FOURTEEN

It had taken the strongest agents of the residency office, E. G. Womper and Ralph Dafney and Cub Hennessy, to hold Marion “Mule” Corkel down and handcuff him. It had taken the heaviest, Happy de Camp and Hank Perch, to sit on Mule and keep him from thrashing and kicking on the auto trip into the city. One of the bravest agents, or more foolhardy, Dick Travis, had leaned over from the front seat and tried to apply a gag to the cursing, spitting, shouting white-nosed prisoner in the back. Travis was bitten three times before succeeding.

Thoughts of bringing Mule to the eleventh-floor residency office for fingerprinting and photographing, as was routine procedure, were dismissed. The media hung out on the twelfth floor, was in and around the building almost as often as the agents themselves. The media, for reasons incomprehensible to the local agents, had not learned of the raid on Mule’s farm. Had either not found out about the Baton Rouge arrest of Wiggles Loftus and the “all points” alerts emanating from that city for the two other suspects or had not connected these events to the Mormon State robbery.

Mule was driven to the rear entrance of the federal building. When the coast seemed clear, was carried bodily and on the run through the door down into a steel isolation cell in the basement. Once loose in the cell and unhandcuffed, Mule, in his war paint and loin cloth, began shouting and cursing and kicking the walls and beating his head furiously against the door. Cub and Dafney and Womper and two U.S. marshals rushed in and restrained him. Shackled his wrists and ankles. Locked a metal body belt around his waist and chained the belt to a steel rung in the steel wall.

Legal procedure dictated the prisoner must be afforded an arraignment before the assistant U.S. magistrate as quickly as possible, must be provided with legal counsel. The assistant U.S. magistrate could not be reached, and word was left for him. Mule would not answer whom he wished to defend him, would not make a phone call … did nothing but twist and curse in his irons. The Bureau photographer and fingerprint equipment arrived. Four men held Mule while a fifth cleaned away his war paint. A picture was gotten. With inordinate trouble, so were prints. E. G. Womper and Ralph Dafney stayed inside the steel cell with Mule. Dick Travis waited on the other side of the door. The rest of the agents hied it back to the office.

There was excitement on the eleventh floor. And suspense. The rare sort which comes only as a great case begins to crack … can be expected at any moment to burst full open. Manpower lacked, that was so. Brewmeister was in Baton Rouge waiting to escort Wiggles Loftus to Prairie Port. Les Kebbon and Ted Keon were en route to Meridan County to retrieve Elmo Ragotsy from Chief Sheriff O. D. Don Pensler. Three agents had been left with Mule in the basement of the federal building. But Jez Jessup had returned from Louisiana and he worked feverishly along with Strom and Cub and Yates and Rodney Willis and Hank Perch and Preston Lyle and Donnie Bracken and Hap de Camp and Butch Cody and Heck Bevins. Worked feverishly over incoming information on the eight men alleged to be the Mormon State robbers … and the jigsaw puzzle rapidly began falling into place. Began producing images.

River Rat Ragotsy, according to the latest informant accounts reaching the eleventh floor, had used the caves and tunnels in the area of Mormon State bank to hide contraband … had been doing so for years … had used the tunnels and caves north and south of the bank as well … was a scavenger in such tunnels … had been picked up several times, but never booked, for scavenging in the city’s water and sewerage tunnels. There was no known direct connection between Ragotsy and Reverend Wallace Tecumseh “Windy Walt” Sash, but, thirty years before, both men had been listed as possible witnesses for the aborted 1941 grand jury inquiry into the disappearance of heavy machinery from the MVA hydroelectric plant inside Warbonnet Ridge. Fifty-three-year-old Wallace Sash was, in fact, a reverend of the First Church of the Holy Conversion, an Illinois-based and-accredited operation that the federal government had unsuccessfully tried to discredit as nothing more than a tax dodge. Sash had a number of arrests, but no convictions, for petty theft, petty extortion and the molesting of children. His only conviction was for a felony—extorting funds from a mentally incompetent uncle—and ended in a three-year jail sentence. An appeals court reversed the decision. Windy Walt, a native Illinoisan, was a long-time friend and alleged underworld associate of another Illinois resident, Bicki “Little Haifa” Hale. It was believed that Sash had first served as the “keep” or “holder” of stolen funds entrusted to him by Bicki Hale, that later he became a full partner in many of Hale’s illegal ventures.

Bicki “Little Haifa” Hale did look Semitic, but he received his nickname in an Indiana reformatory, where he was the constant shadow of an older inmate, Clarence Highfall. Clarence had a speech impediment and pronounced his name “Cwarence Highfaw.” Around the yard he became Haifa. His shadow, Bicki, became Little Haifa. Bicki Hale was a car thief and adequate lockpicker before going to reform school. He came out a journeyman safecracker. Years of subsequent practice elevated this skill, but only somewhat. According to underworld sources, Little Haifa rated as a competent box man who was far better with drills than with explosives. Where Little Haifa excelled, in the estimation of his criminal peers, was at organization. They attributed Bicki’s almost nonexistent conviction record to this. To organization alone. Not to spotting the potential mark, definitely not. If Bicki picked the mark, there was every chance it was an impractical, if not preposterous, choice. Bicki was a dreamer. A Don Quixote. His eyes were far bigger than his talent. That’s why he and Windy Walt Sash were a perfect pair. Both were down-home crooks who aspired to be big-time operators. With Bicki, confidential underworld informants told their Romor 91 contacts, “Let the other guy spot and pick the score.”

Let Bicki organize and execute and pay off and you can’t go wrong, stated the question-and-answer report sent in from an FBI agent interviewing an underworld contact outside of Moline, Illinois. The full transcript went on to say:

Q: How large a score has Bicki Hale made?

A: He’s In the four to five range, definitely.

Q: Four to five hundred thousand dollars?

A: That’s his ballpark.

Q: Nothing bigger?

A: He could hit bigger, sure. We all could hit bigger. Luck burps, we all hit bigger. Even you.

Q: Without luck, reasonably, how much bigger a score do you feel Bicki could perpetrate?

A: I love that word, perpetrate.

Q: How big?

A: Bicki? If he gets all the luck, he could maybe bring home a million or two for the night.

Q: That’s all, two million?

A: Hey, big roller, show me where I can pick it up and I don’t have to talk to you no more.

Q: Is it possible he could bring off a score larger than two million?

A: Anything’s possible. Only don’t let him do the spotting. Let someone else find it and bring it to Little Haifa, like I said. That’s how he got pinched the last time. Sent to the crapper. ’Cause he picked it too. Spotted and picked. He ain’t no spotter. He’s day labor.

Bicki “Little Haifa” Hale’s cellmate at Statesville Penitentiary in Illinois, as revealed by data being assembled on the eleventh floor, was Willy “Cowboy” Carlson. Carlson and Hale were known to be friendly with another inmate on the tier below them, thirty-one-year-old Thomas “The Worm” Ferugli. Ferugli, a former coal miner, was associated with criminal “tunnel jobs” and petty burglaries. While pleading for a lesser sentence in court, his lawyer argued Ferugli had an aversion to guns, reasoned that if Ferguli had carried a gun when burglarizing the Alcyon Flower Shop outside of Chicago at midnight, the shop’s unarmed owner probably wouldn’t have attacked Ferugli with his fists … would have most likely stepped back and put his hands up and let Ferugli empty the cash register and escape. The judge wondered aloud what would have happened if the defendant was holding a gun and the owner still attacked. The judge sentenced Ferugli, a chronic burglar of cash registers, to three to five years at Statesville.

Lionel “Meadow Muffin” Epstein, proprietor of a modest Peoria, Illinois, wholesale hardware and plumbing supply warehouse, had no known criminal record but was suspected by state trooper intelligence of being the illicit purchasing agent for equipment needed by robbery gangs. The Q&A with the Moline informant hinted of other activities:

Q: Have you heard of Lionel Epstein?

A: I think so.

Q: Is he an associate of Bicki Hale?

A: Little Haifa? Nah, that ain’t where I heard of him from. It’s Epstein’s got to do with Windman.

Q: Windman?

A: Windy Walt Sash, a scam artist down southways. Windy Walt and this Epstein run second-rate hustles. Crooked lotto games and the like. Epstein, I think he got this cut-rate supply house going, see what I mean? Sells you guns and nitroglycerin and drills. Anything for a job. Sells it cut-rate ’cause most of it’s defective. He’s a real piece-of shit, Epstein is. Soft shit. They call him Meadow Muffin.

New intelligence reaching the eleventh floor on Marion “Mule Fucker” Corkel stated he was a good handyman who was particularly skilled at repairing automobiles and electrical gadgets. Mule was described as being “perhaps a borderline psychotic” who possessed an extremely quick temper and was given to sudden violent and dangerous rages.

Mule, as agents of the residency knew from earlier reports, was directly connected with Cowboy Carlson in several small smuggling activities and one horse death. Cowboy had shared an apartment with River Rat Ragotsy as well as worked on Ragotsy’s boat. Lamar “Wiggles” Loftus had also worked on the Ragotsy boat, where he met Carlson, and with Carlson attempted an armed robbery which was bungled and landed Carlson in prison. Wiggles, a World War II hero, was believed to be an expert with explosives.

There was a pall, a numbing, which affected certain of the agents as the incoming information was shouted out across the room. These were not, these eight suspects, the breed of super-criminals described by the press or Denis Corticun. Not wizards or even sub wizards. Not the cream of the crime world by a longshot.

Denis Corticun, when he appeared on the eleventh floor and apologized to Jez for their argument over Mule Corkel’s background report and stayed on for late-night sandwiches and an informal recapitulation of what had been learned, might have been expected to show concern over the scruffy nature of the crooks … over having been so inaccurate in his public assessment of their skills. He admitted being off-base, but without apparent concern. Corticun complimented Billy Yates for being right on the money in predicting what caliber of criminals had perpetrated Mormon State, reminded the other agents around the table that only Yates had thought this way, or at least was brave enough to say what he thought. Corticun congratulated all the men on a job well done and called out and ordered whiskey for the room, on him, then remembering there was still much to do, Indian-gave and postponed the treat until later … went into the other office to join Strom, who was on the phone trying to find out where the devil the assistant U.S. magistrate was, why the devil Mule hadn’t had his arraignment yet. Strom was saying that he would not tolerate a foul-up, that Mule was legally entitled to and must have his arraignment … must be represented by a lawyer. Strom ordered that the public defender’s office be called straightaway and a lawyer brought in for Mule. Brought in without delay. He slammed the receiver down.

With Corticun gone from the dinner break, it fell to Cub Hennessy to ask the question that had plagued him, a question to which he knew the answer but hoped there was a different answer he hadn’t thought of: Why, if these eight were the actual perpetrators, had none of their names appeared on any suspects list to date?

“Because they’re too looney-toon, why do you think?” Pres Lyle said, surprised anyone as crime-wise as Cub would ask such a thing. “There aren’t a half-dozen felony arrests among the bunch of ’em. We started with felony arrests.”

It was the answer Cub feared was right, didn’t want to hear.

“Felony arrests and Ph.D.s,” Jez added, as others laughed. “That’s where we spent half our time, shagging after Ph.D.s.”

“You can’t have the biggest and most spectacular robbery of the age and not have any of the perpetrators show up on a suspects list.” Cub didn’t know why he was pressing the issue. “It sounds dumb.”

“Half those guys were over in Illinois,” Donnie Bracken said. “They were small-timers in Illinois. The Illinois field offices would have gotten around to them.”

“I think Ragotsy was on one of the lists here, one that I saw,” Rodney Willis recalled.

“Cub’s got a point,” Hank Perch said. “You would have thought Cowboy Carlson’s name would show up here in Prairie Port. Cowboy did felony time. He’s a parolee and right out of prison. He sure as hell should have been listed by us.”

Cowboy had been listed, but Cub wasn’t about to say he had removed Cowboy’s name … since Cowboy had been his informant.

“Lists or no lists, I’d say we got a pretty strong case,” Hap de Camp said.

“Good enough for conviction?” Jez wondered. “Don’t forget, we’re racing the clock. We picked up Mule. They’ll be arraigning him in a few minutes and then he has to go to trial. Any smart lawyer is going to push for a fast trial.”

“We’re strong,” Hap reiterated. “You take what we got and throw in Cowboy Carlson having Mule’s initial in his record book for the night of the robbery and—”

“That page was destroyed,” Cub reminded the group. “Frank Santi burned it, and I doubt if the chief of police is going to admit that in a court of law, admit destroying evidence.”

“Yeah, why’d he do that?” Donnie Bracken asked. “I never understood.”

Cub fibbed. “Who knows? Maybe spite.”

“Even without the book we’re strong,” Hap persisted. “We have the tie-in to Sam Hammond and the electrical work. The fuses. Sam’s mother’s testimony and his wife’s.”

“And none of the Illinois suspects were seen at their addresses since a few days before the robbery,” Butch Cody added.

“When did we find that out?” Cub wanted to know.

“It just came in,” Butch said. “The last any one of them was seen in their home area was August seventeenth. That’s three days before the theft came down. And all three of the suspects from Prairie Port were reported here during the score … Mule, Cowboy and Rat Ragotsy.”

“That’s still circumstantial,” Cub said. “Nothing’s firsthand, not even the fuse you found at Sam Hammond’s garage. A smart lawyer could make us choke on that fuse.”

“Cub, you saying you don’t think these guys are the robbers?” Hank Perch asked.

“I don’t know,” Cub said. “It seems that they are, but I don’t know why I won’t accept it. Like I told Sissy last night, maybe I’m a little ashamed or disappointed. Maybe I started believing all that crap Corticun’s been handing out about the crime of the century and supercrooks. Maybe I don’t want to tell my kids I hauled in a third-rate looney-toon called Mule Fucker.”

“Crooks is crooks, Cub,” Pres Lyle said.

“Some are heavyweights,” Cub contradicted. “Maybe that’s it. Maybe I had my heart set on bringing down a heavyweight.”

“… Billy Boy,” Jez said to Yates. “How do you see it? These the Mormon State gang or aren’t they?”

“They did it,” Yates said.

Jez turned to Cub with opened hand. “There you are, they did it. Billy knows everything. I’m proud of him like he was something pretty.”

“You think what we have will hold in court, Billy?” Cub asked.

“Can’t say about that, but they’re the gang.”

Strom, who had been watching from the doorway, asked, “Why are you so certain, Yates?”

“It plays too well,” Billy said.

“What does?”

“The scenario.”

“You mean the reconstruction? Your reconstruction?”

Yates nodded.

“Let’s hear.”

“… Rat Ragotsy, an old-time smuggler, is wandering through the caves probably looking for new hiding places, or whatever,” Yates began. “He spots dirt or rock chips falling in one of the caves. Or maybe hears noises and realizes something is being built directly overhead. He goes outside and sees the housing project going up … and sees the bank being built. Or he does it in reverse order, sees the bank being built and suspects there could be a cave underneath … checks and finds out there is. He finds the cave the bank is going up over and knows he’s spotted a one-in-a-million shot. Ragotsy tells his Prairie Port roommate, Cowboy Carlson, what he’s found. Probably brings Carlson over and shows him. What they need is a safecracker and organizer. Carlson has just the man, his former cellmate at Statesville, Bicki “Little Haifa” Hale. Hale, the dreamer who talks a big game. Hale cases the bank and cave, is led up and down the tunnels by the man who knows them as good as anybody, Ragotsy. They go up into Warbonnet Ridge, and Ragotsy, who once tried scavenging the hydro-electrical plant there, shows them the control station for the irrigation project. I doubt if Ragotsy or Cowboy or Bicki understood how the station operated, but Bicki knew what it did … it let water into the tunnels. This was important because he realized then, or shortly after, that the only getaway from the robbery had to be through the tunnels … and that it was impossible to make that getaway walking through the tunnels carrying stolen money. The tunnels had to be flooded. Somehow he had to get those controls for the irrigation system to operate and let water into the tunnels when he needed it. So Bicki goes to his pal and partner from Illinois, Windy Walt Sash. Windy Walt had tried looting the Bonnet hydroelectric plant himself. Most every southern Missouri and Illinois and western Kentucky crook had tried that. Only Walt probably boasted he was, successful at it. Walt was a bigger blowhard than Bicki. A much bigger liar. But when Windy Walt was taken down to the control room by Bicki, Cowboy and Ragotsy, he didn’t have any better idea of how to get it operating than they did.

“They’re stuck … and greedy. They smell money. Smell the biggest score any of them has ever dreamt of. And in their distorted appraisal, the easiest score they’ve ever come across. That’s the beauty of being truly second-rate, you never realize your limitations. A bank was being built right above a cave that nobody knew about but them. They felt they had all the time in the world to dig up through the rock and cut a hole in the bottom of the vault and take what they wanted. The only catch was the getaway. They still had to flood the tunnels to get away.

“Tasting money, they went to a man they probably would have avoided under more normal situations. A crazy man who knew electricity and mechanics and thievery, Marion ‘Mule Fucker’ Corkel. They took Mule on the underground tour, brought him up into the control station. Mule saw that what they wanted to do about the flooding was feasible … and knew he didn’t have the skill to bring it off. He told them so. So Bicki “Little Haifa” went to the one person he didn’t want to approach. The person he knew all along could do what was needed, his nephew … his sister’s son, Sam Hammond. Sam Hammond, who had trouble with the electric company’s advancement test because he couldn’t read all that well. Sam Hammond, who, reading or not, was a bloody genius with raw electricity and electrical machinery. Bicki always got Sam to do what he wanted in the past. He got him to do what he wanted with Mormon State. Bicki probably fought with his sister Ida over it. He probably told Ida, ‘Give me this once, this one clout, and I’ll make us all rich and never bother him again.’ Bicki the organizer starts bringing in his specialists. One is his and Cowboy’s old prison chum, Thomas ‘The Worm’ Ferugli. Worm is an ex-miner and tunnel man … has more likely than not worked robberies that required tunneling through rocks. Maybe out of friendship, maybe out of necessity, they take on another hand, a man who had wartime experience with explosives, Lamar ‘Wiggles’ Loftus … a pal of Cowboy’s and a onetime employee on Ragotsy’s boat.

“With an assist from Worm Ferugli, his nephew Sam and most likely Wiggles, Bicki draws up his master plan. River Rat probably helps him with the getaway aspects, with what kind of boats can best get through the tunnels. Bicki makes up his shopping list of equipment and goes to a cut-rate supplier, Windy Walt’s friend and sometime partner, Lionel ‘Meadow Muffin’ Epstein. Epstein arranges for the purchase of certain untraceable items, tells the gang where to steal the rest. Because they will need all the manpower they can muster for the perpetration, Meadow Muffin is invited to join the robbery gang, is offered a full share of the take. He accepts. The gang is set. Sam Hammond, at this point, is no part of it. Is not supposed to participate. Sam, in fact, isn’t exactly sure why he’s doing what he is for Uncle Bicki.

“… And so they begin their implausible caper. Material is gotten, and is untraceable. Sam taps into the city’s main power supplies and runs cables down the tunnel to a cut-off point. Sam’s not allowed to know what’s beyond this point. And slow-witted Sam, pure Sam the electrical wizard, doesn’t know … doesn’t figure it out. Mule, a seat-of-the-pants electrician, takes over from where Sam leaves off with the electrical cable. Mule strings the cable back into the cave under the bank. Lights are brought in and all the other equipment. Some is brought in painstakingly through the emergency hatch on top of Warbonnet Ridge. But there has to be a larger, closer opening we haven’t found yet. One through which larger equipment was brought in. Nothing comes in through the Warbonnet Ridge hatch while Sam is there. Sam works alone, or maybe Mule comes to help from time to time.

“The scaffold goes up in the cave, and Worm Ferugli, the miner, figures exactly where, in the ceiling above, the vault is. The bank is still under construction, so the gang has another advantage. They can enter the premises with no fear of alarms going off. They do enter it, often. Can calculate from inside the bank itself what part of the cave ceiling the vault is resting on top of. Can tap the concrete vault-room floor and hear below precisely where the sound is coming from. When they’re in the bank, they also check out the alarm system being installed. See that the system includes a television scanning camera and monitor screens. They trace the cable from the camera to the monitors, which is no major electrical achievement. Mule splices into the cable, which also requires minimal skill. Luck has a part. They find a fissure in the rock foundation … the same fissure our technicians discovered. They string the splice down the fissure and into the cave and connect it to monitor screens Meadow Muffin Epstein has purchased or stolen. They wait for the security company upstairs to activate and adjust the alarm system. This occurs the week before the robbery. Now the gang can watch, from thirty feet below, everything going on inside the bank and on the street in front.

“Sam Hammond gets the generators and motors in the irrigation-control station to operate. Also gets the pull motors at the tunnel and reservoir water gates working. Splices hot into the city’s power line for his basic supply of electricity. What he pulls off isn’t without a flaw or so. Activating the first generator and battery of motors attached to it causes power dips throughout the city of Prairie Port. Sam warns Bicki about this. Bicki asks what they should do to fix the situation. Sam says if he knows exactly how much water Bicki wants in the tunnel at what specific time, he can build a governing device that will automatically open a combination of gates and sewers gradually, and far enough in advance, to meet the specifications using a minimum of power. Bicki gets back to Sam and says, all right, build your device and set it for Saturday night. August twenty-first. Sam does just that, finishes the job Friday afternoon, August twentieth. Now something happens, and I’m not sure what.”

Yates poured himself a cup of black coffee, sipped and thought a moment. “Remember there’s a lead time involved here … the time it will take to flood the tunnel without using a disruptive amount of electricity. The more electricity used, the quicker the flooding. Sam’s timer had arranged for a narrower gate opening, less electrical usage and slower flooding. If Bicki originally wanted the tunnel flooded with enough water to escape on by, let’s say, midnight Saturday, Sam probably programmed the timer to open the gates hours before that, maybe half a day before.

“Now, on Friday, Bicki comes to nephew Sam and says the plans have changed and that the flooding has to be finished later that same night. Sam wants to know when and explains about the lead time. Bicki tells him to forget about the lead time and timing device. Bicki Hale has to do the thing he’s been trying to avoid, not only tell his nephew what was happening but make him participate as well. Bicki orders Sam to operate the irrigation control by hand, do whatever it takes to get maximum water into those tunnels. In a way, it’s better for Bicki and gang to have Sam regulating the water flow. That gave them more immediate control of flooding … they could speed it up or slow it down.

“We can be relatively certain the perpetration had to begin as quickly as possible late Friday afternoon, right after the bank’s assistant manager locked up and left. But why did they change? What came up to change their plans so drastically? And to make them do the thing they had feared … risk causing dimouts in the city? It couldn’t have been any worry about the alarm system being fully activated. That wasn’t to happen until Monday morning.

“There are two explanations, and I’m not happy with either one. The first is that Bicki, the impractical dreamer, had counted on the final leg of the getaway occurring on the Treachery. The gang would escape from under the bank via the flooded tunnels, come out into the Mississippi River the other end of Prairie Port and get right out midstream into the Treachery. The Treachery would take them downriver thirty or forty miles in record time. The gang might have found out, at the last moment, that the Treachery stopped flowing at about one A.M. Saturday. Stopped for over two months. So if they were going to ride the Treachery they couldn’t score the vault Saturday, they had to do it the night before. Had to make the getaway and be on the river before one A.M. Saturday. That’s one possibility,” Yates said dourly.

“The second is that the gang somehow had learned about the federal reserve shipment of thirty-one million dollars to Mormon State. We can’t assume that it was a conspiracy from the start … that they prepared to rob Mormon State weeks, maybe months, before with full knowledge the federal reserve shipment would be made. That would have meant a person inside the federal reserve at New Orleans sabotaged the incinerator and later made sure the truck carrying the money to Saint Louis broke down. Conspiracy couldn’t have existed on the part of the armored truck company and drivers carrying the load, since they weren’t hired until the last moment, had no way of knowing beforehand that they were to be hired, certainly had no way of knowing where they were to be sent or in what direction. Robbery preparations were well under way long before the truckers entered the scene.

“It’s conceivable, though, that after the truck got into trouble and the federal reserve made arrangements to drop the load off at Mormon State, the gang did find out. This is a longshot. Except I see from the background report that Cowboy Carlson was still working for Wilkie Jarrel … that he was chauffeuring Jarrel that Friday afternoon. Chauffeured him until four-thirty that afternoon, then took off for the weekend … and never showed up again. Jarrel’s son-in-law is Emile Chandler, president of Mormon State. Once Chandler had been contacted by the federal reserve and asked to house the shipment over the weekend, it would seem plausible Jarrel was told about it. Jarrel might even have been consulted from the beginning, might have been the final arbiter on whether Mormon State should accept the shipment. Maybe some of these conversations occurred by phone … and maybe Carlson overheard enough to get the drift of what was about to happen.

“It’s equally possible that the gang had no prior knowledge of the federal reserve shipment. That they lucked out … that as they were watching the monitor screens they saw the money being unloaded and couldn’t believe their luck. Saw it just like they saw the early shipment from Brink’s come in. That could have been why they changed plans and began the robbery a day earlier, because they were afraid the shipment might be taken away the next day … no, that couldn’t be it … they had no way of knowing it was a temporary shipment, not from a monitor.

“Anyway, the decision to score the vault on Friday night was made. But Sam Hammond couldn’t bring himself to go along with it. After a crying jag at home in the arms of his wife, he went to Warbonnet Ridge to see Uncle Bicki and try to get off the hook. Bicki promised him the moon, and when that didn’t work, he threatened him. Maybe some of the others threatened him too. Particularly Mule. Sam ran away and hid, and terrified that Mule or the others might hurt his wife and unborn child, he jumped into the river and drowned.

“The gang has no way of knowing where Sam is, what he has done. Their concern is that Sam isn’t there to control the water, to undo the automatic timing device. The device was connected and set for the next night. So Mule went up to the tunnel and into the irrigation-control station, changed wires and did everything he could to prepare for flooding. In the process he knocked the timing device out of whack, but not out of commission. Everything done in the cave under the bank works like a dream. They drill and explode right up to the bottom of the vault, then drill and explode right through. They gather the money and get into their boats. Mule pulls out every stop he can to get water into the tunnels, throws on every machine. Short-circuits half of Prairie Port into a blackout. Opens the three gates in the reservoir and sends a flood of eighteen million gallons of water into the tunnels. Knocks hell out of half the Sewerage and Water Department tunnels in the bargain and reactivates the mud volcano, but dumps the robbers and their loot out into the Mississippi … out into the Treachery.

“The alarm in the bank doesn’t go off until Sunday morning. The flooding knocks out the main cable to the police department’s communication center, and the cable didn’t get fixed until early Sunday morning. By now the timing mechanism Sam had originally built and Mule had forgotten to disconnect is opening and closing, is booby-trapping the tunnels by sending more water into them. Brewmeister goes down into the cave during this time and—”

A phone call from E. G. Womper interrupted the scenario. The assistant United States magistrate had been reached and was expected soon at the federal building. A public defender was on his way to represent Mule. And the press had already arrived … had found out the FBI was holding a suspect in the Mormon State robbery.

John Leslie Krueger, assistant United States magistrate for the southern district of Missouri and the first black man to hold that position, met privately with Assistant U.S. Attorney Jules Shapiro and Legal Aid lawyer Andy Pantellis. Shapiro, who represented the United States government’s pending action against Marion Corkel, and Pantellis, Corkel’s appointed legal representative for the time being, had a joint request: that the press be barred from the arraignment about to take place. John Leslie Krueger ruled the press had a perfect right to attend. Shapiro said he could understand but pointed to mitigating circumstances, recounted the violent reaction of Corkel to being arrested and the need to shackle him in his cell. Shapiro said that it was better for all concerned if the shackles remained on when Corkel was brought into the arraignment room. Pantellis concurred with this proposal, told of recently having visited Corkel in the holding cell only to find his new client “violent and out of control and detrimental to the well-being of those about him.” Pantellis complained of not having been alerted by the FBI early enough to get to know his client’s history better, accused the Bureau of technically having held Corkel incommunicado from the time of his apprehension at sundown until approximately 11:30 P.M., but felt it would serve no beneficial purpose for his client to be seen in chains by members of the press. Assistant U.S. Attorney Shapiro defended the Bureau by saying Corkel was given every opportunity to contact a legal representative of his own choosing and consistently refused to do so, that it was the FBI that did in fact contact the Legal Aid Society. Shapiro further stated the government found Corkel appearing in chains with members of the press present would be counterproductive to all parties concerned except the press. John Leslie Krueger again denied the petition, pointed out that it was, or soon would be, common knowledge the accused was a suspect in a notorious crime. Shapiro pointed out that the arraignment room was small and had a gallery of only fifteen seats and that fifty media people were already outside waiting to get in, that many more could be expected in coming minutes. Krueger suggested they move to larger quarters. Shapiro answered that might be awkward and near impossible this time of night, proposed that perhaps lots should be drawn among the media people already here to see which two would be allowed entry. Krueger said if the press agreed to a lot drawing, six should be admitted.

Nancy Applebridge and Chet Chomsky, along with correspondents from CBS, the BBC, the Christian Science Monitor and the San Francisco Chronicle, were the lottery winners … and the first into the small room. Shapiro, Pantellis, Strom Sunstrom, Cub Hennessy, Denis Corticun, Harlon Quinton, Jez Jessup and Billy Yates entered next, took seats in the rows in front of the media people. A clerk entered, followed by Assistant United States Magistrate Krueger.

Krueger stated that due to uncontrollable and obstructive behavior the accused would be appearing in restraints. Krueger went on record voicing opposition to any man being chained, saying he had bowed to the suggestion of persons more directly concerned with the matter. Krueger motioned to Pantellis. Pantellis went to a side door, opened it, beckoned. Bureaumen E. G. Womper and Ralph Dafney entered sidewise through the narrow door, escorting between them, with shackled wrists and ankles, the shuffling Mule. Attired in his own, recently arrived, baggy clothes, Mule glanced about with abrupt head movements, casing the gathering, squinting at one observer and then another and looking on to the next. He almost docilely took his seat beside Pantellis at a small table.

Krueger explained that the federal government had sworn out a warrant against one Marion Corkel of 15 Prairieflat Road, Prairie Port, Missouri, on the charge of conspiracy-to-commit-bank-theft against the Mormon State National Bank on or about the weekend of August 20 and 21, 1971. Krueger said that the accused before him was alleged to be the same Marion Corkel cited in the warrant.

Krueger now addressed Mule directly, introduced himself as the assistant United States magistrate who must judge whether Mule was, in fact, Marion Corkel. That was all this arraignment was about, Krueger said, to determine if the right man was being charged and, if so, to establish bail. Only that. This was not a trial, just a brief arraignment as prescribed by law for the assessment of identity and bail. Mule was told he had the constitutional right to remain silent throughout the proceedings, had the right to counsel of his own choice. Krueger inquired if Mule understood all he had said.

Mule farted, resoundingly.

Krueger asked if Mule wished to change the counsel representing him, provided by the Legal Aid Society, for counsel of his own choosing.

Mule lifted a shackled leg, but no wind would pass.

Krueger announced that the proceedings would begin. The clerk asked that the representatives of the government and the accused identify themselves for the record. Andy Pantellis said he was Andrew D. Pantellis, Legal Aid Society. Assistant U.S. Attorney Jules Shapiro said: “For the Government, Jules Shapiro.”

Mule stood up shouting, “I’m Shithole Ike for them what wish to dump.”

The clerk urged Mule to sit down. He even said please.

“When I get ready, all right,” Mule shot back. “You people make me wait this long, I’m gonna make you wait longer. I’m Shithole Ike, tenant in every bunghouse south of the Platte. Seatlicker Ike, United States Latrine Corps—”

Pantellis rose and requested of Krueger that rather than establish bail at this time he remand Mule to University Hospital for observation. That perhaps Mule had mental problems.

“Mister Corkel, and I assume you are Mister Corkel?” Krueger said.

Mule sneered and nodded.

“Do you have a psychiatric history?”

“Surest thing,” Mule shouted. “I come out of a crazy pussy, and I’m gonna die in a crazy grave next to Hitler sucking Kate Smith’s tits while I fuck George Washington. Because I hate you and everything you stand for, you white cocksucker.”

“White!” Krueger said.

“White-livered! White-bellied! Chicken white! You take a man and beat him, what do you expect him to do? Fight back, right?”

“That’s not a very effective way, fighting,” Krueger told him.

“I’m gonna fight this case all the way to the Supreme Court.”

“Fine,” Krueger said. “Please sit down.”

“I don’t care if you send me to the moon in a balloon.” Mule continued to stand and rant. “I’m a man and you’re a man. I did what I did, which ain’t what you say I did. You got the money. You got the gun. What the fuck do you want from my goddam life?”

Krueger said, “I don’t want anything other than that you sit down.”

“Well, God bless Missouri and all that goes with it. Send me wherever the fuck you want to send me with all the homosexuals and cocks. I’ll suck your dick if you let me, goddam it. I got twenty-one cents and you got millions. Tell Nixon to kiss my ass, and Pat too—”

“Will you please sit down.”

Mule, to the tune of “God Bless America,” began singing, “God bless Missouri, land that I love …”

“Shut that man up,” Krueger demanded.

Mule jumped up and down singing the same “God bless Missouri” line.

“A six-twenty is ordered,” Krueger called, citing the number for mental observation. Mule sang louder. Krueger shouted above him. “A six-twenty is ordered, and get him out of here.”

E. G. Womper rushed forward. Harlon Quinton beat a fast retreat out the nearest door. What attracted Yates’s attention was not the antic Mule but the reactions of his fellow FBI men. All, like Yates, were on their feet. Ralph Dafney, who was running to assist Womper, looked delighted with the challenge. Cub seemed ashamed and depressed. Strom appeared skeptical. Corticun calmly nodded to himself. Jez Jessup had no interest in anything but Yates … was watching Billy watch the others.

Waiting at the FBI’s twelfth-floor cafeteria-lounge forty minutes later, in anticipation of a promised official statement, Chet Chomsky related for his lolling press brethren what had followed at the arraignment. “These two FBI men grab him. They’re big men. Muscles. Corkel is trying to salute while he’s singing. While he’s being lifted up. The handcuffs make this difficult. Corkel had to bring both hands up to his face. But he does, and the FBI men, four of them by now, carry him out. Run him out. He’s laying sideways and saluting and singing ‘God bless Missouri’ at the top of his lungs. They go on running with him along the corridor and down the steps and out on the street that way. We’re running after them. They jump into a car and lose all of us except Nancy. Nancy had a cab waiting and she followed them right to University Hospital. They run Corkel in, standing up this time but still singing. Nancy, oh, our lovely Nancy, she gets right into the hospital and past the security guards in the mental wing. Borrows a nurse’s outfit and tray. What does she see? The FBI is handing Corkel over to a doctor, signing a release form for him. Corkel is singing and watching. Once that form’s signed, Corkel’s the property of the county for twenty days. When it’s signed, guess what Corkel does? He stops singing and thanks the FBI for riding him over. He’s calm as can be. It was an act. The arraignment thing was an act. Corkel hustled the assistant U.S. magistrate into a twenty-day vacation on the county. Into delaying everything by twenty days. By the bye, he’s one pretty funny man, this Marion Corkel. His nickname is Mule Fucker. You should hear the stories about him …”

Denis Corticun, at a 3 A.M. briefing, brought the press up to date on Marion Corkel, stated that Corkel was indeed a prime suspect in the Mormon State robbery and, at the suggestion of the assistant U.S. magistrate’s office, had been placed under observation. Corticun said two other men believed to be members of the robbery gang would soon be in federal custody but refused to give any further information. He left the room brusquely.

Moans, arduous and painful, rose from the back seat as the car sped off the highway and into a cyprus-lined roadside rest area. Les Kebbon hurried from the driver’s door, went to a pay phone, called the eleventh-floor residency office in Prairie Port collect and when the charges were accepted demanded to speak with Strom.

“You pick up Ragotsy?” Strom asked once he got on the other end.

“What’s left of him,” Les Kebbon answered. “That sheriff or whoever he is, that O. D. Don Pensler, is straight out of Auschwitz. He butchered Ragotsy like you don’t want to see. Spent the works. Held him underwater. Hung him by the heels and used electric cattle prods on him. Everything and more. Strom, we can’t let anyone see Ragotsy. He’s chopped meat, and the Bureau will get blamed, I know it. We gotta get this guy to the first hospital and out of sight and hope he lives. Has that fucking Corticun told the world we’ve picked him up?”

Strom answered, “Not by name, I don’t believe. He had a press meeting a half hour ago and only said there were two more suspects besides Mule.”

“So what shall I do, get him to a hospital?”

Strom had an idea, had Kebbon hold on nearly five minutes, returned to the line saying, “Can you make it to the Army base near Balmour with him?”

“Yeah, we can get that far.”

“Take him to the hospital there. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll live. Or luckier yet and nobody will know till he recovers. What the hell did he get beaten up for?”

“A confession,” Kebbon told him. “The ape sheriff thought he was doing us a favor. Doing J. Edgar Hoover a favor. He beat a signed confession out of Ragotsy, not knowing that it probably won’t hold up in court because he did beat it out of him. He can screw up our whole case against Ragotsy because of this. I’ve got the confession here, with fucking bloodstains on it, if you can believe.”

“What does it say?”

The envelope containing the confession letter did bear a bloody thumbprint on the flap. The letter proper had one large and two small blood splotches on the lower right portion of the second page. The text was typewritten and began with an introductory statement attesting that this was the confession of Elmo Vorhees Ragotsy, fifty-eight years old, of 122 Wellons Street, Prairie Port, Missouri. That during the course of the confession to follow, Mr. Ragotsy had in no way been harmed, coerced or tricked. Beneath this statement were imprints of the county seal, the sheriff’s office seal and the seal of the Association of Community Churches. Below these were signatures of the attending witnesses to the confession: two clergymen, the county sheriff, the deputy county sheriff, the high school athletic director, the county supervisor of road repair and the recording public stenographer.

The confession was single-spaced and read:

I am a Mormon State robber. I have been arrested before for possessing stolen goods but I was not convicted. My roommate, Willy Carlson, called the Cowboy, is a known criminal and convict who is on parole. I have not seen him in a while.

The third week of June this year (i.e. 1971) I was in the caves and tunnels south of Warbonnet Ridge. The tunnels was built by the WPA, I think. I often find valuable things down in them. Sometimes I store things in them. The third week of June I was walking in a cave and seen dust and small stones falling out of the roof. I heard echoey noises too, that could have been drilling. I went out through a tunnel and up where I come in. That would be a mile from the cave. Standing there I seen the Riverrise Project was being built on top of where I figure the cave was. A week later I went to Riverrise and seen that everything is built except for the bank. They got this shopping mall there, along the river in front of the other buildings, and everything is complete and done. The only construction what’s going on is with the bank. The bank is incomplete. It don’t even have windows in it yet and no name on it. But you can see it’ll be a bank when it’s done. I realize this could be the noises I heard in the cave. That the cave is right under where the bank is going up.

I come back over the weekend with my roommate, Cowboy. Cowboy goes and stays in the basement of the bank. I go down into the cave. At a time we both agreed on, Cowboy starts banging on the concrete with a crowbar. I hear the banging real clear, and dust falls outta the rock above me. That’s how we come to know the bank is right over the cave. Later a sign goes up in the window and we see it’s called Mormon State.

I am not a thieving man myself. If there was temptations to do something about robbing Mormon State from the cave I didn’t give it much of a chance. There was no opening big enough to bring equipment through for six miles. The place I climbed down to get to the tunnel and cave wasn’t big enough to bring equipment in. To get out of there after the clout would mean the same thing, walking six miles with all the money sacks and equipment you chose to take out. I told Cowboy I did not want to rob the bank. I told him if he wanted to rob it, I’d sell it to him for some of the action. Criminals have the right to sell a mark to another criminal if they find it first. I found the cave under the bank first. It was my mark.

I had gone up north of St. Louis on my boat for a freight hauling job. A two month contract job for the railroad there. Cowboy comes up to see me. This is the second week of August of this year. He tells me people of his acquaintance are going to rob the bank and need my help. Cowboy, he knows I don’t have the stamina for robbing banks. He tells me I’m not going to be part of the robbing. I’m to be part of the escaping after. I’ll be waiting in a tunnel near where the cave and robbing is going on. Waiting in a boat. These people plan to flood the tunnels and get out of there by boat afterwards. No one knows boats and them tunnels better than me. That’s what they want me to help with, picking the right boats and getting them through the tunnels later. They’re willing to pay me a full share of the take and something extra for finding the mark in the first place. I don’t have to show up until the day before they go. They’ll call me the night before. It’s one day’s work.

I say okay, sure. I tell Cowboy a list of what I want. Rubber pontoon boats with outboard motors on them. And power beams in front. I don’t know how many people is taking part in this thing and I don’t ask. I tell Cowboy there can’t be more than two people in a boat.

I gets the call from Cowboy on Thursday night that we’re going a day earlier, Friday. Right about lunch the next day I tell the crew on my own boat, my river boat, I’m going over to Emoryville and I’ll be back the next morning. I drive to Prairie Port and meet the Cowboy.

We were down in the tunnel about six (i.e. 6:00 p.m., August 20). I could hear the robbery already getting started through the passageway leading up from the tunnel to the cave. I stayed on a dock in the tunnel.

There were four rubber boats. I got them ready. Put on their outboard motors and power lights. There was trouble flooding the tunnel. The water level was too low for a while. Then it was too high and fast. When the other people came running out it was almost a tidal wave in the tunnel. The people were rushing and the light was bad so I didn’t recognize anybody except Cowboy and a man who was naked. I don’t know the naked man’s name. I think he’s from near Prairie Port. Cowboy was naked too. The other people were all wearing rubber sea diving suits, so you couldn’t see their face if there was good light.

The people jumped into the boats in the nick of time. Jumped in just before the tidal wave hit us. I was in the last boat. The tidal wave pushed us all the way under Prairie Port and out into the Treachery. The Treachery is a seasonal current in our part of the river. The Mississippi River.

The confession ended here. The signature and the date in the lower right-hand corner of the page were partially obscured by the three splotches of blood, which had resulted from Ragotsy passing out and falling full-face onto the letter.

Franklin Ulick, assistant manager of Mormon State National Bank, sat at his desk studying the nine pictures Cub Hennessy and Butch Cody had presented. The photos of Mule, Wiggles, Ragotsy, Cowboy Carlson, Windy Walt Sash, Worm Ferugli, Meadow Muffin Epstein and Sam Hammond were relatively recent. The identifying shot for Bicki Hale was still the fuzzy, sixteen-year-old photograph the Baton Rouge Police Department had on file.

“No, they don’t look familiar, any of them,” Ulick finally said. “Only I can’t see this one too well.” He indicated Bicki “Little Haifa”.

“Let’s think back,” Cub asked. “You were around the premises when it was under construction. Do those men look like any of the construction workers? Painters, builders, electricians, carpenters?”

“I wasn’t around all that much during the construction,” Ulick replied.

“My mistake, I thought you said you were.”

“I said I was around more than Mister Julien.”

“Giles Julien, the manager?”

“Yes. I came here more often than he did during that time.”

“Did you see any of those nine men when you did?”

“Not that I recall.”

Cub produced pages of typewritten names and addresses. “This is the list you gave the Prairie Port police when they were running the show. A hundred and eighteen people who were in the premises after it was built and prior to it being robbed. Staff people and ones you were interviewing for jobs as well as others. Do any of the names bring to mind any of these photographs?”

Ulick took his time in going down the names and reevaluating the pictures. “No. I can’t make any connections.”

“Who might be familiar with the names you don’t know?”

“No one. I know all the names. I met all the people listed. Mister Julien knows some of them because he also did job interviewing. Mister Chandler, our president, would know a few. But I know everyone on that list. With the second list it’s a different story. I don’t know a soul. You’d have to speak to either Mister Julien or Mister Chandler on that.”

“What second list?”

“The amendments to the first list. We sent you a copy.”

“No one sent us anything.”

“I brought it to you myself.”

“… Tell me about this second list,” Cub said.

“It was the amendment to the first list,” Ulick repeated. “The changes. That first list, the master list, was compiled quickly. Within hours of our learning of the robbery. Errors were made. And omissions. I, for example, had mistakenly included two electricians on the master list who had never entered the premises, who simply had installed our outdoor sign a half mile from the bank. Mister Julien and myself, on rechecking, found several things like this, particularly with the interviews. We had listed certain interviews with job applicants who never kept their appointments. A few people who had been to the premises we overlooked mentioning. All this information was on the second list. It wasn’t all that large a list of changes, I’d like to point out. We were quite accurate with our first list.”

“You say you brought this second list, the list of changes, to the FBI yourself?” Cub asked.

“Wednesday morning, August twenty-fifth,” Ulick answered. “It’s noted here.” He raised his red appointment book.

“Do you recall who you gave it to?”

“I was instructed to deliver it to Mister Denis Corticun. He was indisposed so I gave it to his aide, a Mister Harlon Quinton.”

“You were told specifically to give it to Mister Corticun, not to Mister John Sunstrom or someone else at the local FBI office?”

“I was told to go to the twelfth floor and give it to Mister Corticun.”

“Told by whom?”

“Mister Julien.”

“Who gave you this list of amendments?”

“Mister Julien.”

“Do you have a copy of it?”

“No.”

“Who does?”

“I assume, Mister Julien.”

… Giles Julien’s suit was decades out of style. His shirt collar was starched and high. The fabric of his red bow tie was devoid of sheen. He set the folder on his desk and pushed the wirerimmed glasses higher up on his nose. “Why did I instruct Mister Ulick to go directly to Mister Corticun with the changes?”

“That’s what I asked,” Cub said.

“Because those were my instructions.” Julien peeked under his glasses to search the folder.

“Instructions from whom?”

“Mister Chandler.”

“Emile Chandler, the bank’s president?”

“That is correct.” Julien held a page out to Cub. “This is what you’re looking for. A list of deletions and additions for the original submission.”

Looking at it together, Cub and Butch Cody saw that Ulick had been generally accurate in his description. Ten names appeared. Seven were in the column to the left, which designated deletions from the original list.

The three names in the column to the right were of people who had shown up for job interviews the afternoon of August 20, the same Friday that Mormon State was robbed. All three had sought positions as night watchmen. The last man of the three was scheduled to be seen at 4:30 P.M. His name was Teddy Anglaterra.