Black Gold, page 17
Kirby thought three canisters was overkill. On Grammer’s order, he had bought them in a no-questions-asked deal from a freelance demolitions man in the oil fields. He tried to tell Grammer that one canister was enough to demolish a house, only to be informed he’d missed the purpose of the job. Grammer wanted an explosion of such magnitude that there was no chance Ray and Rita Smith would survive the blast. Grammer was the boss, and Kirby had done as he was told. But he still thought it was a waste of nitro.
Shortly after midnight, Ramsey turned onto East Tenth Street and doused his headlights. All the homes were dark, and he parked one house down from the Smiths’. His job was to stay in the car and act as a lookout, just in case anyone happened along. The Maxwell’s engine was tuned to a low murmur, and he left it running, the gear shift in neutral. He glanced in the rearview mirror as Kirby stepped out of the car.
Nothing moved along the street. Kirby spread the blankets aside and gingerly removed one of the canisters. He cradled it in his arms, careful of his balance, and walked to the rear of the house. He knelt down, tender as a gigolo with a new lover, and placed the canister on the ground by the back door. Twice more he returned to the car, watching his step, and positioned one canister at the east side of the house and the other on the west side. He realized his forehead was covered with cold sweat.
Timing was critical in the last step. The dynamite fuses were trimmed for three minutes, sufficient to get back to the car and take off before the blast. Kirby struck a kitchen match, lighting the fuse on the west side, then raced to the rear of the house, striking another match, and finally lit the fuse on the east side. He figured a minute or so had elapsed, but he wasn’t taking any chances, and sprinted toward the car. He tripped, grabbing at a rose trellis by the front porch, and brought it crashing down as he fell to the ground. He jumped to his feet and ran for the car.
The front door burst open. Ray Smith, awakened by the noise, rushed out with a double-barreled shotgun. The car pulled away from the curb as he bounded down the steps into the yard. He threw the shotgun to his shoulder and fired, the earsplitting roar deafening in the still night. He fired again as the car gained speed and barreled off down the street. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of light and turned, still gripping the empty shotgun. He saw sparks on the ground at the side of the house.
“What the—”
The nitro bombs went off in a cyclonic blast. A towering fireball lifted the house from its foundation within a vortex of molten brilliance. For an instant the house sat uprooted and suspended, and then it disintegrated in a thunderous holocaust, blown apart in a tangled mass of boards and timber. The roof buckled, shredded to splinters in the next instant, and collapsed in a fiery shower of debris. As though some demonic force had scorched the earth, flames licked through the twisted pyre, leaping skyward. A billowing cloud of smoke blotted out the stars.
Ray Smith lay sprawled in the middle of the street.
Gordon arrived at the scene as night faded away to dawn. After the sheriff had called him at the hotel, he’d called Proctor and told him to drive over from Hominy. The old lawman was standing by his Model T.
The street was blocked by a truck from the Fairfax fire department. Firemen were hosing down the smoking rubble, and spraying cinders on the roofs of nearby houses. Windows were shattered in every house on the block, and neighbors, still dressed in their bedclothes, were gathered in the yards. They stared at the rubble in dazed disbelief.
The home of Ray and Rita Smith was gone. What remained was a smoldering ruin that looked more like volcanic ash, vaporous steam rising from where the fire hoses played over the debris. The concrete foundation had disintegrated beneath the force of the explosion, and in its place was a crater twenty feet in diameter and almost five feet deep. Here and there body parts were visible, and the charred torsos of two women, one headless, still lay in the wreckage. The stench of burnt flesh drifted on a dewy breeze.
Gordon was speechless for a moment. He stared at the devastation until finally he found his voice. “Will, what the hell happened here?”
“Blew ’em to kingdom come,” Proctor said. “I only just got here myself, so I haven’t talked with Crowley. Looks like somebody set off a big goddamn bomb.”
“Were there any survivors?”
“Don’t rightly see how there could be. Blowed a hole in the ground the size of a barn.”
“Ray Smith said he and Rita were next. No question about it now.”
“Wonder why Hale waited so long?”
The date was May 28, quickly dubbed by the newspapers as “Bloody Monday.” Gordon had returned from Dallas a week ago, refreshed by a few days with his wife and children. He came back invigorated, his spirits restored, certain a break in the case lay hidden somewhere in the files. Every day for the past week, he and Proctor had combed through the files, discussing each murder in minute detail, searching for something they’d overlooked. They found nothing.
Sheriff Crowley was talking with a man in a rubberized coat and a fireman’s helmet. He saw Gordon and quickly excused himself, crossing the street from the fire truck. His features were slack and he appeared shaken. He shook his head.
“Never saw nothin’ like it,” he muttered. “Fire chief says it had to be nitroglycerin, and lots of it. Tornado couldn’t’ve done no worse.”
“Not from the looks of it,” Gordon agreed. “Where would anyone get that much nitroglycerin?”
“Why it’s common as dirt in the oil fields. They use it to bust open paysand that won’t flow on its own. Call it ‘shootin’ a well.’ ”
“Maybe we can find somebody who sold nitro in quantity. That might be the lead we need.”
“You’d be talkin’ till your tonsils wore out. Probably a thousand men handles nitro on a regular basis.”
“Anybody pull through?” Proctor asked. “I see a couple bodies there in the rubble.”
“That’s the women,” Crowley said. “One without a head is Nettie Brookshire, the servant girl. Other one’s Rita Smith.”
“What about Ray?”
“Got his balls blowed off.”
“His balls?”
“That and other things,” Crowley said. “Neighbor saw Ray come out and fire a shotgun at a car drivin’ away. Then the house exploded and something chopped off Ray’s balls and his tallywhacker. Might as well chopped off his head.”
Gordon looked at him. “Are you saying Smith’s alive?”
“Yeah, leastways from what I’ve been told. They took him to the hospital before I got here.”
“Who’s the neighbor?”
“Clyde Simpson.”
“I want to talk to him.”
Simpson was an elderly man, still in his long johns and a frayed bathrobe. He was standing on the lawn of his house, his wife clutching his arm. Crowley signaled to him, calling his name, and he ambled forward in dog-earred house slippers. His features seemed dulled with terror.
Crowley made the introductions. Under Gordon’s questioning, Simpson explained that he had a bladder problem, and sometime after midnight he got up to relieve himself. On his way to the bathroom, he heard a shotgun go off and hurried to the front window in the living room. He saw Ray Smith fire a second round at a car as it passed the streetlight on the corner. Then the house went up in a ball of fire.
“Knocked me down,” Simpson went on, touching a gash over his brow. “Blew out my windows and flyin’ glass come at me like sleet. Wonder I wasn’t blinded.”
“You’re a lucky man,” Gordon said, nodding in agreement. “Did you get a look at the car?”
“Didn’t see much but taillights. I was lookin’ mostly at Ray.”
“What happened after the explosion?”
“Well, first off, I called the fire department. Then I run out to where Ray was layin’ in the street. Never saw nothin’ like it in my life. Got him right between the legs.”
Simpson was able to contribute little more. Gordon and Proctor left Crowley at the scene, and drove to the Fairfax hospital. There, outside the emergency room, they met with Dr. Amos Belton, the attending physician. He told them Smith had lost his penis and testicles, and suffered massive trauma to the groin. He’d staunched the bleeding, and administered morphine, but there was nothing else to be done. He was amazed that Smith was still alive.
Belton allowed them into the emergency room. Ray Smith was on a table, a sheet tented over his midsection, his face drained of color. His eyes were closed, and he looked curiously at peace, as though he’d dropped off for a nap. A nurse backed away as Gordon and Proctor moved to the table. Belton joined them.
“There’s no pain,” he said quietly. “Thank God for morphine.”
Gordon nodded. “Any chance he’ll regain consciousness?”
“Well, he’s in and out. We’re just trying—”
Smith’s eyes fluttered open. He stared at the overhead light, then blinked, his gaze shifting to Belton and Proctor, and finally to Gordon. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Told you . . . they’d . . . get . . . me.”
“Yes, I remember.” Gordon leaned closer. “Did you see the men in the car? Do you know them?”
“Got Rita . . . too.”
“Ray, try to think about the car. Who were they?”
“Got us all.”
“Listen to me—”
“Rita . . .”
A small rattling sound escaped Smith’s throat. His jaw worked, then his eyes slowly closed, and his chest fell in a last sigh. His features went slack.
Gordon looked down at him with a stab of anger. He thought the dead man’s final words were bleak summation. Anna, Lizzie, Henry Roan, Rita, and now Ray.
Got us all . . .
Gordon and Proctor had lunch at the Osage Grill. Afterward, they walked over to the hotel to check for messages. David Turner had called at 10:19 that morning.
Upstairs, Gordon placed a call to Oklahoma City. There was static on the line, but it cleared as the connection was completed. The secretary at the Bureau office buzzed him through to SAC Turner.
“Hello, Dave,” Gordon said. “I’m returning your call. What’s up?”
“We have a problem,” Turner replied. “Or perhaps I should say, you have a problem. Deputy Director Hoover called me early this morning.”
“What’s he want now?”
“Your scalp, from the sound of it. Hoover got a call from a congressman in the Oklahoma delegation. He charged you with, and I quote, unwarranted and perfidious harassment of William Hale.”
“Dave, there were three more murders this morning. A man and his wife and their servant girl were blown to hell with nitroglycerin. Hale is the one responsible.”
A moment slipped past while Turner digested the information. “I’ll try to cover for you,” he said. “Hoover is steaming, and even these new murders might not cool him down. You know how politics work.”
“Dave.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t give a damn about Hoover or his politics. Tell him he can stuff it or assign another agent to the case. I intend to keep the pressure on Hale.”
“I’ll try to be a little more diplomatic in how I say it.”
“Handle it however you think best. Meantime, I’m going back to work.”
Gordon hung up. “Hoover’s on the warpath,” he explained to Proctor. “Got a call from Hale’s congressman and ordered me to back off. You heard what I said.”
“For my money, it just proves Hale’s our boy. So what d’we do now?”
“Let’s try Ernest Burkhart again. Something tells me he went along to get along, and got in over his head. Maybe he’ll talk if I offer him a deal.”
Proctor looked surprised. “You authorized to make deals?”
“Will, if it means breaking the case, we’ll get Burkhart a deal. Director Holbrook will back me up.”
“After what we saw this mornin’, I’d do most anything to stop these murders. Let’s go try it on him.”
A short while later the maid admitted them to the Burkhart residence. They found Ernest Burkhart seated in the living room, drink in hand, his features downcast. He told them Mollie was devastated by her sister’s death and had taken to bed, her emotions shattered. He motioned them to chairs, his breath thick with whiskey.
“You don’t look too good yourself,” Gordon said. “I get the feeling you know your uncle’s gone off the deep end.”
“Told you before,” Burkhart said with no great conviction. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Ray Smith accused your uncle of planning to murder Mollie’s family for their headrights. Doesn’t it bother you, all those people dead?”
“Rita was blown to pieces,” Proctor interjected in a draconian voice. “Ray had his balls blown off, his balls! He died cursing you and Big Bill.”
Burkhart took a long slug of whiskey. “I didn’t have anything to do with it. You’re talking to the wrong man.”
“No, we’re not,” Gordon said. “Look, it’s only a matter of time till we nail Hale and Grammer. Why take the fall for them when you can save yourself? All you have to do is cooperate.”
“What do you mean . . . cooperate?”
“Turn state’s evidence. A sworn statement with everything you know about these murders. Details on the involvement of your uncle and Grammer.”
Burkhart averted his eyes. He stared off into space a moment, then shook his head. “There’s nothing to tell because I don’t know anything. I can’t help you.”
“Help yourself,” Gordon said evenly. “Otherwise you’ll end up on death row—along with your uncle.”
“You’re wasting your time, Mr. Gordon. Why don’t you show yourself the door? We’re through here.”
“You’re making the mistake of your life.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to live with it.”
Gordon seemed on the verge of saying something more. Abruptly he stood, nodding to Proctor, and they filed out of the room. Burkhart drained his glass, the whiskey raw at the back of his throat. He couldn’t believe that it had gone so far, so fast. That he’d let himself be drawn into it ever deeper. A reluctant conspirator, more than an accessory.
A murderer.
Chapter Eighteen
A sickle moon hung lopsided in the sky. The night was clear with a freshening breeze out of the southwest. Fireflies blinked and darted in a flitting, aerial circus.
William Hale was seated on his front porch. He rocked back and forth in a cane-bottomed rocker, a cigar wedged in the corner of his mouth. His bulldog, Duke, lay at his feet, and he watched the fireflies with amused interest. He felt content with his world.
The plan was almost complete. Yesterday, with the deaths of Rita and Ray Smith, the months of plotting and maneuvering had come full circle. The mother, her two daughters, their cousin, and one of the daughter’s husbands, a total of eight headrights. With Mollie’s that meant nine, all under Ernest’s control. And he controlled Ernest.
Hale was unconcerned that most people would consider him a monster. Life, in his view, was a journey of transforming ambition to reality. Money was the engine that generated power, and power enabled a man to shape the course of events. His power gave him control of Osage County, and the oil royalties from the headrights would allow him to broaden his horizons. He might one day buy himself a governor.
Harry Grammer thought they’d moved too fast. Five people killed in as many weeks, all from the same family, seemed to Grammer a dangerous enterprise. All the more so when Gordon, the federal agent, had arrived in Pawhuska the week these last murders began. But Hale believed there was an orderly manner to such things, and once he evolved a plan, he saw no reason to change it. There were state and national elections in the offing, and the oil royalties would broaden his power base. Politics was an expensive vice.
Nor was Hale overly concerned about the U.S. Bureau of Investigation. Yesterday afternoon Ernest had dropped by and related how Gordon had offered him a deal. Ernest was a little jittery, but nonetheless dependable, and Hale had dismissed it out of hand. His political connections in Washington were working behind the scenes, and in any event, no one cared about a bunch of dead Indians. In the unlikely circumstance he was charged, there would never be an indictment, much less a trial. He owned the law in Osage County.
“Bill.”
His wife, Ethel, opened the screen door. She waited until the rocker stopped. “It’s late,” she said. “Aren’t you coming to bed?”
“Not for a while yet,” Hale said, gesturing with his cigar. “I’ve got to meet with some folks.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Honey, it’s still shy of ten.”
“Well, even so, it’s almost bedtime. Honestly, you work too hard, Bill. What’s your meeting about?”
“Just a political matter that has to be resolved. Nothing serious.”
“If it’s not serious, you should have made them wait until tomorrow. You need your rest.”
“I won’t be too late.”
“Alright, sugar, I’ll see you in bed.”
The screen door closed. Hale set the rocker in motion, puffing lazy eddies of smoke. At times, he was reminded that he was the most fortunate of men. He and Ethel had been married twenty-four years and he still considered her a prize. She was a good homemaker, a woman of Christian principles, and a fine mother. His daughter, Rebecca, was the mirror image of her mother, and he had plans to marry her off to a financier or a wealthy oil man. Someone who shared his interests in politics and power. A pragmatist.
One thought triggered another, and Hale was reminded that a legacy was forever at peril. He was called “The King of the Osage” by white men and Osage alike, and he reflected on the adage that uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. Someone always wanted to overthrow the king, for power was coveted, and there were men of daring, or fear for their own fiefdom, who would risk it all in a bold play. Whoever wore the crown had to safeguard it against those who might betray him to their own ends. Tonight, he meant to rid himself of one such man.
