The Boys from Biloxi: A Legal Thriller (34 page)

Dinner was a cold sandwich under a hot tent, eaten while standing and waiting. Their midnight snack was a slice of even colder pizza, also under the tent. The FBI teams did not rest during the night. Jackson Lewis kept them there and had no plans to release them until the job was finished. For hours they meticulously scoured every inch of the crime scene and collected thousands of samples of debris. The first explosives expert arrived from Quantico at 9:30. He viewed the bomb site, sniffed the air, and said quietly to Jackson Lewis, “Probably Semtex, military stuff, far more than necessary to kill one man. I’d say the bomber got a bit carried away.”

Agent Lewis knew from training and experience that the crime scene yields the best evidence, though it’s sometimes overlooked because it’s so obvious. This was his biggest case yet, one that could make his career, and he vowed to miss nothing. He had ordered that no one and nothing leave the courthouse without approval. Each of the thirty-seven people identified so far as being in the courthouse had been cleared to go home, but only after their bags, purses, and briefcases were searched. Each would be interviewed later. He had the names and addresses of the injured, now numbering thirteen, with only two hospitalized. All trash baskets and garbage cans were collected and taken to a tent.

Lewis had suffered through three weeks without a cigarette, but he broke under the pressure. At 9:00, after dark, he lit a Marlboro and walked around the exterior of the courthouse, puffing away and thoroughly enjoying the tobacco. His wife would never
know. The streets were blocked; there was no traffic. With the 11:00
p.m.
Marlboro, he noticed a dark blue Dodge half-ton pickup parked on a side street facing north. It was a nice truck, certainly not abandoned. The nearest store had been closed for six hours. There were no apartments above the stores and offices; no lights were on. Down the street were some small homes, all with plenty of parking of their own. The truck was out of place.

The man with the broken leg had not been identified, and Lewis’s suspicion was growing by the hour. The state police had attempted to question him on two occasions, but he was barely conscious.

Jesse’s death was welcome news along the Strip. The club owners and their employees relaxed for the first time in months, maybe years. Maybe now with Rudy gone the good times could roll again. In the strip joints, bars, pool halls, and bingo parlors a lot of drinks were poured and glasses raised. Real drinks, not the feeble stuff they sold to their customers but top-shelf liquor that was seldom touched.

Hugh Malco, Nevin Noll, and their favorite bartender had a celebratory dinner at Mary Mahoney’s. Thick steaks, expensive wines, no expense was spared. Because the restaurant was crowded and people were watching, they controlled their euphoria and tried to give the appearance of old friends just having dinner. Occasionally, though, they whispered pleasant thoughts and exchanged grim smiles.

For Hugh, the occasion was bittersweet. He was delighted Jesse Rudy was gone, but so was his father. Lance should be dining with them and savoring the moment.

Lance heard it on the ten o’clock news out of Jackson. He stared at a fifteen-inch black-and-white television with rabbit ears and took in the face of Jesse Rudy as the anchor breathlessly reported his death.

From across the hall, Monk asked, “Ain’t he the guy who sent you here?”

“That’s him,” Lance said with a smile.

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“Any idea who did it?”

“Not a clue.”

Monk laughed and said, “Right.”

The report switched to a shot of the Biloxi courthouse. A voiceover said, “Although authorities have yet to comment, a source tells us that Jesse Rudy was killed instantly around noon today when an explosion occurred in his office. About a dozen other people were injured. The investigators will make a statement tomorrow.”

At midnight, the truck was still there.

There was a flurry in the tent at 12:45 when the contents of a garbage can were spread on a table for a look. In addition to the usual litter and crap, a small unidentified device was found, along with a short-sleeved UPS shirt once worn by someone named Lyle. The FBI explosives expert took one look and said, “That’s the detonator.”

The 2:00
a.m.
cigarette was forgotten as Lewis supervised the sickening task of removing the corpse. Jesse’s remains were pieced together on a stretcher. An ambulance took him to the basement of the hospital where the city leased a room for its morgue. There, he would await an autopsy, though the cause of death was obvious.

At 3:00
a.m.
Lewis took a break for another cigarette as he made the same walk around the courthouse. It cleared his mind, got the blood flowing. The truck had not been moved.

It had license plates issued by Hancock County. Lewis waited impatiently through the night and called the sheriff in Bay St. Louis at 7:00
a.m.
The sheriff went to the courthouse and to the office of the tax assessor. The license tags had been reported stolen four days earlier.

At 9:00
a.m.
, the stores were opening, though the streets were still blocked. The courthouse, of course, was closed. Working from his dining room table at home, Judge Oliphant issued a search warrant for the Dodge pickup. Under its seat, FBI agents found a set of license plates issued by Obion County, Tennessee. Hidden under the floor mat was a key to Room 19 of the Beach Bay Motel in Biloxi.

Judge Oliphant issued a search warrant for Room 19. Since Agent Lewis had the key, he did not bother with notifying the manager of the motel. He and Agent Spence Whitehead, accompanied by a Biloxi city policeman, entered the small room and found a pile of dirty laundry and an unmade bed. Someone had been there for a few days. Between the mattress and box springs, they found a wallet, some cash, two pistols, keys on a ring, and a pocketknife. The Tennessee driver’s license identified their man as Henry Taylor, address in the town of Union City, date of birth May 20, 1941. Thirty-five years old. The wallet also held two credit cards, two condoms, a fishing license, and eighty dollars in cash.

Agent Lewis placed the two pistols in a plastic bag. They left the other items precisely as they found them, and returned to the courthouse. Technicians collected fingerprints from the weapons, and Agent Whitehead returned them to Room 19.

With a flurry of phone calls, more pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Henry Taylor had been charged with blowing up a black church near Dumas, Mississippi, in 1966, but an all-white jury acquitted him. In 1969, he was arrested for bombing a synagogue
in Jackson, but again was acquitted by an all-white jury. According to the FBI office in Memphis, Taylor was believed to still be active in the Klan. According to the sheriff of Obion County, he ran a carpet-cleaning business and had never been a problem. After some more digging, the sheriff reported that Taylor was divorced with no kids and lived just south of town.

Lewis directed another agent to begin the process of obtaining a search warrant for Taylor’s home.

Having had no sleep in thirty hours, Lewis and Whitehead left the scene and stopped at a café near the beach. Though they managed to control their excitement, they could not help but revel in their success and marvel at their luck. In about twenty-four hours, they had not only identified the killer but had him under watch in a hospital room.

They slugged coffee. Lewis was too wired to rest. He caught Whitehead completely off guard when he said, “Now that we’ve got him, we let him go.”

Whitehead, slack-jawed, said, “What?”

“Look, Spence, he has no idea we know what we know. We get him released from the hospital with no questions asked, just a bunch of dumb rednecks down there, right? He goes home, assuming he can drive with a broken leg, and considers himself a lucky man. Cops had him under their nose and let him get away. We tap his phones, watch him like a hawk, and, with time, he’ll lead us to the man with the money.”

“That’s crazy.”

“No, it’s brilliant.”

“What if he gets away?”

“Well, he won’t. And why should he run? We can pick him up anytime we want.”

Gage Pettigrew collected the morning newspapers from various shops along the Coast and took them to the Rudy home at dawn on Saturday. The house was dark, quiet, and mournful. The neighbors, reporters, and curious had yet to appear. Gene Pettigrew was guarding the front porch, napping in a wicker rocker, waiting for his brother. They went inside, locked the door, and made coffee in the kitchen.

Keith heard them stirring. On the worst night of his life, he had stayed in his parents’ bedroom, sleeping fitfully in a chair,
watching his mother and praying for her. Laura was on one side, Beverly the other, Ainsley slept upstairs.

He eased from the dark room and went to the kitchen. It was almost 7:00
a.m.
, Saturday, August 21, the beginning of the second-worst day of his life. He sat at the table with Gage and Gene, drank coffee, and stared at the headlines, but had no desire to look at the newspapers. He knew the stories. Beside Gene’s coffee cup was a yellow legal pad, and they finally got around to it. Gene said, “You have some pressing matters.”

“Just shoot me,” Keith mumbled.

“Sorry.” Gage clicked off the most urgent: a meeting with Father Norris, their priest at St. Michael’s; a dreaded chat with the funeral home over arrangements; at least two dozen phone calls to important people, including some judges, politicians, and former governor Bill Waller; a meeting with the FBI and state police for an update on whatever they knew about the bombing; the preparation of a statement for the press; the matter of fetching Tim from the airport in New Orleans.

“That’s enough,” Keith said as he sipped coffee he couldn’t taste and gazed at a window. Laura entered the kitchen and sat at the table without a word, as if in another world. Her eyes were swollen and red, and she looked as though she had not slept in days.

“How’s Mom?” Keith asked.

“In the shower,” she replied.

After a long, heavy, silent gap, Gene said, “You guys have to be hungry. What if I go find some breakfast?”

“I’m not hungry,” Keith said.

“Where’s Dad right now?” Laura asked.

Gage replied, “He’s at the hospital, in the morgue.”

“I want to see him.”

Gage and Gene looked at each other. Keith said, “We can’t do that. The police said it’s a bad idea. After the autopsy, the casket will remain closed.”

She bit a lip and wiped her eyes.

Keith said to Gene, “Breakfast might work. We need to shower and dress and talk about receiving guests.”

Laura said, “I don’t want to see anyone.”

“Nor do I but we have no choice. I’ll talk to Mom. We can’t sit around and cry all day.”

“That’s what I plan to do, Keith, and you need to cry too. Drop all the stoic stuff.”

“Don’t worry.”

Henry Taylor, the man with no name, suffered the indignity of relieving himself into a bedpan and being wiped by a hospital orderly. His shattered left tibia throbbed in pain, but he was still determined to get out of bed at the first chance and somehow make an escape. When he complained of discomfort, a nurse injected a heavy dose of something into his IV and he floated away. He awoke to the smiling face of a very pretty nurse who wanted to ask him some questions. He feigned semi-consciousness and asked for a phone directory. When she returned an hour later she brought him some chocolate ice cream and flattered him with a round of light flirting. She explained that the hospital administrator was insisting that she gather some basic information so they could bill him properly.

He said, “Name’s Alan Taylor, Route 5, Necaise, Mississippi, over in Hancock County. You know the place?”

“Afraid not,” the nurse replied as she scribbled officially.

From the phone directory, Taylor had found a bunch of Taylors around Necaise and figured he could blend in. His concussion still made him groggy and the meds didn’t help, but he was beginning to think with some clarity. He was an inch away from getting busted for murdering a district attorney and it was imperative to get out of town.

He was horrified when two Biloxi city cops walked in an hour
later. One stayed by the door as if guarding it. The other walked to the edge of his bed and asked with a big smile, “So how you doing, Mr. Taylor?”

“Okay, I guess, but I really need to get outta here.”

“Sure, no problem, whenever the doctors say go, you can go. Where are you from?”

“Necaise, over in Hancock County.”

“That makes sense. We’ve got this abandoned Dodge pickup down by the courthouse, Hancock County tags. Wouldn’t be yours, would it?”

Now Henry was in a helluva fix. If he admitted the truck was his, then the cops would know that he stole the license plates. However, it was Saturday, the courthouse was closed, and maybe they couldn’t track the stolen plates until Monday. Maybe. But, if he denied owning the truck, then they would tow it away, impound it, whatever. The truck was his only way to freedom. Because he was from Tennessee, he figured the cops in Mississippi were pretty stupid, and he had no choice.

“Yes sir, that’s mine,” he said, grimacing as though he might yet again lapse into semi-consciousness.

“Okay, would you like us to bring it over here to the hospital?” asked the policeman with a pleasant smile. Anything to help their out-of-town guest. The semi-private room had been cleared and Mr. Taylor was all alone. His hospital phone was bugged, and another team of FBI technicians was preparing to enter his home 475 miles to the north, just outside Union City.

“That’d be great, yes, thanks.”

“You got the keys?” The keys were in the pocket of Special Agent Jackson Lewis, who was in the hallway trying to listen.

“Left them under the floor mat.”

Right, not too far from the Tennessee license plates hidden under the seat.

“Okay, we’ll drive it over for you. Anything else we can do?”

Taylor was relieved and couldn’t believe his good fortune. The
locals were not the least bit suspicious. “No, that’s all. Thanks. Just get me outta here.”

The FBI was leaning on the doctors to reset the cast and reduce its size so Taylor could drive away. They were eager to follow him.

Agnes stayed in her dark bedroom and refused to see anyone but her children. She knew her friends wanted to get their hands on her, for a long fierce hug, a good cry, and so on, but she simply wasn’t up to it. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow when some of the shock had worn off.

But she couldn’t say no to their priest, Father Norris, and he did not linger. They held hands, prayed, and listened to his comforting words. He suggested a funeral mass next Saturday, a week away, and Agnes agreed. He was gone in thirty minutes.

By mid-morning there was a steady flow of friends and neighbors stopping by with food, flowers, and notes for Agnes and the family. They were greeted at the front door by one of the Pettigrews, relieved of whatever gifts they’d brought, thanked properly, then turned away. Cousins, aunts, and uncles were allowed inside where they sat in the den and living room, eating cakes and pies and sipping coffee while they whispered and waited for Agnes to appear. She did not, but Keith and his sisters emerged from the darkness occasionally to say hello and thanks and pass along a word or two from their mother.

At noon, Gene Pettigrew left for the two-hour drive to the New Orleans airport. He picked up Tim Rudy, who’d traveled all night from Montana, and they headed home. He had a thousand questions and Gene had few answers, but they talked nonstop. Of the four Rudy siblings, Tim seemed the angriest. He wanted blood revenge. As they entered Biloxi and drove past the Strip, he uttered vile threats at Red Velvet and Foxy’s and was convinced beyond all doubt that the Malcos had killed his father.

At home, Agnes broke down again when she saw her youngest child. The family had another good cry, though Keith was getting tired of the tears.

As the walls closed in, the family asked for privacy and their visitors slowly left the house. At 6:00
p.m.
they, along with the Pettigrew brothers, gathered in the den to watch the local news, which was all about the bombing. The anchor flashed a color photo of Jesse in a dark suit, smiling with confidence, and it was difficult to absorb. The story switched to a live shot of the courthouse where the investigation was still in high gear. A close-up showed the burned-out second-floor window of the DA’s office. The chief of police and the FBI had addressed the press hours earlier, and revealed virtually nothing. The newscast ran a small segment in which Jackson Lewis said, “The FBI is still investigating the scene and will continue to do so for a few more days. We cannot comment at this time, but we can say that we have no suspects at this early stage.”

The Rudy story consumed almost all of the half-hour news, which was followed by CBS weekend news out of New York. Gage Pettigrew had been approached by a CBS correspondent who asked to speak to the family and had been told to get lost. Gage had also seen an ABC crew downtown trying to get near the courthouse. Thus, they knew the networks were in town.

Near the end of the CBS segment, the anchor reported the murder of a district attorney in Biloxi, Mississippi. He switched to a reporter somewhere near the courthouse who babbled for a moment or so but said nothing new. Back in New York, the anchor informed the audience that, according to the FBI, Jesse Rudy was the first elected district attorney to be murdered while in office in U.S. history.

There were no plans to attend Mass on Sunday morning. Agnes was not ready to be seen in public and her children didn’t want the
attention either. Late morning, they enjoyed a family brunch in the sun room with the Pettigrew brothers serving as waiters and mixing Bloody Marys.

As a child, Jesse had attended Mass at St. Michael’s Catholic Church on the Point. It was known as the “Fishermen’s Church” and had been built in the early 1900s by Louisiana French and Croatian immigrants. He had practically grown up in St. Michael’s, rarely missing weekly Mass with his parents. Life revolved around the church, with daily prayers, christenings, weddings, funerals, and countless socials. The parish priest was a father figure who was always there in times of need.

Jesse had brought his bride home from the war and had not been married at St. Michael’s. But, Lance and Carmen Malco were married there in 1948, in front of a large crowd of families and friends. Jesse was sitting in the back row.

Two days after the bombing, and with the community still stunned and reeling, St. Michael’s was packed for Mass as friends, neighbors, acquaintances, and voters sought refuge and strength in their faith. Everyone needed to offer a prayer for the Rudy family. Jesse was their greatest success story, and his violent, senseless death hit the community hard.