A Fever in the Heartland, page 17
The nutrition act was where Madge Oberholtzer could help. She showed up at Stephenson’s office, a little nervous. His Klan had aggressively shamed people Madge knew. The price of doing business with him, at this point, involved a certain amount of looking away, or willful ignorance.
Ushered inside, Madge faced the Grand Dragon in his swivel chair, dressed in his customary serge suit, with that bust of Napoleon on a stand, the eight telephones lining his desk. A large American flag hung on the wall behind him. Steve was fast-talking, full of himself, but also a fount of well-aimed compliments. She made the case for saving her job. He wrote down a few details. Her little department was nothing in the big ship of state government that he controlled. Perhaps he could make some calls, it wouldn’t take much. Steve said “he would use his influence to kill the bill,” as Madge recalled. But no guarantee, no promise.
He liked Madge—that’s what he told her for the second time. Had his eye on her from the moment they met at the governor’s ball. Perhaps she could do something for him. Madge was familiar with the style and format of schoolbooks. What if she ghostwrote a textbook for Steve on proper diet? Once the mandatory nutrition bill passed, every school would need a standard book, in this case one owned by him. It would be another income stream, perennial, for the Grand Dragon.
He had another favor to ask: dinner. When? Tonight, at his regular table at the Washington. Steve had just set up a new operation at his favorite hotel, run by the two Earls who never left his side—Klinck and Gentry. They were directing the “vice cleanup” squads of the city police, overseen by the rapist and raging alcoholic D. C. Stephenson. He moved quickly when he wanted something, and Madge was a bit taken aback by the suddenness of things between them. Maybe later, she said. It was a small act of resistance in her moment of need.
* * *
—
Over the first two months of 1925, Madge gave up her hesitation and met Steve on several occasions. She controlled the play: she would go along with his flirting and the flaunting of his power to save her job and then forget this awful man, as he would surely forget her. She’d recently had her long dark hair cut into a short bob—a style of independent women of the twenties, and for Madge another way of saying she could take care of herself.
Stephenson picked her up, curbside, at the family home in his Cadillac one winter evening and drove to the Washington for dinner. After that, he called her repeatedly. He had pushed his nutrition bill close to the finish line and was finalizing plans to write the textbook. But he had yet to deliver on her request to him. Holding out was his leverage.
Madge sensed some menace, something off about Stephenson. His refinements were showy and forced: the flowers, the parties, the fine clothes, the words pulled from the famous to give him heft. God, he was a twitchy fellow, his hands shaky and the nails bitten. And why were the shades in his office, like those in his home, always tightly drawn? When the big bang of a backfiring car in the streets below reached his office, he would duck on impulse, cowering beneath his statue of Napoleon, as if expecting to be hit by a fusillade of bullets. He frequently fondled his gun. His face had become florid and puffy, and he had bags under his small eyes—deep concern for a man with a hyperinflated sense of vanity. He’d gained a fair amount of weight since arriving in Indianapolis. His hair was starting to thin as well. It was rare for any conversation to pass without Steve’s dropping examples of his domination, the snap-into-action at the end of his commands—the mark of an insecure man.
Madge could detect a load of crap when she heard it from men with a surfeit of swagger, especially crap layered with charm. She wasn’t sure what to make of this guy. Steve’s stories always changed slightly in the retelling, in detail and place. Also, he often started drinking early in the day. His top aides were foul-mouthed and rough-edged, and guns were always on display. But after going to one of the parties at his mansion, and taking note of the prominent and prosperous people in attendance, she started to feel more comfortable. It was reassuring to see the best of Indiana paying homage to him. How dangerous could he be with all this high-ranking validation?
Once, he made an explicit reference to greater power soon to come.
“I’ve just made a governor,” he told Madge. “Ralston is going to die, and Jackson will give me the appointment as the next United States Senator from Indiana.”
* * *
—
Before he could assume high political office, the Grand Dragon still had a few criminal issues to clean up. He continued to fear that Lucille Fuller, the actress he’d tried to rape in the loft above his garage, would turn on him. On the day after the attack, Stephenson and the armed Earls had shown up at her place with a request. He wanted Fuller to sign an affidavit saying that one of Stephenson’s political enemies had attacked her. She refused. Months later, she bumped into him at a small party. He approached Fuller and extended his hand. Everything good? She would not shake the hand of the man who’d assaulted her. Face scrunched up in anger, he reminded Fuller that he could destroy her. On top of that, he could buy his way out of anything.
“I’ve got six hundred grand that I can put my fingers on in a minute,” he said. “I’ve got two airplanes at my disposal. I’m the boss of this state.”
In the end, Fuller was sufficiently intimidated to do nothing, and Steve opened his house to ever more bizarre and excessive parties. In March, the Grand Dragon staged a dark ceremony before a small group of invited guests. He was celebrating news that the highway commissioner who stood in the way of Steve’s plan to get control of road contracts had stepped down. He crumpled a newspaper clipping of that story into a tin pot and lit it on fire. As if overseeing a pagan ritual, he solemnly offered last rites.
“Oh, Earth, take charge of this maggot of the dung hill, who for a brief space inhabited our sphere of life,” he said. “Just as we must kill our prized dog when he goes mad, so must we separate the disloyal from our ranks.”
Then a toast: “I am the counterpart of Napoleon!”
At that moment, several naked young women appeared. The room was darkened as tapers of incense were lit. Stephenson assigned the women to individual men and sent them off with his blessing.
* * *
—
Days later, over dinner at the Washington, Steve startled Madge with an off-the-cuff statement.
“I would never hurt you even if you asked me to,” he said. Why would she ever ask him to hurt her?
And then he said something equally odd a second time. While dropping her off at home, he turned to Madge with a smile.
“Are you afraid of me?” She couldn’t tell if he was joking. “You shouldn’t be so aloof,” he said, as she moved to get out of the car. “I always get what I want.”
16.
The Last Train to Chicago
1925
He started drinking on Sunday afternoon, March 15, and continued pouring down the whiskey well into the evening. The Earls were with him, Klinck and Gentry, as was his driver, Shorty DeFriese—a nineteen-year-old who’d become one of the Grand Dragon’s most dutiful acolytes. The day had been clear and cool, winter hanging around in the morning, spring shoving it aside in the late sunshine of the lengthening days. As dusk fell over Irvington, Stephenson ordered one of his men to call the Oberholtzer home and ask for Madge. Both of her parents were ill, her father bedridden, her mother not much better, with coughs, sore throats, off-and-on fever. When Matilda Oberholtzer roused herself to pick up the phone, she was surprised to hear the emissary of D. C. Stephenson on the line, requesting to speak with her daughter on a Sunday evening. No, Madge was out. An hour or so passed and another call came in from the Stephenson compound, more insistent. Mrs. Oberholtzer promised to pass on the message. Then two more calls.
Earlier that day, Madge had picked up Ermina Moore and they went for a spin in the country. The hardwoods had yet to leaf out and the flowering trees were still holding their coiled clusters, but the season of renewal was at the starting gate. It was like old times, Ermina and Madge on the open road again, free of constraints. Madge came home before five, changed, and went on a dinner date with a man she’d been seeing casually. She returned around ten p.m. Her mother came downstairs and told Madge about the phone calls. Mr. Stephenson needed to speak with her tonight. It was urgent—state business. Madge called Irvington 0492.
Six days earlier, the legislature had passed HB 287, requiring public schools to teach a course in diet and nutrition. The new law was very specific in the curriculum outline, tailor-made for the book that Madge would possibly write, Steve would own, and every public school student in Indiana would be required to buy: One Hundred Years of Health. Stephenson’s stranglehold of the capitol compound had never been tighter. Stepped-up Klan extortion schemes—Jewish, Black, and Catholic merchants paying to avoid boycotts—were a steady source of income. To avoid trouble, one large manufacturing company made membership in the Ku Klux Klan a qualification for employment. Per an unwritten agreement, city streetcars would hire only members of the hooded order. At bus stops near Indiana Avenue, Black passengers were left stranded. When they tried to board at other locations, the doors were slammed in their faces. Drivers were specifically instructed not to pick up Black bus riders. The Klan was also promoting construction of “Liberty Hall,” a community and residential center for exclusive use by white Protestants.
Madge was hesitant. It was late and she had to be at work early the next day. She suggested getting together early in the morning. Steve pressured her to come now. Though his words were somewhat slurred, she understood him to say he wanted to finalize some business before leaving for Chicago. It wouldn’t take long. He would send one of his bodyguards, Gentry, down University Avenue to pick up Madge. He hung up before she could object. The bulky bullet catcher arrived and ushered Madge out the door, mumbling a few words. She had no time to change out of the black velvet dress she’d worn on her date. She had barely enough time to grab her coat, and not a spare second to fetch her hat. Madge never left the house without a hat. Her mother went to the window and caught a glimpse in the dark of the man leading her daughter down the street.
At Stephenson’s mansion, the thick wooden front door closed quickly behind Madge. It was eerie and quiet inside, and most of the place was dark. She heard men laughing—low, guttural voices. The bodyguard guided Madge into the parlor, where Stephenson sat without his usual jacket and tie. His nose was pink, his hair uncombed, his shirt collar open. He was sharing drinks and obscene stories with Shorty and Klinck. She mentioned something about the “urgent” business that had brought her to his lair on a Sunday night.
“Get a drink,” he said, motioning toward the kitchen.
“I don’t want a drink.”
Steve snapped his fingers at his lieutenants. “Take her to the other room and get her a drink.”
Surrounded by four men in various stages of drunkenness, she noticed that the housekeeper, a woman who could usually be seen cleaning up at all hours, was nowhere around. She was trapped. Shorty and Klinck grabbed Madge on either side and guided her into the kitchen. They poured a drink and told her to swallow it. It smelled foul. Again, she said she didn’t want a drink. It was late. She was tired, spooked.
“I need to make a phone call.” She picked up a receiver and called home—an attempt to alert her mother that she was in danger. Nobody answered. A few minutes later, she tried again. This time, Klinck cut off the call before she could get through.
Stephenson came roaring into the kitchen. He had that glassy-eyed look that she’d seen before at his parties; he was talking loudly and making little sense. He ordered his guards to force the drink on Madge. She swallowed and coughed. He demanded that she drink a second glass, and a third.
“I’m going home,” said Madge. Steve grabbed her hands and pulled her in close to him. His grip was so tight it hurt and reddened her wrists.
“You’re going to stay with me,” he said.
Within a few minutes of swallowing the last drink, Madge felt dizzy and nauseated. She wiggled out of Stephenson’s hold and made a run for the toilet, where she vomited. On her way out of the bathroom, she looked around for an escape route. The men grabbed their coats and hats and closed in on Madge.
“We’re going to Chicago,” said Steve. “I want you to go with me.” Chicago! He’d dialed up an assistant at the Washington and asked for three tickets on the last overnight train out of Indianapolis to Chicago. It left just after midnight.
“I can’t go to Chicago,” Madge replied. “I can’t. And I won’t.” She put on her jacket and turned for the door. “I’m going home.”
“You can’t go home!” He started to laugh. “Oh, yes! You’re going with me to Chicago.” It was all happening too quickly; she knew then that they intended to kidnap her.
“I love you more than any woman I’ve ever known,” said Stephenson. Madge was startled again. Love? Where did this come from? Three men forced Madge upstairs. She resisted, but they dragged her along. Steve opened a dresser drawer that was stuffed with revolvers and told each of his men to grab a gun. He reserved a shiny, pearl-handled pistol for himself. They loaded the guns, flashed them at Madge, and ordered her down the stairs, out the back door toward the garage. They piled into a car, Shorty at the wheel, Madge in the back with Stephenson on one side of her and Earl Gentry on the other. She begged them to stop at her house.
“Just let me get my hat.”
The car pulled up in front of the hotel for the tickets. Shorty went inside. They were just across from Monument Circle, the pulsing heart of the city, with its nearly three-hundred-foot tapered obelisk, but few people were out on a Sunday night. Madge could bolt and find help; it would only take a few seconds. But she was immobilized by fear. She was sure they would kill her and dump her body next to the most iconic landmark in Indiana. She begged Steve. When that failed, she tried to reason with him. He’d be ruined by this crime. His dynasty would fall apart. This felony would lock him up for a very long time. He smirked, stifling a laugh at the suggestion of the Grand Dragon getting hauled into a court.
“I’m the law in Indiana,” said her kidnapper. It was not the first time she’d heard him make that declaration. But now it applied directly to her. He turned to Gentry, looking for approval.
“I think I’m pretty smart to have gotten her.”
They drove from the hotel to Union Station, a short hop. She knew it well, for it was also the place where her father worked as a mail clerk. More than two hundred trains passed through every day, but the station was nearly empty as midnight approached. When they left the car for the train, with a gun pressed into her rib cage, she was told to not say a word. In the darkness, she briefly caught the eyes of one other person, a Black porter, who nodded as they boarded. She was strong-armed down the galley to a private compartment. The door closed and was locked. Gentry climbed on the top berth. Stephenson threw Madge down on the lower berth and started to disrobe.
The Klansman acted quickly as the train pulled out of Indianapolis. In a swift motion, he took hold of the bottom of Madge’s black dress and pulled it up over her head. She felt sick, weak, and wanted to vomit again. Stephenson grabbed both her hands and pinned her down. She squirmed and tried to fight back. He was on her, and he was heavy. He ripped away her underclothes. She couldn’t move. He tried to penetrate her. Then he went after her with his teeth. He bit her neck, her face, her breasts—a burst of savagery. He chewed at her flesh. Blood flowed out. He chewed her tongue and spit out blood. He chewed her breasts again. He moved onto her legs, her ankles, mutilating her body. The pain was excruciating. All the while, she heard nothing from Gentry on the bunk above them. She passed out.
* * *
—
In the predawn darkness, Madge was snapped into consciousness by a loud knock. The porter walked by and said this was their stop—Hammond, Indiana. Hammond? They were 160 miles from Indianapolis. Chicago was just a few minutes away. But Steve had decided not to go on to Chicago. He knew enough not to cross the state line, not to risk a federal offense. That would involve police he had no control over—the Bureau of Investigation, run by J. Edgar Hoover, a hustling young bureaucrat who’d just been named director by President Coolidge. Stephenson dressed, his gun visible at all times. He grabbed the revolver and pointed it at Madge. She was in extreme pain, dazed, woozy and sobbing. The sheet of the lower berth was covered with her blood. Her wounds were fresh and wet. In places, he’d bitten her very deeply and she could see teeth marks.
“Go ahead and shoot me,” she said. He pressed the gun against her skin.
“Kill me. I don’t care.”
Gentry and Stephenson threw clothes and a coat over Madge, and rushed her off the train. It hurt to walk and it was cold outside, near freezing. They went a short distance to the Indiana Hotel in Hammond. It was 6:30 a.m. Gentry checked into one room. The Klansman registered himself and Madge into another, listing them up as a married couple, Mr. and Mrs. W. B. Morgan of Franklin, Indiana. Steve showed no trepidation; he had a smirk on his face as he signed the guest register. Madge might call the police or some other authorities. They might ask a few questions—honest, polite men in badges serving honest, polite citizens, most of whom answered to the Grand Dragon in some fashion. He could tell them who he was, show them his own badge, reassure them that he was the person leading the largest fraternal order in Indiana, representing the highest values.
With the gun still poked in her side, he marshaled Madge into room 416 of the hotel. Gentry was in 417. Madge begged Stephenson to allow her one phone call or a telegram to her mother, to let her know she was alive. She knew her mother had been awake all night, sick with worry, waiting for her return. Steve shook his head. There was no reason for Madge to contact her mother. As Madge wept and recoiled at the pain of her broken and lacerated body, Steve ordered breakfast—grapefruit, sausage, toast, juice, and coffee. He gave the bellboy a $1 tip and devoured the meal while sitting on the bed in his undershirt. She ate nothing. Steve made a few phone calls, ordering Shorty to bring a car up from Indianapolis, and arranged to send a telegram through the front desk. He had changed his mind: Madge could send a note to her mother, but he would dictate. Gentry came into the room and took notation. The message was simple—everything was fine, no cause for concern, they were on their way to Chicago for business.
