The Detroit Electric Scheme (15 page)

If either of those had happened, my life was over.

When the wagon stopped, Bottlebrush pulled me out of the back.

“Why am I here?” I said, trying to sound indignant.

“I told you to shut up.” He pushed me toward the station so hard that I nearly fell on my face. He and his partner marched me to the jail in the back and shoved me down the corridor of cells through a gauntlet
of criminals, who described in intimate detail how they would enjoy buggering me, killing me, or both. Their taunts echoed off the brick walls of the jail. I kept my eyes on the floor and put one foot in front of the other, trying not to show my fear. I'd heard plenty of stories about what happens behind prison walls. I would be a target—for humiliation, beatings . . . rape. I struggled to tamp down the panic coursing through me, but it was impossible.

We stopped at an empty cell. Bottlebrush unlocked my cuffs and said, “Gimme your belt and shoelaces.”

“What?”

He glared at me. “Now.”

I unbuckled my belt and pulled it off, then unlaced my shoes. When I gave them to him, Bottlebrush pushed me into the cell, slammed the door shut, and locked it. The stench of body odor and shit filled the six-by-eight cell, the only contents a moldy cot and a crusted metal pail lying on its side in a corner.

I silently gave thanks that I had no cellmates.

I pushed the cot against the back wall and sat on the end, as far away from the door as I could get. As the hours passed, I got more and more afraid. Though it seemed obvious I'd been arrested for John Cooper's murder, I didn't know for certain.

The criminals in the other cells shouted and cursed, each time ripping all other thought from my head. The night lasted forever. I couldn't breathe, and the lack of alcohol made it virtually impossible to sleep. I caught short snatches, each time waking with a start to noises, real or imagined.

When I woke for the last time, it was still dark, other than a feeble yellow light from a gas lamp somewhere down the corridor. My breath puffed out in swirling white clouds. My hands were numb. My mouth was dry. One of my shoes lay on the floor. Shivering uncontrollably, I pulled my arms and legs in close to my body.

I needed a drink. Many drinks.

 

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, louder by the second. I sat up, trying to still the tremors in my hands. A pair of cops I hadn't seen before unlocked my door, clapped handcuffs and leg irons onto me, and pushed me down the hall to the back door of the station.

“Where are we going?” I said. My swollen nose made my voice unrecognizable.

One of the cops pushed me out the door. “We're gonna take a little ride.”

“I want to talk to my lawyer.”

He sneered at me. “Fuck your lawyer.”

“Listen. This isn't right. I should be—”

He gave me a hard slap to the side of my head and together they threw me into the back of the wagon. The horses started off in a slow but steady gait.

A shiver ran up my spine. Where could they be taking me? It couldn't be anywhere good. Shivering, teeth chattering, I wrapped my arms tight around myself, trying to get control, having no success.

Half an hour later, the cops pulled me out of the wagon and brought me into the back entrance of another building. One step inside, I saw the cells—a jail. They handed me over to the jailer, who locked me in a filthy cell, much the same as my previous accommodations, again by myself.

As he turned the key in the lock, I grabbed hold of the bars and tried to stifle the sound of fear in my voice. “I demand to see my lawyer.”

His hand dropped to the gun on his belt.

“You can't do this to me,” I said. “Do you know who my father is?”

He grunted out a laugh. “I don't care if he's the czar of Russia. You're staying here today.”

“At least tell my why.”

“They don't share their plans with me, pal.”

“Come on,” I said. “You must know what's going on.”

If he did, he wasn't talking. As the day progressed, the tremors in my hands increased in intensity, and I broke out in a sweat, soaking my clothes. The cell was cold, and my wet clothing stuck to me, making me colder still. My nose throbbed, and intense pains stabbed behind my eyes.

At some point in the evening, the jailer brought me a plate of food, sliding it under the barred door. “Dinner time,” he said.

I jumped up from the cot and rushed to the front of the cell. “I need a drink. Could you bring me something? I've got plenty of money.”

He stepped back and appraised me. At that moment I could see myself through his eyes—rich kid, good for nothing, shaking and sweating, desperate for a drink. Still, in a tone that wasn't unsympathetic, he said, “Sorry. No can do, pal.” He moved on to the next cell.

“Please?” I called after him. “Please?”

He didn't come back. Again, I lay awake virtually all night. I couldn't remember the last time I'd really slept without at least half a bottle of bourbon in my system. That, and the noise from the other prisoners, kept me awake thinking about my predicament.

The next day was a repeat—up early, a ride to another jail, a day by myself wanting to die. It was excruciating. Not only did I feel terrible, no one would answer my questions. All I could do was sit on the cot or pace the floor. This couldn't be legal. My stomach felt like it had been ripped up. My head pounded. My clothing was soaked through, and my mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton.

The following morning another policeman delivered me to the back
entrance of the Bethune Street station just in time for lunch—if you can call a plate of beans and a piece of stale bread a lunch.

I was back in Detective Riordan's house. I was in about as bad shape as I could be, on a day that could decide the course of my life.

Whether I liked it or not, it was pretty clear things were coming to a head.

 

Detective Riordan pulled a cigar from his coat pocket and swept it under his nose, inhaling the tobacco aroma. “You are a real hard case, aren't you?”

I was shaking so much there was no chance of keeping my voice steady. “What? No. What are you talking about?”

“That poor Ben Carr fella. Didn't hardly do anything, and yet he's an accessory to murder. With three little kiddies at home. That's going to be tough on them.”

“He didn't do anything. And neither did I.”

Riordan chuckled. “You took the Detroit Electric Victoria from the garage half an hour before our men found it in front of the factory. It would have taken you fifteen minutes to get there. You work fast, don't you? I'd have thought Cooper would have been a bigger task than that. Or did Ben help you kill him, too?”

“He didn't do anything. I changed the book.”

Riordan just stared at me, a sour look on his face.

God damn it.
“All right, I was there! Happy?”

He lit the cigar, puffing at it until his face was hazy behind the gray cloud. “Why'd you do it?”

“Why'd I . . . I didn't kill him, Riordan! It had to be the unions.”

“Yeah, yeah, I've heard it before.” He shook out the match. “Okay, I'll humor you. What were you doing there?”

“Cooper called me. At eleven. He said his fiancée was in trouble, and he needed to talk to me about it. I got the car and went. When I got there, he was already in the press.”

“You told me before you always take the streetcar to work. Why'd you get the automobile?”

“Well . . . I thought I might have to leave quickly.”

“You were afraid of your friend?” he said with a smirk.

“Yes,” I muttered.

“Why?”

He clearly knew the answer, which startled me. I tried not to show it. “He wasn't my friend.”

“And why is that?”

My head dropped. I stared at the table and mumbled, “His fiancée used to be my fiancée.”

“What's that, Will? Could you speak up?”

I glared at him. “Elizabeth Hume and I were going to be married.”

Riordan rolled the cigar around in his fingers, looking idly at the lit end. “I had me a talk with Judge Hume, Will. He says you threatened to kill Cooper.”

I glared at Riordan. “If I did, I didn't mean it. It's just something you say when you're drunk.”

“Oh, I don't say that, Will. You could say, ‘It's something I say,' or ‘It's something one says.' But not me. I don't say that.”

“Look, Hume hates me. He'd do anything to get me life for this.”

“You didn't tell me about this little love triangle before, Will. Why is that?”

“You know why, Detective. Because it makes me look guilty. But I swear I had nothing to do with John's murder.”

He bit his lip, tightening the scar across his face. “Nothing to do with the murder.” He chuckled. “The man who is going to marry your ex-fiancée is murdered at your father's factory, in your department, and you're the only one there when he dies, but you had nothing to do with it.” He laughed again. “Old Mother Goose has nothing on you, Will Anderson.”

“Do you really think I'd be stupid enough to kill John at the factory?” That sounded bad. I quickly added, “If I was going to kill him, which I wasn't. Someone is trying to frame me.”

“Then why'd you run?”

“I panicked. I knew how it would look, and I just panicked. I'd been drinking.”

“People say that's a problem for you, Will. The drinking, I mean.”

I shrugged. “Look. You have to talk to Frank Van Dam. He doesn't work at the Employers Association anymore, and they won't say why. His mother says he's not at home but won't say where he is. I think he's running from whoever killed John.”

Riordan blew a cloud of smoke in my face. “You're going to prison until you die. And there's not a single thing your daddy can do about it. For the first time in your silver-spoon life, you're on your own.”

“Listen to me!” I was yelling now. “Find Frank! He's the key to this.”

“That may be so,” Riordan said with a smile, “but Mr. Van Dam moved somewhere out west before Cooper was murdered.”

“He did?” I tried to regroup. “Well, you've still got to talk to him. He'll know why John was killed.”

“I've already got that one figured out, Will.”

I only had one arrow left in the quiver. “Well, then, whoever the real killer is, is trying to blackmail me.”

“Blackmail now, is it?”

“Yes. He says he's got my clothes. When . . . when I got back from the factory I had blood on my shoes and trousers. I threw them away.”

“Should have burned them.”

“The next day I got a note saying someone had taken my clothes from the garbage and was holding them.”

“Holding your trousers ransom, was he? And how much was he charging you for their safekeeping?”

“I gave him a thousand dollars. And I didn't get the clothes back.”

“That wasn't very smart, was it?”

“No,” I admitted. I wavered on telling him about the Doyles' murders and Wesley's beating. Wesley was the only one who could corroborate my story about the blackmailer, but I had to talk to him first. And I couldn't involve him in the Doyles' deaths. I wasn't sure it was in
my
best interest to tell Riordan about the Doyles. I had to think this through.

Riordan ground out his cigar in the filthy ashtray. He looked up at me and spoke, his voice lilting like a gentle stream. “Enough fairy tales, Will. Really. No matter what you say, and what strings your father tries to pull, you're going up the river. You need to think of your dear, sweet
mother. What will it do to her if you drag this out? And what about your father's company? How long will this have to be out of the news before people forget? Would you buy an automobile from the father of a cold-blooded killer?” He sat back in his chair, pulled a
Detroit Herald
from his coat pocket, and looked at the front. “Hmm, the Electric Executioner.” He rolled the words around in his mouth. “The Electric Executioner. Got a nice ring to it, doesn't it?” He turned the paper toward me. Stretched across the entire top of the page was
ELECTRIC EXECUTIONER APPREHENDED
.

I stared at the paper, not able to react. Riordan set it on the table and leaned forward. “We haven't released your name yet, but wait until we do. The newspapers haven't seen anything this juicy for years. Cooper was a big football star, and you picked such a nasty way to kill him. And it doesn't hurt that Elizabeth Hume is a real looker.”

I stared into his eyes, getting angrier and angrier.

Riordan smiled. “The newspapers will practically put up tents outside the factory and your parents' and the Humes' houses. I guarantee you headlines like this every day. And not just in Detroit. This is national news. New York, Washington, Chicago.” Laughing, he said, “Heck, this'll be big all the way around the world.”

He got a faraway look in his eyes, and began to speak, his hand drawing out an imaginary headline in front of him. “ ‘Wealthy Heir to Anderson Carriage Brutal Murderer.' ” He thought for a moment and made the motion again. “ ‘William C. Anderson, Jr., Convicted of Killing Cooper.' No, no.” He laughed again before drawing his hand in front of him one more time. “ ‘Electric Executioner Exterminates Romantic Rival.' ” He grinned his jack-o'-lantern grin and winked at me. “Alliteration. They taught us the King's English quite well back in Ireland.”

I stared at him, bleary-eyed. “I didn't kill him.”

“Look, Will.” He put a hand on my forearm and spoke quietly again, as if he were simply trying to get me to listen to reason. “If you confess, in a week or two this will all go away. But if you keep saying you didn't do it and take this to trial, well, you're going to be driving a nail into your mother's heart every day for months.” He patted my arm. “You don't want that, now, do you?”