December 6, 1940
Mitchell Burgess might not have existed before his stop in Oakwood, but in just two weeks the agents traced the much more obvious trail of Mitchell Burton clear back to his birthplace in Columbus, Ohio. He was forty-four and had been married three times. In fact, he was still married to all three of his wives even though none of them had heard from him in years and had no idea where he was now. He had no one. His parents were dead, and his lone sibling, a sister in Dayton, Edith Burton Mass, had last seen him in 1928.
Burgess managed to make it through high school, but he never lasted long at any job he landed after that. He’d been a farmhand, was employed as a gas station attendant, then a baggageman for the railroad before landing the guard position at the prison. Those who knew him during his jobs found him rather cold and aloof. The word that kept coming up was loner.
“Look at this,” Meeker noted. “Our man worked on the assembly line at Packard in 1936. Looking at the months he was employed by the company, he was there when I visited.”
“It is a small world,” Reese shot back.
Meeker turned her attention back to her research. The man had been arrested about a half-dozen times for everything from petty theft to driving without a license, but he’d never been convicted on any of those minor violations. Thus, because his official record was clean, he was able to get the prison guard job at Joliet.
He appeared in Oakwood just a few months after the prison riot with his new name. During that time he produced bogus documentation under the name Burgess, likely obtained through contacts he’d established while working at the prison. Yet when he left Oakwood, the trail ended.
The one hope that had been driving the agents was finding a connection between Burton and Hooks and using that to track down Hooks’ wife, Marge. There was nothing. Thus, five weeks later, after trips across country chasing down several leads, they were no closer to finding the man or the woman he’d lived with in St. Louis.
It was just a few minutes before noon when Meeker wearily glanced up from one of the files and sighed. “Ready for lunch?”
“Sure,” Reese said. “With the cold wind and all that white stuff coming down, may I suggest Mac’s Chili?”
She cocked her left eyebrow. “It wouldn’t matter if it was the hottest day of the summer, you’d still find an excuse to eat at that dive.”
“It’s the atmosphere,” he offered.
“It’s certainly not the food.” She laughed.
She was reaching for her purse when the door flew open. Walking through unannounced was Alvin Lepowitz. He had a smile on his face so large it gave him a third chin.
“What brings you in from DC?” Meeker asked.
“Important work,” he shot back. He studied the woman’s face before taking three steps forward and handing her a large folder.
She didn’t look at the contents, but by the man’s smug demeanor she knew what it had to be. “I’m guessing you didn’t fly in to give us a new FBI case?”
“Actually,” he grinned, “I rode the train. No, the folder doesn’t have anything to do with the FBI, but it is a new assignment. You’re heading back to the White House. ‘The Grand Experiment,’ as Eleanor called it, is over. As I predicted, it has been labeled a failure. Thus the FBI will remain a boys’ club, and no calls from you will change that. Hoover and I have made sure of that. You’re out of cards.”
“What about the Rose Hall kidnapping case?” she demanded. “I know more about it than anyone. And we now pretty much know who did it. All that’s left is finding him.”
“It’s not important.” The visitor was practically giggling. Helen balled her fists. The man went on, “With Europe falling apart and Germany and Japan placing agents in this country to stir up trouble, we have much bigger fish to fry. Now pack your bags, and turn over all your files to Reese. There’s probably some typing you need to be doing at the White House.”
Meeker was boiling. Her instincts demanded she fight to keep her association with the FBI. Yet if there was any way it could have been saved, Lepowitz wouldn’t have made the trip. This was his victory. Just like he’d vowed, he’d finally put her in her place.
“How long do I have to wrap things up?” she asked.
“As long as you need.” His tone changed, suddenly seeming to take on a hint of understanding. He smiled before adding, “As long as you’re out of the office by five today. You’re expected to report to your new job on Monday.”
The big man turned proudly to Reese. “Dixon will be your new partner. I know you’ve worked with him before. Finish up your duties here. Whatever you can’t get done by the end of this month, assign to other Chicago agents. You will be working out of Los Angeles.”
Lepowitz turned back to Meeker, “You have a good trip back East. Oh, and by the way, turn that yellow car over to impound. This case is dead. We no longer need it as possible evidence. We’re going to offer it back to the owners. If they don’t want it back, we’ll auction it off.”
“They won’t want it,” Meeker shot back. “And this is not over. There’ll be women on the front lines of FBI work soon.”
“Yeah, right,” he snarled, “just like they’ll let Negroes play in the major leagues. It’s a white male’s world, sweetheart. Get used to it. I suggest you settle down, find a husband, have a few babies, and learn to cook.”
He was out the door before she could respond. Seething with rage, she grabbed a glass paperweight and threw it at the nearest wall. It shattered into a thousand pieces.
“Feel better?” Reese quietly asked.
“No,” she growled. “What’s going to happen to the Halls? What’s going to happen to all the other women who need to be working here? Women have instincts and intelligence this bureau could use! You know that!”
“Time doesn’t change attitudes very quickly,” he said. “We have to accept that, too. But I can assure you of this. I will tell everyone I know that you were the best partner I ever had.”
“Seriously?” she asked.
“No doubt.”