Baton Rouge, 1912
Brooding over the dark stain in the center of the Persian rug, the smell of gunpowder and blood lingering in the air, thoughts of the victim bleeding out haunted me.
I knew the deceased. Joseph Young, the former sheriff’s son, had been a familiar face around the department. Imagining his death in Ed Robertson’s upstairs suite was incompatible with the fine furnishings and artwork displayed throughout the elegant living quarters.
“Good morning, Mrs. Robertson. I’m Detective Dan Landry. Sorry to meet under these circumstances.”
Epitomizing the Southern matriarch of a prominent Baton Rouge family, Georgia Blanchard Sanford Robertson wore a white, high-collared blouse and dark gray, ankle-length skirt, her hair neatly coiffed and a modest red tint on her lips and cheeks. She greeted me with quintessential hospitality meant to put me at ease, and I wondered how she was holding up so well under the stress of the situation.
“Yes, well, Detective, forgive me if I seem a little. . . frazzled. I’ll help any way I can, of course. Would you care for a cup of coffee?”
The chicory coffee aroma had heightened my senses as soon as I entered the apartment, but I politely declined, wanting to get right to work.
“We appreciate your cooperation, ma’am. The police report stated your son, Ed, was intoxicated when they got him to the jail. He had told the officer, ‘What I did, I had to do,’ and hasn’t said another word.”
Not exactly a confession, I thought.
“Your son fell asleep on the cell bunk, and they’ve had trouble waking him. I’m trying to find out exactly what happened.”
“It’s somnolence,” she said.
“Beg pardon?”
“Eddie’s had it since he was a child. Excessive sleepiness.”
I stifled a laugh. Excessive alcohol consumption was my diagnosis. I made a note to follow up on sleep disorders.
“It’s much worse when he drinks. He probably won’t remember what happened or what he said. You may not believe him, but his memory lapses are real.”
Was she making excuses for a boozer son?
“What happened last night, Mrs. Robertson?”
“Colonel and I were in our bedroom downstairs when I heard the boys—uh, men, they’ll always be boys to me—going upstairs to Ed’s room. All was quiet for a while, and I didn’t think any more of it. Then I heard a gunshot and a heavy thud, like a thick book hitting the floor. I ran upstairs as fast as I could. My husband, Colonel Robertson, is ill and was sound asleep.” She chuckled nervously. “Not even a gunshot could disturb him.”
I didn’t react but waited for her to continue.
“After we came to our senses, I went downstairs and woke my husband. It was such a shock.”
“Yes, ma’am. Who else heard the gunshot?”
“Nobody.” She answered too quickly. “As you know, our residents are deaf. Everyone was sleeping.”
“Yes, but you said, ‘we came to our senses.’ Who else was in the room?”
She looked at me, blinking.
“Well, let’s see. Ed was. . . asleep, probably, on the sofa. Joe, bless his heart, lay right there on the floor, and May, Ed’s wife, was standing over them holding a gun. Later, Elmira Young, Joe’s wife, got here after Dr. McVea arrived, in time for Joe’s last breath. So very sad.”
“Was there anyone else?”
Her hesitation left me doubtful.
“N-no. No one else.”
“How did Mrs. Young get here so quickly?”
“Oh, a taxicab was waiting outside. Somehow, May knew that. Maybe Ed or Joe had told her before. . . it happened. She ran outside and sent the driver to pick up Elmira, posthaste. His name is Frank.”
I made a note.
* * *
The previous night. . .
Joe Young struggled to pull Ed Robertson’s dead weight from the cab’s backseat. The friends had been drinking, celebrating the presidential election news of an overwhelming margin in Governor Woodrow Wilson’s favor. Ed had ended up in a drunken stupor, leaving Joe to escort him home.
“Wait for me to get him inside, Frank. I’ll be back,” Joe told the driver.
Frank had been here with these two men more times than he cared to recall. Keeping the meter running, he watched Joe and Ed stumble along the walkway to the portico of the stately building, the Louisiana School for the Deaf and Dumb. They made it through the heavy ornate doors, and Frank leaned back and closed his eyes, waiting for Joe’s return. The next thing he knew, May Robertson, wrapped in a robe with curlers falling from her hair, knocked on his window.
“Frank, help us, please. Go get Elmira Young at her house and bring her here as fast as you can. Joe’s been shot.”
* * *
Mrs. Robertson continued. . .
“Detective Dan, I tried, but I could not shake Ed from his sleeping spell. I ran downstairs and called Dr. McVea. Then I called Elmira. After that, I told Colonel. He was heartbroken, and I worried the shock would send him to his grave.”
“Mrs. Robertson, you said your daughter-in-law was holding a gun?”
“Yes. . . well. . . I’m so sorry. I’m not at liberty to speak for her. You see, as a former attorney, Colonel has advised May not to speak about the. . . situation. Spousal privilege, he said. I’m sure his brother, Conrad, knows all about it. Have you heard of Conrad Robertson? He’s an outstanding attorney in Spokane, Washington, but he lived here in Baton Rouge before going to law school at Georgetown, of course. Colonel telegraphed him early this morning.”
The deliberate mention of her brother-in-law was meant to impress me. I had heard about Frederick Conrad Robertson, Esq. Every legal professional in the state had heard of him. His reputation as a tough litigator for the Western Federation of Miners incarcerated at “The Bull Pen” in Wardner, Idaho had spread throughout his hometown. He had famously argued before Congress that the union workers’ captivity under martial law was unconstitutional and unlawful. He won the case, and President McKinley ordered the end of martial law in the Coeur d’Alene region of Idaho. Robertson had stood bravely, defending the miners against the high-powered money of capitalist mine owners.
I didn’t know Attorney Robertson was Ed’s uncle. What I did know was that the Robertsons were a close-knit family of lawyers, engineers, and politicians. Their influence in state and national politics was highly regarded.
Samuel Matthews Robertson, Ed’s father, had served in the U. S. House of Representatives for twenty years and was living his twilight years as superintendent at the School for the Deaf and Dumb. The well-recognized statesman had no military rank, but “Colonel” was a title of respect given to Southern patriarchs.
Learning Joe’s death involved the Robertson family, I presumed my investigation may dredge up contention. Proceeding with caution among the multiple high-profile actors, I knew this case wouldn’t be easily prosecuted. Evidence I discovered needed to be indisputable.
“Detective Landry, my son is not a murderer. He and Joe have been friends since childhood. Joe has eaten at my dinner table on countless occasions. They worked together at the Department of Agriculture downtown. We are truly heartbroken. I can only imagine the gun went off accidentally.”
Two inebriated men with a loaded gun—what could possibly go wrong? Perhaps it was an accident, or maybe there was more to the story than Mrs. Robertson knew. It was my job to find out.
As we left the room, a flash of color on the floor caught my eye. I reached down and scooped up a pale pink ribbon, slipping it into my coat pocket. If Mrs. Robertson noticed, she didn’t say anything.
Back at the station, the duty officer hunched over the newspaper’s morning edition. Election returns were front of mind for most people. Joe’s death hadn’t made the papers yet.
“Is Ed Robertson still asleep?”
The officer looked up. “Yeah. Want me to wake him?”
“Nah. Let him sleep. We won’t get much out of him until he’s coherent.”
I walked next door to Sheriff Womack’s office, where he waited for my report.
“Sheriff, was it accidental or intentional?”
The sheriff leaned back in his squeeky leather chair. “Is it possible someone besides Ed could have fired the gun?”
“Yeah, it’s possible. We need May Robertson’s statement, but Colonel Robertson advised her not to talk. Her mother-in-law said May was in the room. Holding the gun.”
“It’s a stretch to believe May shot Joe, but not impossible. Ed’s confession was dubious, considering his state of mind, and she’s got spousal privilege. She won’t talk. See if we can find other witnesses who heard something. I’ll get Wally over there to take photographs.”
“Right. He’ll appreciate the chance to use his new Speed Graphic camera.”
We chuckled, thinking about the department’s meticulous photographer.
The sheriff’s face grew solemn. “Dan, the Robertson clan holds a lot of sway around here. I trust you’ll be judicious. The Colonel’s been in poor health for a while, but the burden—the humiliation—may be too much.”
I hadn’t been with Baton Rouge law enforcement for long, but the Robertson’s influence was becoming evident.
“I understand, Sheriff.”
Interviews
My first lead was Frank, the cab driver. We sat on his porch while his wife and young children stayed inside, giving us a little privacy. Turned out Frank knew Joe and Ed well, not only as their favorite cab driver.
“Detective, I’ve seen those two men drunk, and I’ve seen ‘em sober. Sometimes they’d fight like cats and dogs, and other times they’d be jokin’ around like old friends. But I’ll tell you, Ed has . . . a dark streak. I’ve seen it firsthand.
“We were out huntin’ turkey last spring. We got separated, and I eventually found him crouched down beside a tree. His arm was broken. When I reached out to help him, he took a swipe at me, a heavy blow to my face. Knocked me off my feet. Scared me ‘cause it was out of the blue. I didn’t think he was drunk, but we’d been drinkin’. Ed is. . . well, you just never know what kind of mood he’s gonna be in.”
I got the idea alcohol would be a recurring theme for anyone familiar with Ed and Joe. Frank gave me names of establishments the two men were known to frequent.
Henry Pons, long-time bartender at The Downtowner, freely talked to me when I questioned him at the bar.
“I’ve served those boys so many times I don’t even have to ask for their order,” Henry joked. “Always bickering like an old married couple. When they were on the outs, I used to tell ‘em they oughtta get a divorce, so they’d like each other again. They spent a lot of time together. More than most friends do.”
Grace Cody, an Acadiana native, was particularly talkative. I had questioned her before, finding activity at her “resort”—a term used in polite society for a house of ill-fame—useful in other investigations.
“Cher, dey done been comin’ to my house plenty.”
I was sure that fact wouldn’t be well received in court.
“Dey wuz good friends, but sometimes dey got in each udder’s craw. After a big fallin’ out a few months back, Ed tole me dey wuz friends again.”
“Grace, what happened when they had that fallin’ out?”
If anyone knew, she would.
“Now, I wouldn’t want dey wives to know, but Joe come over wid a bottle and slammed it down on Ed’s head. Jealousy, tu sais? Dey been flirtin’ wid da same girl. Ooh, dey wuz spittin’ fire mad.”
Could this have been a motive for murder?
“Ed come over da next week axin’ me to call Joe, but I wouldn’t do it. Say he wanted to pay Joe back fo’ what he done. Mais, dat man’s a couyon.”
I nodded. She had seen Ed’s dark side.
“Detective, my girls, dey don’t usually share pillow talk, but one story wuz tole to me. Ed’s daddy wuz in Congress for plenty years. Colonel had filled da office when his daddy had died. Ed even had da same name as his pépère, Edward White Robertson. He had it in his head to run for Congress, like it wuz his birthright or somethin’. But Joe, who worked wid him inspectin’ fertilizer, had tole him, ‘Ed, you ain’t never gonna be no politician, dere’s too much wrong wid you. You jist a cow you-know-what expert like me. Dat’s all you ever gonna be.’ Joe’s insult, dat really hurt Ed.”
Jealousy, insults, and intoxication. Motives for murder?
The prosecution needed Grace’s testimony to prove Ed and Joe had been at odds with each other, but their behavior being aired in public would bring shame to the families. The two men were not the upstanding gentlemen one would associate with their family names. Elmira and May were probably aware of that.
The manager of the Istrouma Hotel told me he knew Joe and Ed were friends. They had even shared a room overnight at his hotel, which seemed odd. I made a note to find out if their wives knew.
Alone in my office, I took the pink ribbon from my coat pocket. It was a girl’s hair ribbon with a single blonde strand caught in the knot. Could one of the residents have seen the shooting?
As I contemplated how to question deaf students, Mrs. Robertson knocked on my office door. I slipped the ribbon into my desk drawer, then stood as we exchanged greetings.
Trembling through her coat and gloves, she sat in the chair opposite my desk.
“I’ve tried to keep Ed’s medical condition private. Some of it is his own doing, and we’ve tried to help him. It’s complicated, but I believe this information can help explain his behavior. As a boy, he suffered a very serious bout of typhoid fever that landed him in the sanitarium for nine weeks. And . . . then . . .well. Have you ever heard of the Keeley Cure?”
“I’ve heard of it, yes. For alcoholism, right?”
“That’s right. Colonel and I desperately wanted to help our son with his drinking problem. We heard about the Keeley Cure and sent off for the liquid tincture we could administer at home. Admitting him into the institute in Illinois would have been humiliating.”
She shuddered, and I wondered if she would have felt shame more than her son.
“The treatment was supposed to last four weeks, but after two, we were distraught by changes in Ed’s personality. We were advised to stop using it, which we did, but Ed continued having spells—somnolence, angry outbursts, seizures—and unfortunately, he went back to the bottle. We thought Joe could be a positive influence and help Ed, but now we know he wasn’t. Joe couldn’t even keep himself from drinking.
“The night of the. . . incident, when I went into his room, Ed stood there like a statue, staring at the ceiling. I yelled at him, but he wouldn’t snap out of it.”
I didn’t remind her she had told me her son was asleep on the sofa when she entered the room.
“It pains me to say—my son has not been in his right mind.”
A temporary insanity plea, I suspected. Did Conrad Robertson come up with this defense strategy?
I wanted to know exactly what happened in Ed Robertson’s room that night. What did Ed’s wife see? Did Ed, or someone else, fire the shot? Was it accidental or intentional? And to whom did the pink ribbon belong?
May’s testimony would reveal the truth, but she was prohibited from testifying.
A Hidden Door
The following morning, Wally brought the crime scene photographs to my office.
Thumbing through them, I stopped on an image of a door.
“What’s this?”
“Entrance to the passageway.”
“What passageway?” I racked my brain trying to recall a door leading to a passageway. Had I missed something?
“The door is on the right as you come out of Ed’s suite. It was open, so I thought it might be significant. It’s tucked into an alcove so you wouldn’t notice the door as you’re coming up the stairs.”
He was trying to make me feel better about missing a detail.
“Where did the passage lead?”
“To the hallway outside the students’ rooms. One room shares a wall with Ed’s suite. I know the students are deaf, but could they have felt vibrations?”
“Maybe. Thanks, Wally. I needed this. I’m gonna find a way to question the students.”
The Trial
Six weeks after Joe’s death, the murder trial began in Baton Rouge District Court, one of the most sensational cases we’ve ever had. Throughout the state, people clamored to know if a jury would convict the ex-Congressman’s son for murdering the ex-sheriff’s son.
The prosecutor, District Attorney Charles A. Holcombe, endeavored to prove Ed’s intent to kill Joe, drunk or not.
The defense, attempting to prove temporary insanity and get the sympathy of the jurors, were three of the country’s finest attorneys—State Senator Lindsey Beale, former State and U. S. Congressman George K. Favrot, and Conrad Robertson, a Baton Rouge native and uncle of the accused, all the way from Spokane, Washington.
The witnesses I had interviewed repeated their testimonies, revealing Ed’s volatile nature and blackout spells. As I had expected, Grace Cody’s statement sent ripples of disgust through the courtroom, but Georgia Robertson and her daughter-in-law, May, held their heads high, showing no emotion as the family reputation was dragged through the mud.
A Robertson relative, Mrs. Lee Harris, testified that mental afflictions “ran in the family,” even to the point of one kinsman committing suicide.
Dr. O’Hara, from New Orleans, explained the effects of alcohol on epileptics and the effect of alcoholic poisoning on the mind.
Elmira’s tearful testimony was particularly effective and heartbreaking. “If it was accidental, why didn’t anyone tell me? No one ever said it was an accident. When I asked him, Ed just stood there, not saying anything. Wouldn’t someone tell me if the gun went off by mistake?”
Spectators were not allowed to hear the final testimony for the defense. As reported later, the court convened in Colonel Robertson’s bedroom at the School for the Deaf. Deputy Sheriff Hopkins, Colonel’s hunting buddy, led the group around the bed. Colonel recognized him and said, “Well, Ol’ Hop, no more hunting for me.” The deputy smiled warmly.
Afflicted with Bright’s Disease and having had one leg amputated, Colonel’s health and failing kidneys continued to decline.
The court, with twelve jury members, listened to the former Congressman’s sworn testimony that Joe and Ed were bosom buddies, best friends for life. In his feeble voice, he said he found it impossible to consider his son intended to kill Joe.
That evening, the case was given to the jury. After a grueling deliberation of forty-one hours, they were hopelessly deadlocked—four for acquittal, six for manslaughter, and two for murder.
A hung jury. No acquittal. Ed would remain in prison awaiting the next trial.
December 23, 1912
Louisiana School for the Deaf
Mrs. Robertson leaned on the edge of her husband’s bed, listening to Conrad give him the verdict. The gray-haired couple held hands while shedding soft tears.
Colonel’s strained voice and trembling hands gave away his distress. “I expected the jury to acquit. Georgie, I thought. . .”
“I know, Samuel. I know.” She wiped tears from her eyes.
His hands felt cold.
“Georgie, you must stay strong. Conrad, will you continue to represent my son? He needs a firm advocate.”
“I will, Samuel. Don’t you worry. We’ll get Mac Barrow on the team. Our nephew is an excellent litigator.”
Colonel closed his eyes, thinking. When he opened them, his blue eyes had turned dark and vacant.
“All my life, the citizens of this state have been good to me. I’m grateful for that.”
He closed his eyes again. His heart rate slowed. Dr. McVea was called.
Samuel Matthews Robertson died the next day, Christmas Eve 1912.
Colonel Robertson
I don’t ever remember a more solemn holiday in Baton Rouge. Watching a prominent pillar of the community go down so quickly after his son’s trial broke the hearts of family and friends, of which there were many. The dignified funeral at the Episcopal Church, with simple but elegant Christmas decorations, befitted his memory.
Colonel Robertson had dedicated his life to public service as an attorney, a state and national Congressman, and a department head at Louisiana State University. When he was appointed school superintendent, he formally changed the name to Louisiana School for the Deaf, dropping the “and Dumb” at the end.
Earlier in the year, historic flooding had soaked the Lower Mississippi Valley. Colonel Robertson had generously opened the school’s doors, providing spacious rooms and halls to homeless flood victims. He was known as a man who worked for the people, and in the end, he had accumulated nothing.
On the day of the funeral, another school superintendent was appointed. Mrs. Robertson, allowed to stay temporarily in the living quarters, got her affairs in order. May had already left to live with her mother.
Georgia Robertson called me before moving out of the school.
“Detective Landry, do you want to inspect Ed’s room again before I leave? Maybe there’s evidence that will exonerate him.”
I went, knowing the room had been cleaned. If there was more evidence, it had been destroyed. But there was more I wanted to know. There had to be more to the story.
“Mrs. Robertson, has May said anything since the trial? Maybe a detail we missed?”
“No. But there was something I said to Ed I can’t stop thinking about. When I got to the room and saw the condition of everything, I told Ed, ‘You’ve killed your father.’ I don’t know what made me say that right then. He asked me, ‘Is he dead?’ I wasn’t surprised the Colonel didn’t survive the tragedy; his heart was so fragile. But Ed never showed remorse for doing this to his father. My family has fallen apart, Detective. Years ago, we lost another son at a very young age. What did I do to deserve this?” She lowered her head and closed her eyes. “I believe the shooting was an accident, and Ed was truly out of his mind. He would never have done something like that on purpose.”
I pulled the pink ribbon from my pocket.
“Mrs. Robertson, I believe someone else may have seen what happened that night.”
She gasped, recognizing the piece of satin in my hand.
“That looks like a ribbon belonging to one of our girls, Annalea. Where did you get it?”
“I picked it up from the floor of Ed’s suite as I was leaving. Could one of your charges, Annalea possibly, have seen what happened?”
“Will that information help my son?”
“I’m not sure, but it will be helpful to know the truth.”
After Christmas break, Mrs. Robertson arranged to have an interpreter and the four girls who shared the room adjacent to Ed’s suite meet with me. I dressed more casually than usual and left my side arm at home, not wanting to frighten the children. The girls, eleven- and twelve-year-olds, stood to greet me. I recognized Annalea at once, her long blond hair in a ponytail with one pink ribbon identical to the one I had picked up from the floor.
I knew right away her testimony wouldn’t be allowed in court. Trying to communicate with the jurors would be frustrating for everyone. Her testimony wouldn’t be trusted. Because of her hearing impairment, the jury would consider her mentally incompetent.
The Second Trial
The second trial, held the following February, had the same attorney lineup, with one notable exception. Assistant Attorney General W. M. Barrow, Ed’s first cousin, replaced George K. Favrot who had recused himself after starting a romantic relationship with Elmira, Joe’s widow.
The testimonies were essentially the same, but Max Miller, assistant investigator, added a new statement. During questioning, Ed had told him, “It must have been serious, all I took off him.”
Still not a confession, in my mind.
Conrad called his sister-in-law to the witness stand.
“Georgia, Mrs. Robertson, after hearing the gunfire, you went upstairs.”
“Yes.”
“As you hurried to the bedroom, did you pass your daughter-in-law in the hallway?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear her say Joe wanted to remain in the room with Ed because Ed was out of his head?”
“Yes.”
“Objection, your honor.” The DA interjected. “Defense is attempting indirectly to present the defendant’s wife’s testimony, which is clearly in violation of the spousal privilege law.”
“Objection sustained. Jury will disregard the question and response.”
But it was too late. The jury heard the answer. Ed had been “out of his head.”
The next day, Conrad took another chance. He called May to the witness stand. After she was sworn in and seated, he asked one question.
“May, were you in the bedroom when the tragedy occurred?”
“Yes.”
“Objection, your honor. Again, the defense has violated the spousal privilege law.”
“Objection sustained. The jury will disregard the question and answer.”
Now the jury had heard Ed’s wife was in the room when Joe was shot. Was that enough for reasonable doubt?
After eighteen hours of deliberations, the twelve-member jury came back with a verdict. “We, the jury, find the defendant, Edward White Robertson, guilty of manslaughter with extreme mercy.”
Georgia Robertson, frail but resolute, stood by her son, putting her hand on his shoulder. May placed her hand on his other shoulder.
The judge sentenced Ed to ten years in the state penitentiary at Angola. The women remained unpredictably stoic, hearing a Robertson would be incarcerated at one of the most notorious prisons in the country.
Two years later, Governor Luther E. Hall signed parole papers for Ed Robertson on the condition he leave Louisiana and make his future home in Washington under the supervision of his uncle, Conrad Robertson.
On the morning of February 20th, 1915, Ed and May Robertson stood on the train platform waiting for the next train to Spokane, Washington. They never returned to Louisiana.
1938
When the doorbell rang, setting off the flashing house lights, my wife greeted Wally at the door and showed him into our den.
“Hello, old friend.” Wally walked with a cane now.
“Who’re you calling old?” We laughed as he fell into his usual chair.
My wife tells us we’re not very good at being retired. I can’t get detective work out of my system. It’s who I am. The same is true for forensic photographers. Wally and I still get together for coffee once a week. There’s always plenty to talk about.
The Robertson crime had been my first big case. I learned from that investigation, especially considering I had been a little “wet behind the ears.” Across the state, people had read the trial proceedings reported in city newspapers—from New Orleans, Shreveport, Monroe, and Baton Rouge.
“Dan, I got a phone call from an acquaintance in Washington state. I’ve mentioned him to you before. John Hazen. He’s a mortician in Spokane. Owns a funeral home there. We’ve known each other for years.”
I had only one connection to Spokane. “News about the Robertsons?”
“Yeah. Ed Robertson passed away a few days ago. He had been working as a salesman. John said Ed’s wife, May, mentioned they had come from Baton Rouge. He had all he needed for the death certificate, but she told a tale that made him curious. He wanted to confirm it with me since he knows I was once a forensic photographer here.”
“Well, you’ve got this old detective curious now. What’d she say?”
Tuesday, November 5, 1912
Louisiana School for the Deaf
The pounding of heavy, lopsided footsteps on the stairs told May all she needed to know. Ed was drunk. Again. Promising herself—like she did last time and the time before—this one would be the last. She waited on the bed to see if his friend, Joe, was drunk, too.
The apartment door flew open. In the large room, a combined bedroom and sitting room, May sat up in bed, wearing curlers and a disapproving scowl. Overcome with disgust, May slammed her fists into the pillow. “When will this stop!” she cried.
In his drunken stupor, Ed leaned on his friend’s shoulder while they stumbled to the sofa.
“Now, May. Don’t be mad,” Joe pleaded. “We had to drink a toast to the next president, Woodrow Wilson. Did you hear?”
“Yes, I heard. For cryin’ out loud, Joe, I trusted you to keep Ed sober. You wanna watch him drink himself to death? Is that it? You want him dead?”
“Naw, May. We were having a good time. No harm done. See? I got him home safe and sound.”
She crossed her arms and shook her head. “Now I gotta nurse him back to sober. I swear, I don’t know how many more times I can do this.”
“I’ll stay with him, May. You go back to sleep.”
“No, Joe. You better get on home. Elmira must be worried sick about you.”
They looked at Ed passed out on the sofa.
“He’ll be okay, May. Just let him sleep it off.”
Joe had never seen May look so dejected.
“Well, the cabbie’s waiting for me outside.” Joe ambled over to May. Leaning across the bed, he took her hand in a friendly, compassionate gesture.
Joe and May flinched when they heard Ed’s voice.
“Whaddya think you’re. . . doin’? Shunofa. . .” Barely understandable words slurred from his lips. “Get. . . get yer hands. . . OFF. . . off my wife!”
Fumbling, Ed pulled a handgun from the end table.
Joe released May’s hand. As Ed brandished the pistol in the air, Joe edged closer to him.
“Stop, Ed. Put the gun down, Buddy.”
“Whaddya doin’ with my wife. . . damn fool. . .”
“Nothing, Ed. I was just fixin’ to leave.”
May reached out to her husband. “Put the gun away, dear. Everything’s okay.”
Ed shoved May away, raised the gun, and fired directly into Joe’s chest.
The recoil knocked Ed backward onto the sofa. May grabbed the gun. Joe collapsed on the floor, pressing his hand against his blood-soaked shirt.
A guttural cry came from the open door. May was stunned to see Annalea, one of the deaf students, wide-eyed and mouth agape, gripping the door jamb.
“It’s okay, Annalea. It’s okay.” May spoke so the twelve-year-old could read her lips.
Annalea gasped and disappeared down the small passageway toward her bedroom.
Sliding from the sofa, Ed knelt beside his friend.
“What’ve I done? God. . . what’ve I done? Stay with us, Joe. . . Please. . . Stay.”
Mrs. Robertson rushed into the room.
“What happened? Oh God. Joe? Ed, what have you done? May?”
Ed could not remember what had happened.
* * *
Wally and I sat in silence, reliving the tragic event.
“May told John the only good that came out of it was Ed stopped drinking. I imagine prohibition helped with that, too.” Wally sighed. “I don’t think it would have turned out differently if Miss Annalea had been allowed to testify. Probably saved her a lot of unnecessary stress.”
My wife walked into the den with a tray of coffee. I motioned for her to sit next to me. Using a combination of lip reading, oral, and manual communication we had refined over years of marriage, I retold Wally’s story to my wife, Annalea.
“Ed Robertson passed away in Spokane. His wife, May, told the funeral director about Ed killing Joe. Hun, she was concerned about you.” I touched her delicate hands.
“Dan, John told me something else May said.” Wally spoke directly toward Annalea so she could read his lips. “May told Colonel Robertson everything—the two men coming in drunk, Joe holding her hand, Ed being out of his mind, and you, Annalea, seeing the shooting before running back to your room. The Colonel made you both promise to keep it to yourselves. He said it would hurt Ed’s chances of being acquitted of the murder charge. You and May did what you were told out of respect for the Colonel.”
Annalea had kept her promise of silence until we were married years later.
“Colonel and Mrs. Robertson wanted to protect their son—their only living heir—and the family reputation. There was clearly something wrong with Ed, but they didn’t know how to help him. Admitting something was wrong with him would have been humiliating for the family.”
Annalea signed and spoke in her muted voice, “I don’t blame Colonel Robertson for defending Ed. I would have done the same. If you could, wouldn’t you use your power and influence to keep your son—someone you love unconditionally—out of Angola Prison?”
It wasn’t the first time a father had used his influence to protect his son, and it wouldn’t be the last.
Wally had more news. “Well, it looks like the Robertson clan is gonna need to flex their influential muscles again. I hear a nephew mailed a letter threatening Senator Long. He’s in custody now.”
A chill stirred my senses. “Mrs. Harris warned us.”
“Who?”
“The family member who testified at Ed’s first trial, Mrs. Lee Harris. She told us mental illness ran in the family.”
THE END
