Chapter Three

A Question From the Man
in the Last Row

The past, present and future of crime did not present himself immediately.

It wasn’t until Professor Pickens had nearly finished his lecture that he saw the large, unkempt man sitting in the last row of the amphitheater.

He was not alarmed at first.

His course about the history of Detroit was popular with students, which was why he was standing at a lectern looking at his notes in front of a hundred young people. He also posted his class schedule and the topics covered online, and a lot of older history buffs showed up for their favorite subjects – auto company retirees, over-the-hill dream cruise hot rodders, grey-haired history geeks. These old timers never registered for the class, let alone paid for it, but they often snuck in quietly and sat in the back to hear what he had to say.

This guy was different.

For starters, he was wearing a wrinkled tan raincoat on a warm, sunny autumn day. His hair was impossibly black and spread across his head in all directions. His eyes were the last straw – gleaming, intense, with an unwavering focus on the professor. You heard about these things but you never thought it would happen to you – a mad gunman loose in your classroom.

Pickens told himself to calm down and continue.

“Today’s lecture was a bit of a sidebar,” he said. “But, as I told you earlier, it’s one of my favorite topics. I hope you liked it, too.”

Loud, enthusiastic applause filled the auditorium.

“We’ll get back on our chronological track next week, talking about a really incredible time in our city,” Pickens said. “One hundred years ago Detroit was the Silicon Valley of its time. Hundreds of startups, thousands of investors. Money and people pouring in, everyone looking to get rich from the advanced technology that was revolutionizing the world, in this case the automobile.”

The mad gunman remained in his seat, so Pickens kept going.

“We’ve spent the past few weeks looking at how the city got to that point, some would say the pinnacle of its success. In our next class we’ll finish up the Roaring Twenties, and start to explore how we got to where we are. Read chapters five and six, and we’ll see you next week.”

Pickens felt some relief as the students slowly shuffled out of the room – at least it wouldn’t be a mass shooting. He shook his head in disgust at his wild imagination and dark sense of humor – not that he didn’t have cause for concern – and busied himself putting his lecture notes back into his briefcase. When he looked up the last students were filing out the doors at the back and the mad gunman was coming down the center aisle toward him.

“You’re Professor Pickens, right?” the madman called out.

The man’s right hand was stuffed into his raincoat pocket, the arm tight against his side. He was wearing a white dress shirt and a red tie but it looked like he had slept in them. Pickens found himself unable to speak, but as the man reached the lectern he was able to nod.

“You look like a professor,” the man said.

The man looked strange and sinister, but when he smiled he seemed friendly enough.

Pickens managed to find his voice.

“I’m not sure exactly what you mean by that,” he said. “But since I am a professor I will take it as a compliment.”

“Overdue for a haircut, out-of-style sport coat worn with blue jeans and no tie, round glasses, walrus mustache – total professor package” the man said. “You’re the guy who wrote a book about gangs in Detroit in the old days, right?”

“Yes, I’m the guy. I’ve written several books about the history of Detroit, you can find them in the Student Bookstore. I’d be happy to sign one for you.”

“Thanks, professor, but I’m not looking to buy a book. I need information about gangs, that’s why I came to your lecture today. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“What do you want to know, mister…?”

“No mister, just Murphy. What can you tell me about the Black Legion?”

“Well, just Murphy, as I said in my lecture, the Black Legion was a white supremacist militia group that operated in the Midwest in the 1930s. They had a big chapter in Detroit, killed more than 50 people until the law finally caught up to them. You can read all this online or buy my book if you’re interested. So why go to all the trouble of crashing my lecture?”

“Because I need an expert. I’m not writing a term paper, professor, I’m a private detective who is trying to solve a crime that happened almost ninety years ago. I need to know everything you know about the murder of Solomon Jacob.”

“A random hate crime, took place near Pinckney. They finally figured out who did it in 1936, three years after it happened. Someone on trial for another murder gave up his friends to the police to get his charges reduced. Several members of the Black Legion went to prison for it. There’s nothing to solve.”

“My client’s grandfather was with Solomon Jacob on the night he was murdered. He was never seen again. His wife was expecting their first child, so the police just dismissed it as a runaway father situation. My client is convinced that’s not true. It’s bothered him for years, he wants some closure.”

“I’d like to help, but I don’t have anything more to add. That’s all I know about Solomon Jacob’s murder. I spent years doing the research, that’s all anyone knows.”

“What if I told you I’ve discovered there’s more to the story.”

“You would have my attention.”

“I’ve been looking into this cold case for a little while now. Didn’t expect to find much at first, and I didn’t. Then I stumbled onto some information that made things a lot more interesting.”

“What kind of information?”

“The kind that might solve a ninety-year-old murder.”

“That’s exciting.”

“It is, but that’s not all I found out. Like I said, there’s more to the story. It’s the part I was really hoping you could help me with.”

“What more is there?”

“There’s something else connected to the murder of Solomon Jacob, an object of some sort. I can’t tell you what it is exactly, because I don’t know. What I do know is that it is very valuable and that people are still looking for it.”

“Who’s looking for it?”

“I’ll get to that in a minute.”

The detective winced and pushed his arm more tightly against his side.

“You all right?”

“I’m fine. You know a lot about the Purple Gang, right?”

“You heard my lecture. Detroit gang. Primarily Jewish. Ran whiskey from Canada during prohibition. Tough bunch. Yet another criminal group you can read about in my book.”

“Like I said, I’m not writing a term paper. I need to know any stuff that’s not in the book, things you couldn’t confirm or that didn’t fit. You may even have to go find more.”

“I know the Purple Gang aren’t the ones looking for whatever it is you are after. They were busted up by the mid-1930s, most of them dead or in jail.”

“They’re not looking for it, but they were involved with it somehow. That’s what I need you to find out.”

“So who is looking for it?”

The detective paused and looked around the empty amphitheater before he replied.

“The Black Legion.”

It was an acoustically perfect room, the professor’s laugh rang true throughout it.

“I’m sorry, but the Black Legion was also busted up by the mid-1930s. They killed an organizer for the federal Works Progress Administration – that’s the trial I mentioned. That was the beginning of the end for them.”

“Well, professor, apparently not everybody got the memo about being busted up. There’s a new generation of them out there, I talked to one of them in a bar in Pinckney a few days ago. He was a punk kid but he had the hate part down pretty good. He’s the one who told me about the Purple Gang and the missing artifact. Whatever it is they are looking for, they seem to think it will help pay for all the nasty projects they’re planning. I’d like to get it before they do, take a little wind out of their sails.”

“Why don’t you go to the police or the FBI?”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret, professor – I’m an ex-cop. I’ve told some people I know about what’s going on, but the wheels of justice grind slowly. The police and the FBI are a little fussy about a thing called evidence.”

“What about the kid in the bar?”

“They believe his story about the new Black Legion, they’ve actually been keeping an eye on them for a while now.”

“And they’re not doing anything about them?”

“They think they’re just a bunch of harmless good old boys who like to talk shit and shoot guns.”

“What about the missing treasure, or whatever it is?”

“They think the kid was pulling an old man’s leg in a bar to get free drinks.”

“So what’s next?”

“I don’t have time to wait for the cops or the FBI, they can catch up later, after we’ve solved this. Won’t be the first time that’s happened.”

“If I did say yes,...