A President In Peril

Chapter Twenty-Five G₂ R₁ I₁ S₁ L₁ Y₄ (adj) causing a shudder or feeling of horror; gruesome

The next Monday, six days after the election, I returned to the Headquarters press room for the first time in two weeks. My left arm was still in its cast and sling. As I was soon to learn, I would never have one hundred percent use of it again. The damage to the forearm bones had been too severe.

As I walked in, I got a standing ovation from my colleagues on the other papers and Jeff, the City News Bureau lad. A makeshift banner was taped on the wall behind my desk. Made of brown butcher’s paper, it read WELCOME BACK SNAP!!! in what looked to be red crayon. On my desk was a copy of the Tribune with that headline. Catherine would have a copy of it as a keepsake after all.

“Ah, Mr. Malek,” Anson Masters intoned, “your newspaper may have made something of a fool of itself in its early editions last Wednesday, but you did us all proud with your gallantry the week previous.”

“Aw shucks, I—”

“No speeches yet, Snap,” Packy Farmer ordered, holding up a hand. “We’ll do the talking here for the moment.” He reached into a paper sack and pulled out a medal that looked like it came from a toy store. It was a gold foil circle with the word HERO in the center and two blue ribbons hanging down. And damned if Farmer didn’t pin the thing on my suit coat.

“This medal is for great valor in the face of daunting circumstances,” Packy said in a mock-somber tone. “And it proves once and for all that Mr. Steven Malek of Oak Park and the Chicago Tribune is a credit to his profession. It also should be noted that the said Mr. Malek owes much of what he is today to his long-time exposure to his colleagues in the press room of Chicago’s Police Headquarters.”

“Okay, Malek, now you can talk,” Dirk O’Farrell said. “We’ve read something of your exploits, of course, but tell us what really happened that night along Madison Street. As we all know, you can’t believe everything you read in the newspapers.”

I filled them in on how I stumbled upon the Argo Hotel and located the second-floor room where the man whom I later knew to be Becker lay in wait for the president.

“Okay, so when you broke in, the S.O.B. plugged you,” O’Farrell said. “Did you really bash him with that baseball bat then?”

“I wish I could give you the details,” I said. “The one thing I remember just before I passed out from the pain was that after I got hit, I was pretty sure I swung at him with the bat and knocked him back against the partly open window, which broke. I think I recall hearing the glass shatter. And that’s the last thing I remember.”

“We can pick it up from there,” O’Farrell said. “This Becker falls out of the window, glass shards, rifle and all, and plummets down onto the sidewalk. Damn, just like something out of a John Wayne western.”

“I regret to say I missed most of the fun,” I answered.

“When do you get rid of that?” Farmer asked, pointing to my cast.

“Soon, I hope. My arm’s getting claustrophobia inside this thing.”

“Good thing you’re not a lefty, Snap,” he said. “What do you think’s gonna happen to this Becker character? For that matter, his boss, that guy who owns that big printing company?”

“You all know as much as I do, but I’ve got to figure they’ll be put away for a long time if they’re able to dodge the electric chair.”

“I’d give ’em both the chair, screw ’em,” Packy snarled. “Nobody messes with both the president of the U.S. and my pal Snap Malek and gets away with it.”

“Thanks for the support,” I told him and then turned toward Masters. “Hey, Anson, it’s almost nine-thirty. Isn’t it time you sent us off to our respective beats? Or have you foregone that fine custom in my absence?”

“The custom remains intact,” Masters rumbled. “I was just giving everyone a chance to celebrate your return and allow you to regale them.”

“Well, I’m all regaled out now, thank you. And I will treasure this award,” I said, pointing to the medal. “And now, I’m off to see how Chief Fahey has survived in my absence these last weeks.”

On the way downstairs, I took off the medal and slipped in into my pocket.

“Oh, you poor baby!” Elsie Dugo Cascio leaped to her feet as I entered her little room outside Fahey’s office. “Does it hurt terribly?” she asked, pointing to the cast and sling.

“I would endure that and more just to receive your concern and consoling,” I told her, bending down to give her a squeeze.

She flashed a smile and then quickly became serious. “We’ve been thinking a lot about you lately, both of us.” She tilted her head in the direction of the chief’s closed door. “He was very concerned about you, although you can’t tell him I said that.”

“I gotcha. Can I see the old gentleman now?”

“Let me announce you. Here, I’ll pour you a cup of coffee to take in with you.”

“Such service,” I said as Elsie pushed the button on the intercom and spoke my name.

“So he’s back, is he?” came the answer. “Oh, all right, send him in.”

“That’s the clearest I’ve ever heard your voice over that damned squawk box,” I told Fergus as I entered his office and dropped into a chair.

“I thought I’d try enunciating for a change to celebrate your return,” he said as I tossed a pack of Luckies onto his desk. “How are you feeling?”

“Glad to be back. I was getting cabin fever at home.”

“No doubt. But I also bet you were getting a lot of first-rate care from that lovely wife of yours.”

“I was indeed. Glad you had a chance to meet each other. She likes you.”

“That so? I was impressed with her. She’s got her hands full.”

“I won’t ask what you mean by that. Did my replacements behave while I was gone?”

“Neither of them brought me cigarettes,” he grumped.

“I’ve spoiled you. What’s going on with our Nazi playmates?”

Fahey scowled. “They’re all being held, seven of them. I doubt there’ll be any trials soon, though. You know how slow things are in the legal world.”

“Lawyers, lawyers, and more lawyers.”

Fahey nodded, lighting a Lucky. As he flipped his spent match into the ashtray, the intercom buzzed. “Yeah?” he said to Elsie. “Okay, I’ll take the call.”

He picked up the receiver and his eyebrows shot halfway up his ruddy forehead. “No shit! When? Oh, Christ! Damn! Damn!”

I watched as his face successively registered anger, disgust, and dismay, all within the space of a few seconds. “Is there any question that it’s murder?” he snarled into the phone.

It was frustrating for me being in on only half of the conversation.

Fahey asked a few more questions, grimaced a few more times, and then slammed down the receiver.

“Well?” I said expectantly.

“About a half hour ago, Warren Jones hanged himself in his cell at the Bridewell,” the chief said with a groan.

“Why the question about murder?”

“The guards all hated him and the other Nazis who got rounded up. I thought maybe somebody decided to deliver their own brand of justice.”

“But that wasn’t the case?”

“No. The lieutenant I just talked to said Jones took one of his bed sheets and kept twisting it until it was like a rope. Then he fashioned a noose and threw the other end over a pipe that ran across the ceiling of his cell. He tied the noose around his neck and jumped off his cot. When a guard found him, he was hanging with his feet about a foot off the floor.”

“What the hell is a pipe doing there anyway?” I asked. “Seems like somebody should have figured it could be used just the way Jones used it.”

Fahey held his head in one hand. “There are suicide-proof cells in the Bridewell as you know, padded and all. It’s just that no one figured Jones was a candidate for bumping himself off.”

“Or just maybe they were hoping the bastard would make use of that pipe. Well, look at it this way, Fergus, the taxpayers have been spared the expense of his trial. Now tell me who I can call to get the grisly details. This is page one news, of course.”

“Yeah,” Fahey answered glumly. “All the prison reform groups are going to have a field day with this one. I can see the headlines now: Go to Prison to Die and Why We Can’t Protect Our Prisoners from Themselves.”

“Hey, you would have made a great copy editor, Fergus. Could be you missed your calling.”

He gave me a look and lit up another Lucky. I rose and headed back upstairs.

By noon, I’d gotten all the information and doled it out to my comrades in the press room. The timing meant the afternoon papers would run the Warren Jones suicide first, but that couldn’t be helped. These things tended to even out over the long haul.

God, it was great to be back on the job.