Flying Crows (17 page)

Josh continued to bow as if the uproar and noise were a form of applause
for his performance.

All persons present seemed in a state of deep disturbance except the
bushwhackers. In their dirty whites and with their Somerset Sluggers, they
stood in the back and on the sides, watching and laughing at the collective
misery of the others. To these present-day bushwhackers his story of the earlier bushwhackers seemed as entertaining as a radio show or a burlesque
movie.

Yes, yes, Josh knew that was the point of the evening, the point of why
they let him do what he did. But he couldn't worry about that. Not now, not
in these moments, when the sweet satisfaction of the performance was at its
exquisite peak.

He enjoyed being onstage, performing his lines perfectly, as he had
tonight, exercising his truly extraordinary power to make people laugh and
scream and be scared half out of their wits.

It didn't matter to him that his audience was made up of lunatics and
bushwhackers.

XIII

RANDY

KANSAS CITY

1997

The file on Joshua Alan Lancaster arrived at the office in the regular mail. Randy had received no forewarning, no heads-up call from Simmons, the state police sergeant in Jefferson City, or anyone in Baxter County. The terrible story of Birdie Carlucci's best friend, Josh, simply arrived.

There were several pieces of paper in the 8-by-10 manila envelope. On top, attached by a paper clip, was a handwritten note on a sheet of white memo paper that had THE COUNTY OF BAXTER—OFFICE OF THE DISTRICT CLERK printed across the top.

Lieutenant Benton:

Rob Simmons asked that I retrieve and pass on this information. It took a while because the records are so old they were in a box in a corner of our courthouse not even the mice have visited in years. These are photocopies of the originals, which must remain in our files. If you need anything else, please feel free to contact me directly. Meanwhile, you owe me one. Rob too. That's what he told me to tell you.

Sincerely,
Diane Sams

Randy removed the note and the clip and began reading.

The first item was the handwritten report of a local law enforcement officer. It was dated June 25, 1905, Jensen City, Missouri.

I was in church this date, worshiping my Lord and Savior, when a young man of my acquaintance rushed into our sanctuary. “Marshal! Marshal Lloyd!” he screamed. “Come with me! There's been a massacre at the Lancaster farm!” I left the church with the young man, mounted my horse, and rode with him to the Lancaster farm, two and one half miles west on the Joplin road. I knew it to be the home of Wesley and Annie Lancaster, working farmers, loving parents, and good citizens of our community and state.

We arrived to find a boy of 15 sitting on the front porch. I recognized the lad as being Josh Lancaster, the eldest of three sons of Wesley and Annie. I knew them also to have a daughter. Josh was sobbing into his hands, which were covered with a red I knew was blood, as was his shirt, which had an original color of white, and trousers, which were dark blue. “I am so sorry. I don't know what happened. It's my fault. I am so sorry.” Those expressions and similar ones were uttered repeatedly as I approached him and after I arrived at his side. I asked him what happened. He said he had killed his family. I asked him where his family was and he said, “In heaven, God willing.” I said, “Yes, son, but where are they physically at this moment?” He pointed toward the front door of the house, which was wide open.

I entered a home that had become a place of horror and death beyond anything I had ever seen before, even in connection with my official duties. In the sitting room, there were the bleeding bodies of three children, known to me as the three other Lancaster children: Wesley Jr., 12, Charlotte, 10, and Lincoln, 8. Each had three or more sets of punctures in their stomachs and chests. In the kitchen was the body of Annie Lancaster, 37, similarly mutilated. Then, in a back bedroom, I came to the body of Wes Lancaster, 41. There were eight or nine sets of punctures across the front of his body, including his face. From the center of the stomach, there protruded the long wooden handle of a pitchfork. The prongs of the pitchfork remained deeply and fully embedded in the body of Wes Lancaster. My close examination of the pitchfork handle showed the presence of fingerprints in the blood that, to my trained and experienced eye, were not inconsistent with those of a young person.

I went through some quick actions, repulsive and upsetting to me in their execution, to ascertain that all five of the Lancasters were, in fact, deceased. I then returned to the porch. Josh Lancaster had not moved and had not stopped sobbing and, through words, was confessing and repenting for the horrible crimes he had just committed. His confession was not inconsistent with the fingerprint and other evidence that I observed and noted. As other citizens began arriving on the property, I asked Josh why he had done what he did. It took several askings, but finally he said only that his father had deprived him of an opportunity to love. He said nothing more that resembled coherence. I placed him under custody and transported him to the Baxter County jail in Jensen City. I did so after sending for Dr. Michael Adams to make the deaths official, for mortician Ben Quinn to remove and prepare the victims' physical remains for service and final resting, and for Pastor Willingham to prepare their souls for their departure to a Better Place. I gave custody of the bloody pitchfork, after it was removed from the body of Wes Lancaster, to county attorney Rick Smith.

William S. Lloyd,
City Marshal

Randy stopped reading, blinked his eyes, and took a deep breath. He could certainly see why Josh Lancaster chose to be a false witness to somebody else's massacre in Centralia rather than his very own.

There was more to the horrible story.

The next page, also handwritten, was the report of the doctor. Randy read it quickly. The doctor confirmed the five Lancasters were, in fact, dead. In each case, the cause of death was multiple and repeated punctures to their vital organs by an instrument believed to have been the sharp spokes of a pitchfork.

Then came the one-page charge—labeled a bill of indictment—against Joshua Alan Lancaster for the murders of his mother, father, two brothers, and sister. Attached to it was a legal-looking document signed by the county attorney recommending “with vigor and conviction” that despite the defendant's minor status he be put to death by hanging.

Below that paper was another signed by an attorney “on behalf of Joshua Alan Lancaster, minor.”

It said:

There is God's evidence as well as that from ordinary mortals that proves beyond any doubt that Joshua Alan Lancaster was in a severe state of lunacy when he committed the heinous crimes for which he is charged and which he willingly and openly admits to having committed. Can anyone challenge the simple and direct premise that God would not have permitted a sane person to have committed such horrors? Only a person of a mind unsound beyond all medical or spiritual imagination could have done so. When coupled with the fact that the perpetrator is a mere lad of fifteen, the obviousness of the state of insanity becomes an even more overwhelming and unassailable truth. Why did he do it? He says to his lawyer and to the world that his father forbade him to take a certain young girl of our community to a festive occasion. Could that be reason for a person of sound mind to brutally destroy the lives of his entire family? Nay, I say! Nay, say the laws of God and of Missouri!

I, therefore, before the knowing God of us all and the merciful laws of our state of Missouri, beg the court to declare Joshua Alan Lancaster to have been insane beyond the ability to know what he was doing at the time he committed these horrible crimes. I plead for his life to be spared and for his sick, depraved mind to be treated.

Respectfully submitted,
Jonathan Lucas MacNair, Esq.

Then followed four pages of a transcript of a judicial proceeding a few weeks later.

The town marshal, William S. Lloyd, testified under oath that Joshua Alan Lancaster, a prisoner in the local jail, had been unable to close his eyes and sleep since the Sunday of the murders. He said the lad screamed “loud enough for God in heaven to hear and comprehend” each time his eyelids came shut. Attempts to induce sleep artificially had mostly been unsuccessful. On more than one occasion, said the marshal, he had resorted to knocking the boy out cold with carefully managed blows to the head. He said it was his opinion, as an officer of the law, that Joshua Alan Lancaster was “alive with the demons of what he had done” and the “sight of the horror he had created” came to focus each time he closed his eyes.

Dr. Michael Adams, the Jensen City physician, gave essentially the same testimony from a medical point of view. He said that putting Joshua Alan Lancaster to sleep or stopping him from screaming was beyond his expertise.

The last document in the packet was a copy of the final order issued by Judge R. Edward Keller.

Wrote the judge:

I find the defendant, Joshua Alan Lancaster, a minor at age fifteen, to be of unsound mind. I declare that he is a lunatic and certifiably insane under any standard the forces of our community and state could bring to bear on the question. I further find that he was of that condition shortly after twelve noon on June 25, 1905, when he wantonly and savagely ended the lives of his father, Wesley Richard Lancaster; his mother, Anne Lee (Richards) Lancaster; and his three minor siblings—Wesley Jr., Charlotte, and Lincoln.

I am mindful of the pleas from our esteemed county attorney that the nature of Joshua Alan Lancaster's crimes are such that the maximum penalty be imposed. I too have considered the competing pleas from counsel that his life be spared. The laws of our state, as currently enacted or litigated, give little definitive guidance in such a case. But in my reading I sensed a wide degree of latitude available to me in reaching a judgment. I have decided to exercise that latitude.

I therefore rule and order as follows: that Joshua Alan Lancaster be taken forthwith to the state lunatic asylum at Somerset. He shall remain there for the rest of his life without opportunity for parole or release. If at any time before his natural death it is determined that he is free of his lunacy, he should be taken into custody by the penal authorities of our state and put to death by hanging for the crimes he has committed.

So ordered this twenty-seventh day of August, 1905.

The Honorable R. Edward Keller

So. Here I am, thought Randy. One down, one to go. Now I know the full and terrible story of Joshua Alan Lancaster, but I'm still almost nowhere on Birdie Carlucci.

XIV

JOSH AND
BIRDIE

UNION STATION

1933

After a glance around the restaurant, Birdie turned his attention to the Harvey Girls—the waitresses.

“Look at that splendid one over there, she's spotted me already, I'm sure,” he whispered to Josh, pointing to a woman on the right side in the far rear of the restaurant. She was standing with her hands behind her back, looking at Birdie, Josh, and Will with a welcoming smile. “Let's do her the favor of sitting at one of her tables, what do you say? They're back in a corner, private-like.”

Josh had never seen—or imagined—waitresses dressed like these. At a glance, they could pass for nuns. They had white collars around their necks and black bow ties at their throats, and they were covered down to their black shoes in huge white apron bibs over black long-sleeved blouses and white skirts. Everything about them seemed starched, including their hair, which was tucked neatly under hairnets. Unlike those at Somerset, thought Josh, here were some ladies who really should have
Sister
before their names.

There were at least ten of these young women moving around or waiting at particular tables throughout the restaurant, which appeared to be about half full of customers. They seemed most at home here because this Harvey House lunchroom had an extraordinary cathedral-like look and feel about it. The ceiling was two stories high; the white plaster walls were framed every several feet by intricate molding and decorated with lighting fixtures, each of which had three large ornate bulbs. In the center of the room was a long U-shaped counter with a marble top and swivel chairs that had caned backs and seats. Tables, also marble-topped, were arranged around it and also in a balcony in the rear that was not unlike a church choir loft.

And everywhere there were the fragrances of breakfast: frying eggs, sausage and bacon, syrup, strawberries, waffles, melted butter, coffee, hot cocoa, warm cinnamon rolls. . . .

Josh had never even imagined that an elegant place like this existed to prepare and serve food to people—especially to people like him. He hoped Will Mitchell had enough money to pay for what they ate.

“Good morning, and welcome to the Harvey House,” said Birdie's well-chosen Harvey Girl. Under all that starch, Josh could tell there was a magnificent-looking brown-haired woman. She was very young, probably not more than eighteen or nineteen. Her blue eyes and her smile and her teeth gleamed, as did most everything else about her.

“What do your friends call you?” Birdie asked her, as he and Josh and Will sat down at a square table set with heavy silverware and folded white cloth napkins. Josh was awed by the preciseness of the way everything, including the salt and pepper shakers, was laid out. He was also hoping that Birdie behaved himself. This woman probably had a boyfriend—maybe even a husband—who would defend her honor with something equivalent to a Somerset Slugger.

“Janice,” she said, giving each man a menu. “Even people who have just met me call me Janice.”

Josh didn't think she addressed that remark in any special, alluring way to Birdie, but it was clear from the excited look on his face that Birdie took it that way. As with Sister Hilda, Birdie's very being was lunging toward this Harvey Girl named Janice.

“Janice is the single most beautiful name I have ever heard,” said Birdie. “You are most properly named.”

“Thank you,” she said, as if it were something she was told several times a day. “I assume you are traveling men. Where are you traveling to or from today?”

“We came in on The Flying Crow—” Josh began.

Birdie interrupted. “No, no. We just happened in today from California on the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe,” he lied. “We were out there looking for gold.”

“Well, I certainly hope you found a lot,” said Janice, looking more at Will than at either Birdie or Josh. Will was the one in a coat and tie. She had a small notebook and pencil ready to take their orders.

Birdie went first, choosing the bacon and eggs and toast and all the other things he had mentioned before. Josh, still adjusting to the situation, was unable to order at first. He also couldn't see the menu clearly because he had not brought his magnifying glass. But finally, through the blur, he did see a word that seemed to look like
pancakes,
so he ordered some of those and a glass of orange juice. Will had only a cup of coffee, explaining that he had already had breakfast at home before going to the office this morning.

While Janice went away to place their order and Birdie concentrated on watching her do so, Josh filled Will in on the latest news from Somerset: what doctors and bushwhackers were still around and which two new techniques were being tried on the patients. Will said he had read about both of them in medical journals; one called for removing the insane parts of the brain by a surgical process called a lobotomy, and the other involved trying to shock people sane with electricity.

“They put wires against both sides of the head and turn on a switch,” said Josh. “I heard that the machine went haywire on a woman over in Cessna and completely burned up her brains.”

“Stay out of trouble so they don't do any of that to you, Josh,” Will said.

Birdie, despite having his eyes glued on Janice, heard Will's warning and said, before Josh could respond, “They won't do anything to Josh because he ain't going back there either, are you, Josh?”

“Yes I am, Birdie. You're OK now; you'll be fine.”

“I don't get it,” Birdie said. “We're friends, we'll make a great life—better than that awful one back at the asylum.”

Josh had nothing more to say. Not now, not at this particular moment. Will Mitchell knew, too, that not going back to Somerset was not a possibility. But Josh's mind was a jumble of confusing thoughts. He was still uncomfortable with the spectacular atmosphere of the Harvey House. He hated not being able to read the menu. He wondered again how soon the bushwhackers called the police after he and Birdie turned up missing. Maybe they did nothing. Was Birdie right to be so scared about somebody looking for them? Josh suddenly feared what they might do to him when he went back. He hoped nobody blamed Streamliner for his and Birdie's escape. Or Lawrence. No matter what, at least Lawrence wouldn't have to sit through a Centralia massacre act anytime soon. That was the deal. God, how awful it would be to have part of your brain cut out. Or be forced to endure the electric-shock thing. He had been told by a bushwhacker with a cousin who worked at the Kansas State Lunatic Asylum over at Osawatomie that they were already doing it to everybody there. Only a few— ten or twelve—had had the treatment so far at Somerset, including that woman in Cessna. As far as Josh had heard, at least. They'd probably have done it soon to Birdie.

Janice arrived with breakfast, their several plates skillfully—magically—balanced on her left arm and hand. In addition to being beautiful and charming, thought Josh, she was really good at her job. Josh spread soft butter over all three of his pancakes, which were so hot they were steaming and so large they filled a whole regular-size plate. He poured on maple syrup from a little white porcelain pitcher that had
Fred Harvey
written across it in red script, as if it had been personally autographed by Mr. Harvey, whoever he was. He must be an important and lucky man to have such a wonderful place named after him. Better than being a baseball player, who only gets his signature on a Louisville Slugger.

While Josh and Birdie filled their mouths with food, Will Mitchell watched with a look on his face that showed real pleasure. He clearly was enjoying bringing such an experience to these two escapees from Somerset.

Birdie finished his eggs and bacon and toast in a matter of a few very quick minutes. Josh was only halfway through his stack of pancakes and not paying attention to much of anything else when he noticed Birdie's eyes fluttering back and forth between open and shut. Eating had made him sleepy.

Josh said to Will Mitchell, “Maybe you should talk to Birdie so he'll stay awake.”

“Nope. There's no time like the present to find out if the treatment worked,” Will said. Josh thought there was an unusually insistent note in his voice.
Do it. That's an order.

Ten seconds later, Birdie's eyes sprang open and he said, in a voice not much louder than a heavy whisper, “The blood. Don't shoot no more. No.”

Will Mitchell quickly reached across the table and tapped Birdie lightly on the right temple with the heavy handle of a table knife. Like the syrup pitcher, it had Fred Harvey's signature etched on it.

The hit made Birdie silent.

Janice was standing there at the table. The smile was gone from her beautiful face, having been replaced by a sympathetic, worried frown. “Is he all right?” she asked. “Should I get a doctor—or a policeman? Why did you hit him like that?”

“I'm a doctor,” Will said. “What we need is a place for some privacy, some special treatment.”

“Yes, that's what we need,” Birdie said quickly. “We need to go.”

“Come with me then,” said Janice.

So Will, Josh, and Birdie went with Janice to the back of the lunchroom, passing by the concerned stares of busboys and other Harvey Girls. They went through an unmarked door and down a narrow hallway to some steps. At the bottom of the stairs, she led them through a large storeroom full of canned goods and boxes and crates of foodstuffs to a far corner, where there was a large mirror hanging vertically on the wall.

The mirror, it turned out, was attached by tiny door hinges on the left side. She pulled it open, away from the wall, and revealed a real door behind it, which opened to a dark room that was brimming with the mixed aromas of salt, pepper, cinnamon, and other spices. “This is our condiment and spice room, but nobody uses it much anymore except to hide out. One of the chief chefs—he's at the Harvey House in Chicago now— liked to come down here when he wanted to be alone, more or less. He was the one who put the mirror over the door to double-protect his privacy.”

The room was windowless, not more than twelve feet square, and was furnished with an unfolded army cot, a straight-back wooden chair, a small table, and, against three walls, floor-to-ceiling shelves that contained a smattering of tins and jars of many different kinds of spices.

“You do what you need to do, doctor, and then you and your friends may leave on your own,” said Janice. “You don't have to come back through the lunchroom to get out. Just turn the other way, go to the end of the hall, and there is another set of stairs—for employees—that will take you out near the main waiting room.”

Josh and Will thanked her, Will giving her a couple of dollars for their breakfast—more than its actual cost.

Birdie took Janice's hand in both of his. “Once the doctor cures me of my ailment, I promise you will see me again,” he said, as if he were delivering really good news to what he clearly assumed was a grateful young woman.

Janice's only response was an innocent smile and a slight noncommittal wave as she closed the door, leaving the three of them in the room alone with the smell of condiments and spices.

“I really must go soon to take out those tonsils, Josh,” Will said, immediately after she disappeared. “Maybe the best thing would be for me to take Birdie with me.”

“Yes, that would be a good thing to do,” Josh said. “That way I can go back to Somerset and not worry about him.”

Josh looked hard at Birdie, who shook his head rather casually. “No way,” said Birdie.

“If you're really sick, come with me. If you're not, you can either go back to Somerset with Josh or off into the land of the free, Kansas City or wherever. I have to leave now—right now.”

“I'm not going anywhere with either of you,” said Birdie. “Not back to Somerset, not to some doctor's office in Kansas City. I want you to stay here with me, Josh.”

Josh ignored him and spoke to Will. “Help me. At least try it my way. I can't leave him here like he is . . . it isn't just the closing eyes, either. He's been acting strange ever since we got here, haven't you, Birdie?”

“Just keeping a good lookout, that's all,” said Birdie.

Will Mitchell looked at a pocket watch he pulled from a small pocket in his trousers and threw his hands up in a gesture of frustration. “All right, all right.”