“It’s easy question. John Henry Randolph. I live at my folk’s farm just outside of Taos, New Mexico.”
Smiling and speaking in a low, friendly manner, Pope asked another twenty questions he knew should elicit truthful answers. Questions to which he already knew the answer. This provided his baseline for Randolph the truthful person.
Pope studied his suspect as Randolph answered. He watched for body language, facial changes, perspiration, inability to look him in the eye, and other “tells.” As he had briefed Akin and Bell, tells were not always dependable. Anyone being questioned by the police for a serious crime will be nervous and exhibit many of the same characteristics as a liar.
“Kid, why did you choose Wells Fargo for the first robbery?”
“Dumb question. Everybody knows it’s where the money is.”
“Isn’t there more money in a bank?” Pope asked.
“Yeah, but they got guards with guns. Wells Fargo doesn’t.”
“So, you wanted to avoid a potentially violent situation?”
“On the first robbery ever, I did. After, I knew I could outdraw anybody,” he said, ego moving to the forefront.
“I see. When the lady walked in the door, what happened?”
“I saw her. The gun went off and she fell. The bullet killed her.” Transference from “me” to an inanimate object. A normal sign of lying.
“How did you feel about her dying?”
“She shouldn’t have come in!” Transference of responsibility from the shooter to the victim. Now, it was her fault.
“Did you worry about it later? Feel guilty?”
“No. Why would I?”
Pope looked at Akin and nodded.
“Kid, tell us about the manager, Mr. McCarthy,” Akin asked.
“The fool grabbed me. It was just wrong to grab me!”
“What happened then?” Akin asked.
“We wrestled and the gun went off. He fell down wounded.”
“Do you know what happened with him?”
“I guess he went to the hospital.”
“Actually, he went to the morgue. He died from the gunshot wound,” Akin said.
“He got what was coming to him for grabbing me.”
Bell took over, using the same, quiet voice as his predecessors.
“Kid, you said you are twenty-two. So am I. You seem to have gone to a lot of places before you wintered. How did you pick them?”
“I didn’t. They just happened. I was on a roll. I needed to fight some people. My reputation had to be built so the dime novel writers would come begging to me.” He turned to Pope.
“Are any in town yet?” he asked.
“I think they are probably waiting for the trial. More fanfare makes for a more exciting story.” Randolph nodded, pleased with the answer.
Bell picked up again.
“Kid, how much money did you get from the Wells Fargo robbery?”
“A lot.”
“Do you know exactly how much?”
“No. Just a lot.”
“You didn’t seem to spend much in your travels. No whiskey, no wild women, no Champagne?”
“What’s Champagne?”
“It’s an expensive type of alcoholic drink. Sometimes people order it to celebrate good fortune. How about whisky or women?”
“They are the devil’s tools!” He screamed out for the first time. Pope reentered the questioning.
“Then, we won’t have to talk about them. Kid, why did you decide to rob the same Wells Fargo office again, months later,” Pope asked.
“I did good there the first time, so I reckoned I would again.”
Following the same reasoning on their questions and presentation of questions, the three lawmen spoke with him another hour. They stopped when he fell asleep in the middle of a question.
They summoned the bailiff from outside and he took Randolph back to a cell.
The sheriff motioned the three and Sarah to his office. He had sufficient chairs for all.
“Folks, I have seen a lot of interrogations in my time behind the badge. I have done a lot. I gotta tell you, this one beats all. You all were darn patient. I’d have wanted to slap him a couple of times. But you got a lot of information. I know you have not had time to gather your thoughts, but I’d like your quick and dirty summary. Detective Pope?” the sheriff said.
“First off, I do not believe he lied to us once. It’s a first for me. Here’s what he did do.
He refused to take blame for much of anything. He aimed the gun, the gun went off. All by itself, I guess. Byron McCarthy had it coming to him, because he wrestled with Randolph. Randolph had no idea he had killed Byron. When he found out, he didn’t blink. I do not believe the man has a bit of conscience in his body. He blithely goes through life, people die at his hand and he keeps on going, never feeling guilt or compassion.
He is uneducated. He had no idea of how much money he stole. He looked for places to have gunfights. Gunfights he was sure he could win. He was cocking his Smith & Wesson to kill Sarah. I drew and shot him before he could finish cocking it. He is not much of a gunfighter. I suspect if we follow up on the fights he had, they were against drunks.
I believe he robbed Wells Fargo to stake his travels around the West to become a known fast gun and achieve his ultimate goal of being a dime novel hero. Dime novel hero is at the center of everything he seems to care about,” Pope said.
“Is he insane?” the sheriff asked.
“Sheriff, It’s a matter of what defines insane. I don’t know enough about the subject to say. He appears to have no conscience. He fixates on things. He refuses to take responsibility for anything wrong he did. His folks told me he tortured and killed small animals as a boy. He’s naturally mean. The blow-up about whiskey and women was interesting. It told us he has been exposed to Scriptures, probably at home.
It would be fascinating to know for sure what prompted it, but I doubt it’s germane to our case. I have my suspicions and I suspect each of you does, too.
If any or all of those traits fit the definition of insane, then he is. If they are just unacceptable character traits, he isn’t. I suspect he is. Whether he spends his life in a strait jacket or whether he swings by the neck until dead for killing our friend and the poor lady and constable does not matter to me. I believe justice will be done either way.”
The sheriff was thoughtful for a moment. Then, he looked at Pope.
“If he had not have had Sarah as a hostage, what would you have done?”
“I’d have sent him straight to hell before he cleared leather. Then, I would have turned and walked out the door and had a nice meal.”
“Wouldn’t he have done the same, if he was fast enough?” Sharples asked.
“I suspect so, Sheriff. Maybe the difference came out in a conversation Sarah and I had. She believes I am a stone-cold killer. I believe he is a stone-cold murderer.”
Sheriff Seth Sharples nodded his head. He understood. The West needed men like Pope who could and would kill. Kill when necessary. Kill murderers who threatened them or others. Kill predators like Kid Taos.
He and his chief deputy went back to their offices. There was a report to write, based on the past hour and a half.
Sarah went to the office to see what needed to be done. Bell returned to transcribe his large number of notes for Pope to review before both signed and sent a report to James Hume.
Detective John Pope took a long walk. It was a nice spring day in Cheyenne. He doffed his Stetson at ladies, nodded at men on the street and came back to the office just like what the day was. Just another day for a Wells Fargo detective.
10
The initial trial for John Henry Randolph was to be held in Cheyenne for Wyoming Territory in a week. They had possession of the fugitive and first shot at him for jurisprudence. Any other extraditions came later. But it was unlikely there would be anyone left to extradite after Wyoming Territory got through.
The prosecutor met with the
sheriff, chief deputy and the three Wells Fargo detectives. His prosecutorial plan was for the sheriff to list the Wyoming charges of three counts of murder in the first degree, one count of an aggravated assault against Sarah, one count of robbery, one of attempted robbery, and fleeing to avoid prosecution. He would not be allowed to mention the other warrants outstanding in Western states. The prosecutor planned to list those in his opening.
As Pope predicted, a prominent young attorney in Cheyenne offered to represent Randolph for no fee.
Once the papers in the region mentioned the trial date, hotels in Cheyenne booked to capacity.
The local law enforcement witnesses and the Wells Fargo people did not have any preparations to make for the trial. Witnesses who had observed the shooting of the lady, McCarthy and the constable were called for examination. Witnesses inside the office when Sarah was taken were summoned.
Finally, the prosecutor reserved the right to cross examine Randolph at his option. His attorney, having spoken with the outlaw several times, raised objections which were overruled.
It had come down to a matter of hurry up and wait.
Neither Hume nor Superintendent Pridham contacted any of the three detectives in Cheyenne. On the part of the two senior detectives, it caused more angst than the upcoming trial.
Hume sent Pope a case where a customer was suing Wells Fargo in civil court for claimed losses due to the late arrival of funds, or “treasure,” sent to its Douglas location.
Pope went to the clerk’s office in the courthouse. He had financial records reflecting the alleged losses subpoenaed. Pope and Bell rode up to the un-platted town formerly called “Tent City” to deliver them and investigate.
The ride up was in good weather. The alleged losses occurred during snow season.
Pope wanted to speak with the jehu and the shotgun messenger on the route for Wells Fargo. They were due into Douglas about an hour after the detectives’ arrival.
The detectives waited and interviewed the driver and guard. They found out what happened.
Pope and Bell rode up to the company site. It was the beginning of a mining operation. No ore deposits had been found yet.
The local supervisor was a man named Becker. He provided duplicates of the subpoenaed materials. Bell reviewed the copies and originals for accuracy.
“Mr. Becker, we see the papers showing monies on hand and invoices for bills. In your own words, tell us how this caused you claimed loss of five hundred dollars,” Pope asked.
The man began in his strong German accent.
“Well, it was snowing. The men wanted to go home, but it was payday. The stage was late. It was no fault of my own. I had to pay my men so they could leave. It cleaned out my cash box. I had other immediate bills and no money. The stage never came during the day with my money. People we owed charged penalties. I figured two-fifty would cover my losses and troubles.”
Pope and Bell exchanged looks. Both thought “a very weak case,” and knew the other’s mind on the matter.
“Mr. Becker, do you have notices from your creditors charging you for the penalties?”
The man hesitated and had the wide-eyed look of the dog stealing his dinner off the family table.
“Not exactly.”
“Let me offer you a solution. Detective Bell and I feel it’s going to cost you will have lawyer and fees in court, even if you win. The stage was delayed by sliding off the road into a ditch. They spent a cold night with the shotgun messenger riding a team horse bareback to a station and getting help. It took much longer to right the stage and replace a broken axle. Our driver will testify to the incident and note it was an act of God.
We are not so sure you will win your case. But Wells Fargo is a fair company. One which values you as a customer.
I propose we give you one hundred dollars right now for your troubles and the case be dropped. I think it’s a very fair deal for all concerned, don’t you?”
Becker thought for a moment, then nodded.
“If you will write on your subpoena you are dropping your case in favor of a cash settlement received and get one of your employees to witness it, we will pay you the money and hit the trail,” Bell said.
“I will do it.”
Becker took his copy of the subpoena and wrote out the words Pope dictated to him. He signed it in front of one of his men, who then witnessed it. Pope counted out one hundred dollars in gold coins and handed it to Becker.
Hands were shaken all around and the two detectives mounted up and rode back towards Cheyenne.
They stopped after an hour and a half and made a quick camp for coffee and sandwiches along the trail.
“A good settlement, Jake. If we lost, it would have cost us five hundred and whatever fees and attorney costs. If we won, it would have still cost the attorney and court fees, plus your and my time wasted. Now, everybody is happy and the reputation of the company is not negatively affected. I’d say, overall, we won.”
“This type of approach and logic is a good lesson, John. I came into the job thinking it would be kind of like being a LA detective, but with a lesser badge and more money.
I am finding it is nothing like it. I am also finding the power of the badge is what we make it. This was my first nuisance case. Are these our bread and butter cases between big ones like your kidnapping and the upcoming Randolph case?” Bell asked.
“They are. There are more of these pain-in-the-butt matters to investigate than the ones hitting the newspapers. These are not exciting. They are, however, most of what we are paid for. Our costs net out much higher attorney costs. Most companies hire attorneys who hire their own private detectives to do the work we do. Then, they bill us several times what they have to pay the private detectives.”
“Are such cases how Detective Morse makes his income,” Bell asked.
“More like how his more junior detectives do. He personally only handles big cases. Big for us when we hire him and big for him when others do. Murders of famous people. Kidnappings. Nationally famous robbers like Black Bart. He always gets them. Give yourself another year at Wells Fargo and he’d hire you in an instant. The work would be essentially the same. It would just be a job if you found you needed it.”
“What could cause me needing a new job?”
“I don’t know. Say James Hume had a heart attack and stepped down. Say they picked some jerk to run the detective division of the company and you could not stand him.”
“I see. Wouldn’t Thacker or you get the nod, though?”
“Who knows? It’s a big company and well-run. But there are always politics. The governor’s son who may be a SF police detective sergeant or something.”
“What would you do?”
“Maybe run my grandfather’s little ranch. Maybe go to work for Harry Morse. Maybe open my own firm or run for sheriff. Maybe do like a friend, JA McLaughlin, and take a ship to Hawaii and live in Paradise.”
“Who’s JA McLaughlin?”
“A fellow who lived near my grandfather’s cabin in Marin County. He got tired of the protracted Reconstruction in Virginia and working on the family’s failing tobacco and sweet potato farm. So, he did like Horace Greely said and ‘went West young man,’ in his teens. He’s been in Hawaii for a while I guess. No stage coaches carrying the mail there. Just clipper ships. He sent a letter a while back. Said they had the most beautiful women he ever saw. They wear a scarf around the waist and a flower in their hair. Which side the flower is on tells you if they are married or available.”
“You didn’t mention them wearing anything else, John.”
“They don’t wear anything else. I guess the darn missionaries will change the way they live. Just like they are forcing Indians to give up their lifestyle and religions to accept ours. I don’t think it’s right.”
“And, after what they did to your family, you have cause to hate Indians,” Bell said.
“But, I don’t. There are bad or misguided people everywhere. What they did was wrong a
nd they paid for it with their lives and scalps,” Pope said.
“You scalped them?” Bell said incredulously.
“My mentor, my grandfather, was a mountain man. Their ways were his ways,” was Pope’s only response. Bell thought for a minute, saying nothing. Pope was the most dangerous man he could imagine. The best friend. The worst enemy.
They continued munching on ham and cheese sandwiches and drinking coffee brewed on a small fire. Bell noticed Pope sparked the fire with a ferro rod and the top edge of his wicked Bowie knife. He did not use a Lucifer match. Just one stroke of the rod against his blade and a shower of sparks hit a nest of tender and the fire was going.
Somehow, Bell imagined Pope could light a fire in a snowstorm.
The office was already closed by the time they made it back to Cheyenne and stabled the horses.
They walked to the hotel and went to their rooms, agreeing to meet shortly for dinner downstairs.
Sarah was in her room waiting. She was ready for dinner. Pope gave her the short version of settling the lawsuit in Douglas. She agreed it was a fair settlement for all.
He would send a quick telegram to Hume in the morning, followed by posting a detailed report.
Pope suspected Becker would pocket the hundred dollars. The suit was dropped, and the settlement was clean. What Becker did with the money was between him and his company, as far as Pope was concerned. His last name was a trick of bloodline. It was not indicative of any sort of Papal responsibility or turpitude.
The only one tired at dinner was Sarah. She had gone non-stop at the office, dealing with customer issues and deadlines. The ride to Douglas and return had been a nice trot in delightful weather. It had been a nice day on the trail which was for a successful venture with no danger. Though Pope referred to it as what they were paid to do, the lack of threat was singular in their work. Yet, if any of the three detectives were pressed, they would admit the threat was what made them get up in the morning and strap their guns on.
Cheyenne’s big trial started on time. The witness waiting room was full. There were more witnesses than anyone associated with jurisprudence in the district could remember.
Wyoming Shootout (Gun For Wells Fargo Book 2) Page 21