Death at Pullman (6 page)

Detective Whitbread was anxious to hurry us on our way as soon as we left the train, but Mr. MacGregor stood his ground and insisted on speaking his thanks.

“Miss Cabot, we are very grateful to you and Miss Addams. The food that is being sent will be greatly appreciated and we were glad to have the detective arrange for the release of the men taken yesterday.”

“Yes, yes,” Detective Whitbread interrupted. “They don't have any idea what they are doing down here about a murder investigation. The mayor has asked me to handle it and it will be done to everybody's satisfaction. But now we must get down to the Dens. They have allowed the family to take the body away without a proper examination and if we don't hurry they'll have it in the ground before we can see it. Dr. Chapman, what luck you've come along. I need your services, if you will. I have a carriage. Quickly now. And, Mr. Cabot, I'm glad to see you've recovered. Come along. I'll need you to give me a report, Miss Cabot, as well. Everyone in, please, there's no time to waste.”

He hurried us around the side of the building to a large open carriage he had commandeered from the Pullman stables. As we got in and started moving, I was once again impressed by the breadth of the town itself.

Meanwhile, Mr. MacGregor appeared somewhat concerned about our errand. He explained that we were going to the O'Malley home where Brian O'Malley was being waked preparatory to a funeral at the Holy Rosary Church in the nearby town of Kensington. The O'Malleys occupied one of the brickyard cottages that were known as the “Dens” and he tried to prepare us for the visit.

“They've fallen on hard times, the O'Malleys have, since the father, Sean, died last year. Brian was a carpenter and got work in the repair shops sometimes. But Joe, he could only get work in the brickyards. And they had to move to the Dens. Gracie will be there—Mrs. Foley that you met yesterday, she that was Gracie O'Malley.” He stopped and thought about that for a while.

“She should not have been allowed to take the body away without a proper examination by a doctor,” Detective Whitbread told him. “It was entirely improper.”

Remembering the tension of the scene in the shed, I thought it would have been a mistake to try to stop Mrs. Foley, but I did not try to explain. Mr. MacGregor's brow was creased with worry.

“Perhaps I should tell you a little of Mrs. Foley's story.” He moved uncomfortably but, after looking at the skeptical expression on Whitbread's long face, he decided to continue. “Gracie is the oldest of the family. She was always forward. Outspoken, you might say. Her mother died when the littlest one in the family was born. Gracie and the two older boys—Brian and Joe—helped raise the young'uns. Her father got Gracie a job in the laundry here, but she thought she was treated unfairly and it's not her way to keep quiet. Her father told her to keep her peace, but she wouldn't, and when she spoke up she was laid off.

“Well, she had been seeing one of lads that worked in the brickyard with Joe. Brendan Foley, he was. He was a drinker and lazy, but he talked big and he impressed the women. Well, he got laid off himself, no surprise, but then Sean found out that Gracie was with child. I think they must have planned to marry, but when Brendan got laid off he moved into the city and they had nothing to live on to get married. But Sean, he was furious. He threw Gracie out and she had to go to the city. Well, I think they got married then, but Sean still refused to talk to her and he forbade the others to keep in touch with her at all. And Brian supported his da and wouldn't let her come to visit at all, even after she was married to Brendan and they lost the child and all.” He sighed.

“Sean was a good man but a hard one. When he got hurt in an accident—a packing crate fell on him—he wouldn't let them send for her, and Brian supported him again that time. I don't suppose he knew he would die of it. But he did. And at the funeral Brian still wouldn't let the others even talk to her. It was terrible to watch. She was there, you see, but far away from the grave when they put him in it. And by then I heard Brendan Foley had got himself killed in a barroom. Gracie had gotten work as a laundress, though, and she stayed in the city.”

We were all quiet as the carriage took us away from the last of the brick row houses and towards the mud flats. The shed where the body was found was off to our left and Lake Calumet beyond. Ahead of us we could see four rows of wooden shanties. These were like nothing in the rest of the clean and tidy brick town. Even those of us used to the rickety wooden tenements crowded into the slums of the West Side were appalled by these buildings that looked barely habitable. It was unusually quiet as we approached. I could see a wagon holding a wooden coffin standing beside one of the last of the shanties. Between the sounds of the hoof beats and jangling harnesses of our carriage we could hear the mournful wailing sound of pipe music floating across the mud.

“That'll be Joe, the younger brother,” Mr. MacGregor told us. “Uilleann pipes he plays. That's a mournful sound, then. He used to play for the dances in the Market Hall before, when his father was alive.” The little man shook his head and we all listened as we pulled to a stop before the last structure. There were people standing quietly in the yard, spilling over into the next shack, and others around a lean-to on the side that I judged must be the kitchen, such as it was.

As the music stopped, Detective Whitbread climbed down.

“Mr. MacGregor, Dr. Chapman, if you will.”

Dr. Chapman stepped down, then reached back to take his satchel from Alden. Mr. MacGregor followed, seeming reluctant. I decided to join them as they went up the two small steps into the gloom of the interior. People moved out of the way with curious looks. It was obvious that there was little room inside, however, and most were paying their respects, then moving to the yard of the next house. As people came out, the men slipped surreptitiously around the side of the building to the group by the lean-to.

Inside it was dark, except for two banks of candles at the head and foot of a table where the body of Brian O'Malley was laid out, covered by what looked like a linen tablecloth up to his chin. I was startled to see Fiona MacGregor sitting beside the dead man on a low stool. Her father was also surprised and I saw her look up at him with fear in her eyes. Then she stood and quickly pushed past me out of the room. As her father turned to watch her go, Gracie Foley rose up from the gloom of the corner.

“Ian MacGregor, it's a great nerve you have coming to pay your respects. He wasn't good enough for you and your precious daughter in life, was our Brian? But you'll weep for him in death, is that it? We've no use for your crocodile tears here. Be gone.” There was great scorn in her voice and I saw tears in the eyes of the little man as he looked at the white face of the dead boy. I thought he was too choked with tears to answer her taunts. Or perhaps he had been rendered immovable by the words of the woman. Looming up from behind the corpse, with the candles lighting her face from below, I could almost believe Gracie Foley was some kind of witch.

“You are Mrs. Foley?” Detective Whitbread broke the spell in his usual mundane way. “I am Detective Henry Whitbread. I am investigating your brother's death. I'm very sorry for your loss, madam, but we must look at your brother's body before you can take it away for interment.”

This was a very uncharacteristic attempt on Detective Whitbread's part to soften, and apologize for, the intrusions necessary in his job. Gracie Foley was not acquainted with my policeman friend, however, and when she moved her concentrated gaze from poor Mr. MacGregor to the detective there was sharp animosity in her eyes.

“You will do no such thing. You'll not touch him. You, who work for the company and the great and greedy Mr. George Pullman, you'll not put your hands on him. Have you no shame? Is it not enough you've killed him? Him who was the only support for the children? You killed our father at your works and now you've killed our brother. Can you not leave him be, so that we can mourn him in peace?” She was breathing fast, her face red with anger, and she took two steps to put herself between Whitbread and the dead man.

“Calm yourself, madam. We mean no disrespect. On the contrary, we are here to see that justice is done. We are in no way connected to the Pullman Company. I am a detective of the Chicago Police Department sent to investigate the circumstances of your brother's death. This is Dr. Chapman, a medical doctor. If you will just give us a few moments alone with the body, we will discover what we can from it and be on our way.”

She laughed. It was a harsh sound, a bitter response. “You are from the police? And you say you are not connected to the company? Hah! You dare to say you are not in his pay? You dare to speak of justice? What do you know of justice? What justice is there in Pullman? What justice is it that the children go hungry? What justice is it that their father is taken away from them? What justice is it that they are forced to live in a shack like this? What justice is it that men like him,” she pointed at MacGregor, “with their strikes and their causes can murder their brother and bring us to starvation?”

MacGregor blinked, then turned and left the room, pushing past me. I was concerned that the woman was on the brink of hysteria, but it was a controlled rage. She planted herself between the table and Detective Whitbread, bending forward from the waist to spit her words into his face. Whitbread was not an emotional man himself. He relied upon fact and logic and was relentless in pursuit of them, with perfect disregard for extraneous influences. His greatest point of pride was his integrity and I had seen him risk job and livelihood in defense of his reputation. He was not about to have it impugned. He cocked his head.

“I repeat, madam. We are here in the pursuit of justice. We have not been dispatched by the Pullman Company, Mr. MacGregor and his strike committee, or anyone else. We represent only the people of the city of Chicago, who demand that a deed such as the murder of your brother be investigated and the perpetrator brought to justice. This is our errand, nothing else. To accomplish it, we will have to view your brother's body to determine the true cause of death. You can assist us, or you can attempt to hinder us, in which case I will have the unwelcome duty of putting you under arrest.”

He returned her concentrated glare coolly and I had no doubt he would arrest her and brave the anger of the crowd that was gathering in the yard behind my back.

“Mrs. Foley,” Dr. Chapman intervened. “I am Stephen Chapman. I'm a doctor and I have come to Pullman at the request of Miss Jane Addams to provide medical care to those who need it during this strike. I can vouch for Detective Whitbread. He is not in the pay of George Pullman, or Mr. MacGregor, or anyone else. It is Mayor Hopkins who has asked Detective Whitbread to investigate in order to ensure that everything is done to find whoever did this to your brother. Please let us examine his body. It will not take long and then you can take him to the church. If you like, we can ask your priest to come in while we do the examination. Would that help?”

Whitbread turned to frown at the doctor, releasing his gaze from the deadlock with Gracie Foley. She watched them with narrowed eyes. “Dr. Chapman, we have work to get on with. We cannot be waiting for a priest.”

“Whitbread, if we must wait for a priest we will. I will not do the examination without the consent of Mrs. Foley, so unless you want to find another medical man, you will wait.”

As they continued to argue, Gracie Foley's eyes fell on mine.

“He really does not work for Mr. Pullman, Mrs. Foley. He refuses to be influenced by anyone. He will find the truth.”

Somehow the bickering that had broken out between the two men managed to drain the rage out of Gracie Foley. I thought she recognized in it something about the male character that she could trust more than any show of force. Suddenly, she stepped away from the table. At that the men stopped talking. Before Whitbread could question her move, Dr. Chapman stepped to the table and began to gently fold back the sheet draping the body. The man was clothed in a threadbare jacket and pants that the doctor began to remove. When Mrs. Foley pushed her way out the door, wiping tears from her cheeks, I followed, hoping to allow them privacy. I stood beside her outside as she sniffed back her tears. Mr. MacGregor had moved off by himself on the mud flats and he looked away towards Lake Calumet. Gracie glared at his figure.

“He has a nerve coming, him and his daughter. Brian wasn't good enough for her. 'Twas that he was Catholic. Ian MacGregor claimed a great friendship with my father but when Brian and Fiona wanted to marry they both of them—MacGregor and my father—stepped in the way. They forbade it. On the grounds of religion. That was a Christian act, now wasn't it?”

I could think of no response. I didn't like to leave her side. She radiated an intense anger, yet she drew my sympathy like a wounded animal might. Her glare had not left Ian MacGregor's figure and, as if he felt it—though he was turned away—I saw him head across the mud flats to the large, long shed where we had found Brian O'Malley the day before. I saw Gracie finally remove her gaze from him and my eyes followed to where a gleaming horse and buggy were trotting up the dirt road. She nodded towards it and looked me in the eye.

“But I no longer care for the church or anyone else. Mr. Mooney is not Catholic but he has asked me to marry him and I will. Mr. Mooney is not a union man and Mr. Mooney is not a creature of Pullman.” With that she left me to step towards the buggy that drew to a halt. It was a short, fussy man who carefully set the reins and whip and climbed down to greet Gracie Foley. He wore a bowler hat and a slick black suit with stripes and shiny patent leather boots. From where I stood, I thought he looked at least as old as Mr. MacGregor and his height was such that his eyes barely reached Gracie's shoulder. But he took her hand and bowed over it and reached up into the carriage for a large bunch of lilies that he placed in her arms. When he followed her as she headed back to the shack I saw him nod to the men with the wagon bearing the wooden coffin and I thought perhaps it would be with his assistance that Brian O'Malley was decently buried that day.