”
The tall, dark headed, beady-eyed Plunky grunted, pointed to the phone, and got up and left. Two minutes later Calvin Bynum was on the line.
“So, Bill, you’re telling me that this guy is looking to buy this much every month?”
“He says he can’t make them fast enough,” Landers assured him.
“And you got the Airflow contract, too? And neither balked at our price?”
“Well Airflow didn’t, and Big Mick assured me he was more concerned about getting the material than what it cost. So, Mr. Bynum, can I can cut this deal?”
“Okay, Bill. We might have to add another shift, but if you close on this, both you and I are going to make a lot of money. In fact, you can get rid of that old Studebaker and buy a Packard or a Lincoln with the bonus you’ll be earning.”
Landers laughed. “Already got a Packard, but I’ll find a way to spend it. Don’t worry about that. I’ll call you later when we get everything signed.”
Setting the phone down, the salesman got up from the desk and walked over to a mirror. He straightened his tie and grinned. He had gone from the bottom of the barrel to the top of the mountain in less than a day, and he’d ridden there in a Packard. Not a bad way to go at all!
Chapter 31
We might have something, Helen,” Reese announced as Meeker walked into the room that had become their Chicago office.
The woman didn’t have to ask if what he had was good news. His face told her that the story was discouraging. Nine would get you ten that this was the news she had anticipated but hadn’t allowed herself to even think about. Setting the six-ounce bottle of Coke on her desk, she perched on the corner of the worktable and nodded.
“They found the body of a little girl along the Wabash River last night,” he explained, his tone as ominous as the subject was horrifying. “It was discovered about fifteen miles from where the Halls dropped the cash.”
Meeker pushed off the table and, with her arms folded across her chest, slowly walked over to the window. The news was hardly unexpected. History proved it was far easier to kill the victims in a kidnapping than leave them alive so they might be able to identify the person or persons responsible. Yet for the past three weeks she’d been hoping that this case would be different. As she’d studied the photos of Rose Hall, as she found out more about her personality and her likes and dislikes, as she’d come to know her favorite color and foods, the little girl had become very real to Meeker. She could almost hear the little girl singing along with Glen Miller on the radio. Now Helen wished Carole Hall had never shared that story with her. This was not just a case number with an objective, this was an almost three-year-old child whose parents loved her dearly. So the news was hard to stomach. She didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want to face it. She didn’t want to know that she hadn’t saved Rose Hall.
“You want to know the rest?” Reese asked from his desk.
She didn’t turn around as she spoke. “Go ahead.”
“A fisherman found the body along the bank where a creek feeds into the Wabash. The girl was blond, had shoulder-length hair, small features, and fair skin. The shoe size and height match Rose Hall. She’d been in the water too long for a facial identification.”
“Where is she?” Meeker’s tone was stoic.
“Indy,” he replied. “They are doing an autopsy right now.”
“Do they have our records?” she asked, still looking out the window. “Have they seen our files?”
“Yeah,” he assured her.
Meeker turned back to her partner. As she spoke, her arms remained folded. “This officially adds another charge to our case. Murder rides along with all the other occupants that Packard has been carrying. That means we might be able to get a few more G-men on the case.”
“Not the way I wanted to secure more resources,” he answered. “Who is going to tell the Halls?”
“I’ll do it.” She sighed. “It might be easier coming from a woman. And even if we don’t have an official confirmation, they need to be told we have found a body that could be the girl’s. Odds are that news is already on the radio in Indiana. It won’t take long to get here.”
She walked resolutely back to her desk, sat in her chair, and picked up the phone. Before dialing, she looked again at the photo of Rose Hall that she had sitting on the corner of her desk. What a beautiful child she had been.
“How do you think they’ll take it?” Reese asked.
She glanced across the room. From the despair in his eyes, someone who didn’t know the situation would have guessed the rugged agent to be the mourning father.
“You’re not as tough as Hoover thinks,” she noted.
“No,” he admitted.
“Henry,” she said, “it will crush them. But it is better to know your daughter is dead, to have the actual proof, than go through life without that knowledge. As cold as it sounds something good might come out of this. They’ll have a funeral. They will be able to mourn. There will be an ending.”
“And that’s good?” he asked.
“It’s better than never knowing,” she offered.
She once more looked at the phone before setting the receiver back in the cradle. She glanced across to the man and shrugged. “Does the press know about the body being found?”
“I can ask for a press blackout,” he replied. “Last I heard the newspaper doesn’t know about it.”
“Make the call and keep it quiet,” she quickly shot back. “Then I won’t have to make that call until we ID the body.”
“It might be a while,” he told her.
“The news needs to be concrete,” she said. Meeker picked up the newspaper she’d bought that morning but had not yet read. After taking a long draw of her Coke, she turned to the funny pages. Though she needed a laugh, she doubted the Tribune could make that delivery after her morning.
An hour later, after reading everything including the want ads twice, she set the paper down and watched as her partner answered the ringing phone. After his hello, he nodded in her direction. She knew this would be the confirmation they needed.
“I see,” Reese said. “And what else do you have?”
He waited for another sixty seconds. As he did Meeker opened her case file and pulled out the number to Carole’s Flower Shop.
“Got it,” the man said from his desk on the other side of the twenty-by-fifteen-foot room. “Thanks.”
Setting the phone down, he looked over at Meeker and grimly smiled. “It’s not her.” He paused as the full realization of what it meant set in. “It was a four-year-old girl from Newport. She and her father had not been seen since earlier in the month. He was out of work and his wife had left them, so locals just thought they’d moved away. Guess they hadn’t. They found his body about an hour ago not far from the spot where they found hers.”
Meeker shook her head. “You mean he was so overwhelmed that he killed his daughter and took his own life?” The thought was simply too much for her to comprehend.
“No,” Reese assured her, “seems it was just a tragic accident. They were out fishing….”
Chapter 32
May 1, 1940
So you still don’t know a blasted thing?” George shouted while pounding his fist into the counter as rage and frustration shaded his face crimson.
Helen Meeker stood in Carole’s Flower Shop, as the father’s words tore through her like a sharp knife. For a month she had worked every angle on the case, and she had nothing to show for it. During that time she had avoided admitting that fact or the lack of new evidence to Rose Hall’s parents. But the time had come to level with them that the FBI, with all its investigators and resources, had hit a dead end. The parents had a right to know that.
“I’m sorry,” Meeker replied, her carefully measured tone indicating the sincerity of her message. “I want you to know this is the most important case in the world to me. I really mean that.”
“But it must not be too important for the FBI,” George shot back.
Carole, who’d had been listlessly working on a flower display, cut her husband off, “George, bite your tongue.”
“I’m tired of staying quiet,” he screamed. “These people are supposed to find our baby, and what have they done? Nothing!” Rushing from behind the counter to where the agent stood, he wagged an accusing finger in the visitor’s face and went on, “If the FBI really cared, they wouldn’t have assigned a woman to the case. The fact that we got you rather than a man pretty much proves Rose didn’t matter to them!”
The words stung, but she’d gotten that reaction on many of the cases she’d been assigned. She had grown very used to the comment. “We must not be important because a woman is on the job.”
“George didn’t mean it,” Carole said, as she crossed the room to where the man and agent stood nose to nose. “It’s just the pressure. It’s just that you can’t tell us anything. We need some answers. We need some hope.”
Stepping back from the man’s accusing finger, Meeker walked over and put her hand on the hurting mother’s shoulder. “You need a lot more than answers, you need to have your little girl back. Bringing her back to you has filled my every waking hour and my sleepless nights.”
Moving back eye-to-eye with Rose’s father, she added, “And you’re right, there is a woman on this case. I’m here for a reason, and it’s not because the FBI doesn’t care. Mr. Hoover checks with me several times a week on this specific matter. He knows your daughter’s name and asks about her each time he calls. Right now we have a dozen agents all across the country following even the most obscure leads. I can’t begin to tell you the money and man-hours that have been expended on this case. And the reason it remains open and the reason we are working so hard is that there is a woman assigned to it. I won’t let them give up. I won’t let them turn their back on your little girl.”
George’s eyes dropped to the floor, and his hands pushed into his pants pockets. He was a defeated soul.
“Listen, Mr. Hall,” she solemnly said, “I have studied kidnapping cases more than anyone else at the FBI. I know them inside out. I know the reason kids are taken, and I know the odds of solving these cases. I know what has worked to nab suspects and put them behind bars. I know the proven steps needed to get a child back alive. I know more about that than Hoover himself. This is my life’s work, so you have the best person for this case in front of you right now!”
Meeker’s eyes darted from George to Carole and then to the front glass. She took in the placid street scene for a second before shrugging her shoulders and walking over to the counter to pick up her purse and resolutely moving toward the door. As she grabbed the knob, she looked back at the Halls. “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t believe it, and I understand that you’re angry and frustrated, but having a woman on this case is not the problem. If there is any way in the world to bring Rose home to you, I will or I will die trying.”
The Halls might have said something, but if they did, the agent didn’t hear it because she was already out the door. Sliding into her car, she hit the starter and pointed the Ford’s hood toward Chicago.
Chapter 33
Meeker pushed her hair off her forehead and leaned against the desk she was using at FBI’s Chicago office. As her legs pushed into the piece of furniture, she glanced across the room where her gaze fell on Henry Reese. As she was hitting nothing but dead ends, she hoped he was doing better. “What about Mr. Cason? Did you find him?”
> “Yes and no,” her partner explained. “I know where he is, but I can’t get to him. He’s on a ship bound for the Philippines. He won’t be back in the States for six months.”
“You’re not giving me the news I want to hear, Henry. How about the car? Any leads on finding it?”
“We’ve got the cops in Indiana, Missouri, Kentucky, and Illinois looking for it, but nothing has turned up. For the last month we’ve had local radio stations all over the area putting out bulletins asking people for help, and there’s hasn’t been a single call. The car has simply disappeared.”
She rubbed her forehead as she asked, “Do you think it’s in a river someplace?”
“Maybe.” He sighed. “Or perhaps chopped up for parts.” He shook his head. “You’ve been out of the office. What have you been up to? You find anything?”
“I was with the parents yesterday,” Meeker explained. “They’re in bad shape. George has lost at least twenty pounds, and Carole looks like the walking dead. They aren’t handling this well at all. But what can you expect? We have to give them something to hold on to. We have to give them some kind of hope!”
“Yeah,” he said, “but we can’t make up lies. That would be even worse than telling them nothing. And you know as well as I do what has likely happened.”
She knew. Most kidnapped children were killed within three days of their abduction. A few survived as long as a week, and it’d been a month.
“So,” he asked, “did you level with the Halls about the odds of us ever finding their child alive?”
She glanced over to her partner and shook her head. “Would you have?”
“No, but the fact is we aren’t going to find that kid. At some point they’re going to have to face that fact.”
“They won’t have to be told,” Meeker explained, “it will hit them like a ton of bricks when Rose’s birthday rolls around. And at Christmas, they’ll realize it then, too. For them, there won’t be any light days or easy laughs, not for a long time. Maybe never.”