Death at the Midland

W.S. Wheeler fidgets uncomfortably in his rickety wooden swivel stool. I sit up a little straighter dreading the words that mean I’m now a widowed mother. Flies are buzzing everywhere in this cramped office in Kansas City, Missouri. It’s a hot and humid day. August 23, 1895. I can feel the beads of sweat running down the back of this tightly formal dress. Wheeler darts his eyes nervously around the room, waves away some of the insects and scratches at his overgrown, scruffy mustache before continuing with our difficult and painful conversation.
“Mrs. Walker, are you aware of any motive that your husband would have had to want to commit this sin?” I feel my face heating up. His distinct words “this sin” remind me of the humiliation I am about to endure. The Kansas City Star will definitely have their way with this news, meaning the entire town will be calling our home for the gory details in no time at all. Speaking softly, I quickly try to make Mr. Wheeler feel at ease with me. “My given name is Mary, or Mollie”, I offer.
Mr. Wheeler opens his watery eyes a little wider, pushes his spectacles further up his nose and clears his throat loudly, as if I had not spoken at all. W.S. Wheeler is the deputy coroner assigned to this case. He is a middle-aged man, I estimate about 50 years old. His posture resembles that of an ape, with upright shoulders and a hunched neck. The little hair he does have on his scalp is white and matted in dandruff. The rest of his missing hair seems to have gone to his mustache which is grown to the point where it muffles his voice. Here right in front of me is the man assigned to my husband’s death.
To be more explicit, I acknowledge I must describe his death as a suicide. My husband, James William Walker, or J.W. as he liked to be called,  is, was … only 38 years old, yet the scattered gray hairs filling his mutton-chop beard might say otherwise. In fact, many folks at home tell me how much has aged in the past few years, these terrible years since the Panic of 1893 triggered a shock to these parts. But as for me, even though I knew better, I had begun to assume he was born with those lines and wrinkles caressing his smiling face.
My four children and all the good people of the 1st Presbyterian Church in St. Joseph, Missouri will be devastated. It’s tragic enough that he’s dead before the age of 40, but it is even worse that he’s apparently chosen to inflict this on himself. I force myself to return to the present. This man needed information from me, and I from him. I began to explain, trying to keep the tears from choking my words:
“No, no, no - - I don’t reckon so. My James was always a healthy and happy man. He had a loving family and much to give thanks for in his life, including our children, who need a father. Sure, we’ve had our troubles like everyone else in these economic times. James, his father Henry and his brother Samuel ran a bank together in Indian country … Beloit, Kansas. Nobody could believe they managed to do so well with all the uprisings in that region. But then the first Panic hit. In that  Panic of 1873, our bank failed and James’ family shut down the enterprise. James was just a boy really -- only been married to him a few months. I was just a girl. We had to move right back east to St. Joe and start livin’ with kin. For six long years that crisis took its toll on us all, but James and I made it through, starting a family and building a brand new business. Have you ever heard of Walker & Steele?
I note the almost pleading sound in my voice. I want to paint a picture of my husband that this man will remember.  As the flies drone on tin the background, I see that Wheeler is shrugging indifferently. I catch my breath to go on, brushing a fly off my petticoat. Wheeler will be the doctor who speaks to reporters. He needs to understand what happened, but he’s not making this any easier on me I resolve to continue my tale.
“Walker & Steele was the finest trading post west of the Mississippi for almost two decades. That store turned a tidy profit. It was one of the very few trading posts selling top quality supplies to men heading west to find their fortune. You remember that was when the railroads started expanding, don’t you? Tracks were being laid clear across the country, coast to coast. You can bet that men in the know, like my husband, knew how to turn a tidy penny helping that expansion. Lord, it seemed like nothing could go wrong for a while!
“Then President Cleveland got elected. First thing that poor man had to deal with was the railroad bankruptcy – you remember the Philadelphia and Reading Railroad trouble, right? Those New York finance men sure pulled one over on the rest of us with their crazy bond schemes. They promised riches from betting on railroads and silver. Then the silver mines began to fail – just too many of them to survive, what with the President’s Sherman Silver Act. God bless Cleveland, which man thought he could reign in the speculators. But it did just the opposite. The people panicked, went on a run on the banks -- and next thing we knew those banks turned around and called in our debts on Walker & Steele. That was the end of it.” I take a massive breath and looked up at Wheeler.   
Wheeler blinks slowly and responds laconically. “So he had good cause, you’re a sayin’?” I interject emphatically, as if I can make a difference in this man’s opinion of my James. “No sir. Even though they tell us 15,000 businesses have closed their doors in this Panic, my James had invested in a coal mine down in Oklahoma, using the last of a little chunk of money his ma left him. Who would of believed it? But the mine was doing well. It seemed like we might of reached the end of our struggles again, sir. Why, James had even been asked to serve as the Democratic delegate for the state of Missouri in the upcoming Presidential election. Can you imagine it? Some folks up in St. Joe even passed rumors James would be nominated by the Governor for another high-ranking post in Missouri.”
Wheeler recovers a faded, torn sheet of paper from his coat pocket and scribbles my response down messily. He nods nonchalantly to himself, as if it takes great effort to focus on my story.
Outside in the dirt street, a carriage rolls by, raising a cloud of dust that begins to seep in the open window and deepening my discomfort. I feel faint in this long-sleeved black dress and yet proceed to relay background. “James returned from his mine in Oklahoma earlier this week with Henry, our oldest son. The boy is only twelve years old, for Heaven’s sake. He will be devastated by this news!  Anyway, James sent Henry on home with the family wagon, while he checked into The Midland. James always stayed at the Midland on account of it being right downtown and having a good dining room. He called me on the telephone to say he would be home last night. When he didn’t’ come on home himself, I became uneasy. I called several times to the hotel, but the staff couldn’t tell me anything about his whereabouts.  He did nothing to arouse my suspicions, other than sending Henry on home to us. But I reckon that was to spare Henry the pain of finding his pa dead. The more I thought about it, the more worried I became. I never could go more than a day without hearing from my husband. He was always so good about keepin’ in touch on the road.”
Wheeler is practically panting at the stifling heat in the room and now breaks pressing for more information. “How was his health, Mrs. Walker? Please be more specific with me. Is there a chance he knew something was wrong? You must know that the detectives have already discovered that he has taken out several very large insurance policies over the last few months. ”
I gasp and find no words. My mind is spinning. Was James ill? Did he plan on taking his life for months? If so, had I been so blind that I couldn’t see anything wrong? What would have given him cause to do this?  I try hard to gather my thoughts, but my tears begin to flow now. I gulp and pull out my handkerchief and wipe my face, tears blending with the sweat and face powder. “I don’t know anything about the money, Mr. Wheeler. Nothing at all. James always enjoyed the best of health and I am truly at a loss as to why he might have done this. Please go head now and tell me what happened. Go ahead, please. I’ve been kept away from all details. I believe can handle whatever you’ve got to tell me.”
This time, the coroner narrows his beady eyes and nods with the tiniest bit of compassion, then dives right into the gruesome story. Wheeler’s words smack me in the face and force me to confront reality. The details shake me to the core. Growing up with no father made my mother feel the impulse to protect her little Mollie from the real world. Whether it be my dog’s death, or a misplaced hair comb, mama filled the empty void through her simple stories from the Bible and her cooking. I’ve never had to deal with anything unpleasant. Maybe I let James down somehow. Maybe he felt as if he had nobody to share his burdens.

Like a man who has seen it all before, Wheeler begins to speak, painting me a picture of the events as they unfolded. “It is 10:00 am on Saturday when James checks into the Midland. Instead of conversing with any staff as he oftentimes does, James goes directly to his hotel room. After hours of silence and failing to turn up for his usual large dinner, bellmen are sent to check on him. They ring the doorbell of his hotel suite. After getting no answer, the men begin to talk … and worry.  After several more attempts to converse with him, police are called to the premises. They break down his door. What they find inside is an unfathomable tragedy, Mrs. Walker. Your husband
is found lying sideways in the hotel bathtub. An empty bottle of carbolic acid lies by his feet. Carbolic acid is easy to obtain and often used as a disinfectant by surgeons, you may know. This liquid solution is the last resort for thousands of jobless and ruined bankers, farmers and businessmen looking for a way out.
I cry out to Wheeler, “but what a horrible way to die! Why would James have done this?” Wheeler responds dryly, as if my interruption was a great offense. “Indeed, Mrs. Walker. But the tale grows even more grim. Carbolic acid alone causes vomiting, headaches and violently painful symptoms, including a burning of the mouth and a wrenching of the stomach. Eventually, after hours of pain, the acid paralyzes the heart muscles and forces a choking and miserable death on the victims. Your husband may have decided not to wait for these symptoms to take full effect. While his lips were a dark shade of purple that convinces me he was going to die from the acid, Mr. Walker took further actions. We discovered, in his right hand, a 36-caliber revolver, which he had used to ensure his demise, probably because the unbearable pain of the carbolic acid was too intense. Mrs. Walker, I am terribly sorry for the pain this must be causing you and your family.”
I feel myself swoon. His words fade away. My head falls to the table. I think I allow a moan to escape but cannot be sure. The image of what has occurred will never leave me, I know. I frantically imagine what I can possibly tell our children. It will have to be covered up. I will go to my grave keeping this shameful secret from them all. They must be allowed to grow up without this legacy, to raise ambitious children of their own, safeguarding generations to come. I take a breath and rise slowly. I know what I will do. I need to get home immediately and protect my children. They will never know if I can help it.

********

Molly sits in the town library on a sunny August afternoon, killing time until she’s picked up to go to the local beach with friends. Recently Molly has become fascinated by the newspaper archives on the second floor. Flipping through the index, she decides to do a search on her own last name -- Walker. Her fingers type the keyboard, flashing through screens rapidly. Something catches her eye. She pauses, leans in and begins to read …