“You brought a squad of Van Dorns to the state.”
“We’re done in this state.”
“We’re done when I say we’re done.”
Matters was deeply troubled. His killer, who was vital to his plan, operated in a world and a frame of mind beyond his control, much less his understanding: efficient as a well-oiled machine, with gun in hand, but possessed off the killing field by a reckless faith that nothing could ever go wrong, that fortune would never turn nor consequences catch up.
“I’m surprised by your disappointment.” There was a pause to exhale a cloud of cigar smoke. “I naturally thought you would celebrate your old friend’s departure.”
“Van Dorn detectives have a saying: ‘We never give up!’”
To Matters’ disgust, this drew another, even colder response. “Never? I have a saying, too: ‘Never get too close to me.’ If he does, I will kill him.” The assassin flicked an ash from the cigar. “Who’s next?”
“There’s a fellow giving me trouble in Texas.”
“Who?”
“C. C. Gustafson.”
“Ah!”
The killer nodded in vigorous agreement, admiring Bill Matters’ cunning. C. C. Gustafson was not merely a newspaper publisher and a thorn in Matters’ side but a vocal foe of Standard Oil and a firebrand instigator beloved by the reformers hell-bent on driving the trust out of Texas.
Matters said, “With a crackerjack Van Dorn private detective on the case — thanks to you — we’ve got to throw off suspicion.”
Nothing in the murderer’s expression indicated the minutest acceptance of blame. In fact, it looked as if the murder of Spike Hopewell under the nose of a Van Dorn had been completely forgotten while Matters’ inclusive “we” had kindled delight.
“May I offer you a fine cigar?”
Matters simply shook his head no.
“Brilliant! Public outrage expects the worst of Standard Oil. They’ll blame Gustafson’s killing on the bogeyman everyone loves to hate.”
“Can you do it?”
“Can I do it?” The assassin accepted the assignment with a dramatic flourish: “You may consider Mr. C. C. Gustafson’s presses stopped.”
Matters did not doubt they’d be stopped. A bullet through the head would take care of that. But what bothered him the most was how near was his private assassin to flying out of control.
6
Isaac Bell went looking for the coroner in Independence, the Montgomery County seat, not far from the Indian Territory border. The courthouse clerk directed him to the coroner’s undertaking parlor. A plumber repairing the refrigerating plant told Bell to try the jailhouse. Dr. McGrade was visiting the jailer in his apartment above the cells. They were drinking whiskey in tea cups and invited Bell to join them.
Like most Kansans Bell had met, Dr. McGrade was fully aware of the Corporations Commission investigation and hugely in favor of any action that reined in Standard Oil. Bell explained his connection.
“Glad to help you, Detective, but I’m not sure how. Didn’t the Bourbon County coroner conduct the autopsy on Mr. Hopewell?”
“I’ve already spoken with him. I’m curious about the death of Albert Hill.”
“The refinery fellow,” Dr. McGrade told the jailer, “who drowned in the still.”
The jailer sipped and nodded. “Down in Coffeyville.”
Bell asked, “When you examined Mr. Hill’s body, did you see any signs of bullet wounds?”
“Bullet wounds? You must be joking.”
“I am not joking. Did you see any bullet wounds?”
“Why don’t you read my report from the inquest.”
“I already have, at the courthouse.”
“Well, heck, then you know Mr. Hill tumbled into a still of boiling oil. By the time someone noticed and fished him out, about all that was left was his skeleton and belt buckle. The rest of him dissolved…” He paused for a broad wink. “Now, this wasn’t in my report: His belt buckle looked fine.”
“How about his bones? Were any broken?”
“Fractured femur. Long knitted. Must have busted his leg when he was a kid.”
“No holes in his skull?”
“Just the ones God put there for us all to see and hear and breathe and eat and whatnot.”
“And no damage to the vertebrae in his neck?”
“That I can’t say for sure.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t understand what this has to do with the Corporations Commission…”
Bell saw no reason not to take the coroner and the jailer into his confidence. If the word got around, someone might come to him with more information about Albert Hill. He said, “Seeing as how Mr. Hopewell was shot while I was discussing the commission investigation with him, I am interested in running down the truth about the deaths of other independent oil men.”
“O.K. I get your point.”
“Why can’t you say for sure whether the vertebrae in Mr. Hill’s neck suffered damage?”
“I didn’t find all of them. The discs and cartilage between them must have dissolved and the bones scattered.”
“That wasn’t in your report.”
“It did not seem pertinent to the cause of death.”
“Did that happen to the vertebrae in his spine?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did his thoracic and lumbar vertebrae separate and ‘scatter’ the way you’re assuming his cervical vertebrae did?”
The doctor fell silent. Then he said, “Now that you ask, no. The spine was intact. As was most of the neck.”
“Most?”
“Two vertebrae were attached to the skull. Four were still connected to the spine — the thoracic vertebrae.”
“How many cervical vertebrae are there in the human skeleton? Seven?”
“Seven.”
“So we’re missing only one.”
The doctor nodded. “One. Down in the bottom of the still. Dissolved by now, of course. Distilled into fuel oil, or kerosene or gasoline, even lubricants.”
“But…”
“But what, Mr. Bell?”
“Doesn’t it make you curious?”
“About what?”
“You say two cervical vertebrae were still attached to the skull. So the missing vertebra would be cervical number three, wouldn’t it?”
“Three it was.”
“Wouldn’t you love to get a gander at cervical two and cervical four?”
“Not really.”
“I would.”
“Why?”
“Let’s assume that instead of the disc cartilage dissolving, something knocked cervical three clean out of Mr. Hill’s vertebral column.”
“Like what?” asked the coroner, then answered his own question. “… Like a bullet.”
“You’re right,” said Isaac Bell. “It could have been a bullet… Aren’t you tempted to have a look?”
“The man’s already buried in the ground.”
Bell said, “I’d still be tempted to have a look.”
“I’m strictly against disinterring bodies. It’s just a mess of a job.”
“But this poor fellow was just a heap of bones.”
Dr. McGrade nodded. “That’s true. Those bones looked polished like he’d passed a hundred years ago.”
“Good point,” said Bell. “Why don’t we have a look?”
“I can lend you shovels,” said the jailer.
The coroner at Fort Scott, a railroad town where several lines converged, was a powerfully built young doctor with a chip on his shoulder.
Isaac Bell asked, “Did you see any bullet wounds?”
“Of course not.”
“Why do you say ‘of course not’?”
“Read my testimony to the coroner’s jury.”
“I have read it.”
“Then you know that Reed Riggs was mangled beyond recognition after falling off a railroad platform under a locomotive.”