The Detroit Electric Scheme (27 page)

My hands began to tremble. This time it wasn't from fear, I was sure. Even though the cell was cold, I was sweating profusely, and my stomach had an ache that could only be assuaged by one thing. I
needed
a drink.

Sometime past dawn a guard walked down the corridor toward us, carrying chains that clanked louder and louder with each step. He unlocked the cell door and pulled me out into the dim hallway. After cuffing my hands in front of me and locking metal bands with a short chain between them onto my ankles, he pushed me down the corridor. I shuffled along, trying not to fall.

Detective Riordan awaited me in an interrogation room, another featureless ivory box with a heavy oak table and two matching chairs in the center. He was sitting facing the door. With a snide smile, he said, “Nice to see you again, Will.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

“That nose looks pretty bad. What happened?”

“I fell down the stairs.”

“Must have been a long fall.”

I didn't say anything.

He sat back. “Judge Hume has made some serious allegations against you, Will. Kidnapping and drugs, among other things. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Wow, I've been busy, huh?”

This time it was Riordan who didn't respond.

“Look, Elizabeth was with me of her own free will. She's home now and fine. Besides, you know Judge Hume's a crook. Why would you believe him?”

“Yeah, I'll have to concede that one. But still, Miss Hume was missing for more than a week, you were missing almost as long, and now you're both back and everyone's fine and dandy?”

“Talk to Elizabeth.”

“I'll do that, Will. But she's in isolation right now.” He leaned forward and stared at me. “She's too traumatized to speak with anyone.”

I shook my head. “That's bunk. Is her father out?”

Riordan probed the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Yup. Never set foot in jail. The wheels turn fast when you're a circuit court judge.”

“The judge is the one who's traumatized. She's fine. Look, do you have any interest in catching the real killer?”

“The way I see it, he's already caught.”

This was crazy. I was innocent. Anyone ought to be able to see that. I leaned toward him and spoke slowly, enunciating each word. “Frank Van Dam killed John Cooper.”

I thought I saw a flicker of uncertainty in Riordan's eyes before he frowned at me and said, “Haven't we talked about this?”

“His car was at the train station the night the Doyles were killed, and it was gone a few hours later. Frank was one of the few men who could have gotten close enough to John to surprise him. He moved west, you were right about that—to Denver, by the way. But not until he killed John.” I didn't know for sure about Frank's involvement in Judge Hume's bribery, but I put it out there anyway. “John and Frank were paying off Judge Hume. I'll bet John was talking to the state police, and Frank had to keep him quiet.”

While I was talking, Riordan pulled a cigar from his coat pocket and studied it, rolling it in his fingers, a picture of boredom. When I was done, he glanced up and said, “Finished?”

I was furious. “Riordan, even
you
can't be this stupid. You know I didn't—”

His right hand shot out and caught me in the mouth, knocking me straight over backward. I tried to jump to my feet, but I got caught up in the manacles and went down again. I took my time getting up, glaring at him as I did. He just sat back in his chair and smiled at me. “You will treat me with respect, Mr. Anderson.”

My mouth tasted of blood, and one of my front teeth was loose, but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how badly it hurt. I spat on the floor, picked up the chair, and sat again.

He gestured for me to continue, but the punch had knocked the conversation out of my head. I stared at him until he said in a monotone, “Riordan, even you can't be this stupid. You know I didn't . . .”

Right. “You know I didn't kill John,” I finished. “If I was going to do that, I'd have cozied up to him for quite a while before luring him away to somewhere quiet. You'd never have found the body.”

He tilted his head to the side, smiling. “So you thought about it, did you?”

“No, and it doesn't matter anyway. I didn't do it.”

“Oh, by the way,” Riordan said. “I got your clothing. Thanks.”

“What?” I was totally blank.

“Your clothing. Thanks for sending it over.”

Oh, shit
. “You . . . got my clothing?”

Riordan shook his head and sighed. “Do we really need to play charades anymore? Just give it up, Will.”

“You think I sent you the clothes? It was Frank. He's the blackmailer and the killer!”

“I'd agree with you on part of that. I think the man who sent me those clothes killed John Cooper.”

“You can't possibly believe that's me. I gave you the blackmail notes. He threatened to send you the clothes if I didn't follow his instructions.”

“Yeah, funny thing about those notes.”

“What about them?”

He made a big production out of pulling them from his coat pocket and tossing them on the table, then gestured for me to pick them up. “Go on,” he said when I hesitated. “They're yours.”

I picked up the notes and, with both hands, began sliding them into my coat pocket.

“No, leave them out. Look at them carefully.”

I glanced at the notes. “I've seen them before.”

He stood and came around to my side of the table. “See there?” He
pointed to a word on the first note, then pointed to another one on the second. “And there?”

“Yeah. So?”

Riordan bent down and squinted at me. “The
s
's are lighter on the top than the bottom.”

I looked more carefully. It was true. I shrugged but was beginning to get a sinking feeling in my stomach.

“Now look closely at the
m
's. The bottom of the middle line is darker than the other ones.”

While I looked, he strolled over to his chair, flipped it around, and straddled it, his arms resting on the back, a Cheshire grin plastered on his face. “We found a typewriter that has the same problems. In fact, it was an exact match.”

“It wasn't mine.”

“Well, you're right about that. The letters didn't come from the Underwood in your apartment. But they did come from an Underwood. At the Anderson Carriage Company.”

“What?”

“Detroit Electric division.” He was taking pleasure in dragging this out. “Managers' office.”

“That can't be.”

“Oh, but it could. A typewriter in that office matched.” Riordan shook his head, another one of his damned sardonic smiles on his face. “You'll never guess whose desk it was on.”

 

I still had my boots the next morning when Mr. Sutton arranged to have me moved to solitary for the weekend. I spent most of Saturday sweating, with tiny tremors in my hands, but that night I was able to buy a quart of homemade whiskey from a guard for ten dollars. I was to pay him Monday after I saw Sutton, or I'd be back in the holding pen where he'd make sure I got the complete treatment. It was worth the risk. I nursed the bottle, saving almost half of it for Sunday. It got me by.

Much of my time was spent thinking of Frank Van Dam sitting in my office at the factory, at my typewriter, writing letters to me. Was he pensive, sorry to be killing his best friend and framing me for it? Or had he smirked at his cleverness, congratulating himself for planning a perfect crime? If so, the anticipation must have been delicious—framing me, taking my money, toying with me—a cat playing with a mouse before it bites off the head. What fun.

No matter what it took, he was going to pay.

Elizabeth filled my thoughts the rest of the time. I had risked my life for her and spent a week in a filthy hovel nursing her back to humanity, yet three days after I brought her home I was still locked away—three more days of deprivation and degradation. Her father almost certainly was keeping her from getting hold of Riordan, but he couldn't watch
her twenty-four hours a day. They had a telephone, a car, neighbors. Surely—if she cared at all—she could have gotten me out of here.

Whether I'd repaid my debt or not, I was through with her.

 

The next morning my father and Mr. Sutton met me at the courthouse in a small musty room that smelled of delousing powder. Cobwebs obscured the tops of the two tall windows that looked out from our slightly elevated position onto the street. Like the interrogation rooms with which I'd become all too familiar, a sturdy oak table and a pair of matching chairs were the only furnishings.

The guard waited to unlock my chains until we were all in the room. While he did, my father looked at the floor instead of me, his face craggy, full of worry lines. A dark suit and a white shirt dangled over one of his arms. In the other he held a pair of black dress shoes.

Sutton folded his arms across his chest. “It was nice of you to show up for the preliminary hearing, Will.”

I had totally forgotten about it. I shrugged. “I was busy.”

My father handed me the clothes. “Here. Put these on.”

I tried to decipher the look on his face. “Did Dr. Miller call you?”

He nodded, biting the inside of his lip. “He didn't say what you were doing, but said it was important.” He set his hand on my shoulder. It was an intimate gesture, meant to be reassuring, a father telling his son he would be all right, but it made me more nervous. He was scared to death. “I called him back on Tuesday, after the newspapers began running their speculation on Elizabeth's whereabouts. He said she was with you and was fine. And that I'd be proud of you.” He hugged me tightly. I couldn't remember the last time that had happened.

As I dressed, Sutton explained what I should expect. The state would present evidence and witnesses to establish probable cause. He would cross-examine the witnesses to look for weaknesses in their testimony, and if possible, raise questions about the evidence.

“But don't be angry,” Sutton said, “if you think I'm not being aggressive enough or presenting enough of our defense. This is a hearing
of probable cause. Regardless of what I do, the state has more than enough evidence to bring this to trial. I'm not going to show them our hand.”

I knew how bad the evidence looked. For now, I was more interested in getting out of jail. “Am I going to be let out of here when we're done?”

“No.” Sutton dropped his briefcase on the table. “Your bond has been revoked pending charges for the abduction of Elizabeth Hume.”

“But I—Has anyone spoken with Elizabeth yet?”

“No. According to the police, her parents insist she's too traumatized from her experiences over the past week.”

“Still?” This was about as bad as the news could get. If the judge had any psychological control over Elizabeth, she might never speak with the police. “You've got to talk to her,” I said. “She'll confirm she was with me willingly.” At least I hoped she would.

Sutton nodded. “We'll get to her one way or another. I know how badly you want out of here.” He sat at the table and slid a sheaf of papers out of his briefcase. “Once that's cleared up, you should be set free again.”

I fell into the battered wooden chair across from him. “Did anyone tell you about my clothing or the typewriter?”

Sutton's eyes darted to me. “What?”

I sighed. “The killer sent my bloody clothing to Riordan. And the police claim the blackmail notes came from the typewriter on my desk at work.”

Just for a second, Sutton's face clenched, like he was absorbing a blow. “Your bloody clothing.” He glanced up at my father and then turned to me again. “Fortunately, you've already admitted you were there. We may be able to mitigate the damage from the clothing.” He shook his head slowly. “But the typewriter on your desk. You're not giving me much to work with here.” He glared at me. “Any other revelations?”

“Yes, Frank Van Dam killed John and fled to Denver.” I explained my reasoning, and told him about the letter Elizabeth had received from Frank.

As I spoke, Sutton began nodding. When I finished, he said, “When did Elizabeth receive this letter?”

“She said it was a couple of days after John was killed. She didn't remember exactly when.”

Sutton tapped out a rhythm on the edge of the tabletop with his forefingers. “What sort of relationship did
you
have with Van Dam?”

“I don't think he liked me.”

“Do you believe he disliked you enough to frame you for murder?”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

“So you think John was an informant?”

“Probably. I just don't think he would have gone along with a scheme like this. And if they had enough evidence to arrest Judge Hume, someone had to be talking.”

My father cleared his throat. “Why couldn't Judge Hume and Van Dam be working together? The judge could have helped Frank kill John.”

I hadn't thought about this possibility, but it made sense.

“No.” Sutton shook his head so hard his muttonchops swayed. “Judge Hume is an idiot, to be sure. But a murderer? Definitely not.”

I leaned in toward him. “What better reason could he have for keeping Elizabeth from coming forward about this supposed kidnapping? He wants me to look guilty. Look, Judge Hume is a criminal. Do you know of a man named Vito Adamo?”

Sutton thought for a moment and shook his head. “No.”

“I'm pretty sure he's a Black Hand boss, and he's paying off the judge. I saw them together at the Bucket.”

“The Bucket?” my father exclaimed. “What in the world were you doing there?”

“It's a long story. My point is there's a lot you don't know about Judge Hume. And he hates me. I don't believe he would have been enthusiastic about killing John, but if it was going to save his bacon, I think he'd do it. And I know he would have loved to hang this thing on me. By killing John in my department at the factory, he could get rid of me and his legal problem at the same time.”