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Authors: D. E. Johnson
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Johnâs body. Blood sold newspapers. One of the police quotes was that the crime scene âwas one of the more gruesome in the history of the city.â One of the
more
gruesome? I didnât want to try to imagine anything worse.
The Employers Association was offering a thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the conviction of the murderer. The article went on to a short biography of John, highlighting his football career at Michigan, including the 1905 season during which they outscored their opponents 495â2. Most important, the article said the police had no suspects at this time. That was encouraging.
A streetcar was coming, so I pitched the paper in a garbage bin and waited for the car to stop. As always, the trolley was crammed to over-flowing, men and women hanging off the sides with the barest of footholds. The motorman looked straight ahead, not slowing at all, and passed by at full speed. The crowd at the stop cursed him and questioned his parentage until the car was out of sight. I joined in. We had to get to work. Even though it was illegal, every day during rush hour, trolleys passed by their stops.
I hopped from foot to foot, not able to stand still. The next car stopped, and I wedged a toe onto the front step. I jumped off just down the block from our factory and walked through the main entrance in a stream of Anderson employees. It was a madhouse in the morning,everyone scattering in different directions, more to the carriage building than the automobile factory. Our car and truck business was growing, but it would be a while before we surpassed the revenue of Anderson carriages and wagons.
I walked to the factory office, which was something out of a Dickens serial: cramped and grim, with two rows of small desks for the managers and assistant managers of each department. Our desks all faced Mr. McFarlaneâs officeâa real office with large interior windows that allowed him to keep an eye on us.
I opened the door and slipped inside, hoping to remain unnoticed.
A cry went up. âWill! Congratulations!â
Mr. McFarlane burst out of his office, raced over to me, and shook my hand. âWill, my lad. Well done, well done.â He clapped me on the back. âThatâll give those Baker boys something to stew on, now, wonât it?â
I had completely forgotten about the record. I nodded and smiled, accepting congratulations from everyone except Mr. Cavendish, who merely glanced up from his desk, then consulted his watch with a small shake of the head. When the rest of the managers arrived, Mr. McFarlane stood at the front of the office and announced a world-record celebration that evening at six, cake and punch to be served. The news of the celebration got a rousing âHurrah!â from the group; the cake and punch a disappointed groan. My father wasnât a teetotaler, but he felt it his moral obligation to set a good example for his men.
For me, this was not good news. I had to talk to Frank. I had to help Elizabeth. I had too much to do to stay late, party or no party. But I had to stay. Normalcy. Act as if nothingâs wrong.
My desk was piled high with papers, so I hurried through my first dutyâa circuit through the machining department to check that the men were working on the proper parts. They were stationed at the machines, grinding, drilling, sawing, and stamping, no conversation other than a shouted âComing through!â or its German equivalent. The cacophony made talking impossible: high-pitched squeals from drills boring into metal, the angry sound of electric saws, the scream of a grinder shaping a piece of steel, but most of all, the
SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!
of the presses as the top plates crashed into sheet metal.
Two men were trying to maneuver a cart loaded with iron rods down the aisle next to me and kept running into the outside wall of the old battery room, which jutted out into the department like a tumor. I gave them a
more
gruesome? I didnât want to try to imagine anything worse.
The Employers Association was offering a thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the conviction of the murderer. The article went on to a short biography of John, highlighting his football career at Michigan, including the 1905 season during which they outscored their opponents 495â2. Most important, the article said the police had no suspects at this time. That was encouraging.
A streetcar was coming, so I pitched the paper in a garbage bin and waited for the car to stop. As always, the trolley was crammed to over-flowing, men and women hanging off the sides with the barest of footholds. The motorman looked straight ahead, not slowing at all, and passed by at full speed. The crowd at the stop cursed him and questioned his parentage until the car was out of sight. I joined in. We had to get to work. Even though it was illegal, every day during rush hour, trolleys passed by their stops.
I hopped from foot to foot, not able to stand still. The next car stopped, and I wedged a toe onto the front step. I jumped off just down the block from our factory and walked through the main entrance in a stream of Anderson employees. It was a madhouse in the morning,everyone scattering in different directions, more to the carriage building than the automobile factory. Our car and truck business was growing, but it would be a while before we surpassed the revenue of Anderson carriages and wagons.
I walked to the factory office, which was something out of a Dickens serial: cramped and grim, with two rows of small desks for the managers and assistant managers of each department. Our desks all faced Mr. McFarlaneâs officeâa real office with large interior windows that allowed him to keep an eye on us.
I opened the door and slipped inside, hoping to remain unnoticed.
A cry went up. âWill! Congratulations!â
Mr. McFarlane burst out of his office, raced over to me, and shook my hand. âWill, my lad. Well done, well done.â He clapped me on the back. âThatâll give those Baker boys something to stew on, now, wonât it?â
I had completely forgotten about the record. I nodded and smiled, accepting congratulations from everyone except Mr. Cavendish, who merely glanced up from his desk, then consulted his watch with a small shake of the head. When the rest of the managers arrived, Mr. McFarlane stood at the front of the office and announced a world-record celebration that evening at six, cake and punch to be served. The news of the celebration got a rousing âHurrah!â from the group; the cake and punch a disappointed groan. My father wasnât a teetotaler, but he felt it his moral obligation to set a good example for his men.
For me, this was not good news. I had to talk to Frank. I had to help Elizabeth. I had too much to do to stay late, party or no party. But I had to stay. Normalcy. Act as if nothingâs wrong.
My desk was piled high with papers, so I hurried through my first dutyâa circuit through the machining department to check that the men were working on the proper parts. They were stationed at the machines, grinding, drilling, sawing, and stamping, no conversation other than a shouted âComing through!â or its German equivalent. The cacophony made talking impossible: high-pitched squeals from drills boring into metal, the angry sound of electric saws, the scream of a grinder shaping a piece of steel, but most of all, the
SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!
of the presses as the top plates crashed into sheet metal.
Two men were trying to maneuver a cart loaded with iron rods down the aisle next to me and kept running into the outside wall of the old battery room, which jutted out into the department like a tumor. I gave them a
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