page: UNIONIST BOMBS WRECK THE TIMES .
The front page also carried “A Plain Statement” signed by Harry E. Andrews, the paper’s managing editor. It read:
The
Times
building was destroyed this morning by the enemies of industrial freedom by dynamite bombs and fire.
Numerous threats to this dastardly deed had been received.
The
Times
itself cannot be destroyed. It will be issued every day and will fight its battles to the end.
The elements that conspired to perpetrate this horror must not be permitted to pursue their awful campaign of intimidation and terror. Never will the
Times
cease its warfare against them . . .
They can kill our men and can wreck our buildings, but by the God above they cannot kill the
Times.
Even on that first day, as the story was told in headlines across a shocked nation, not everyone was as certain as the
Times
editors about what had caused the explosion. Many people had the suspicion—and some had the firm belief—that the obvious cause was too obvious.
EIGHT
______________________
I N BILLY BURNS’S orderly world, tardiness was an unforgivable sin. He would not tolerate it when his agents were late, and his usually genial mood would quickly turn sour and often abusive. He lived his own life, too, by a precisely calibrated timetable; punctuality, he lectured his four sons, was the necessary foundation for a logical mind. So on Saturday morning, October 1, 1910, Billy’s anxieties lifted when his train pulled into Los Angeles station at eight. He was right on schedule. He’d have sufficient time to go to his hotel, freshen up from the journey, get his suit pressed, review his speech one last time, and then head to the American Bankers Association luncheon.
His satisfied mood was reinforced when he looked out the train window and saw Eddie Mills, from his Los Angeles office, waiting on the platform—just as scheduled. Mills would help with the bags and then drive him to the Alexandria Hotel. Perhaps there would even be time for the two of them to catch up over breakfast. Billy loved a good breakfast. “A good day needs a good start” went another of the precepts he repeatedly shared with his sons.
He hurried to the platform to meet his agent. Only then, as he looked into Mills’s somber face, did Billy realize something was not right. Mills handed him the morning papers, and he read the shocking headlines: twenty-one dead, the
Times
Building destroyed.
On the ride to the Alex, Billy could see a column of gray smoke rising high in the downtown sky. The smell of fire, of seared wood and stone, remained strong in the air. Within moments Billy felt as if the awful smell of disaster had become trapped in his lungs. It coursed through him like a plague. He was visiting a ruined city. They drove as close as they were allowed to the scene, and Billy saw people crowding the police lines. He imagined that many were the wives and children of the dead waiting for the bodies to be pulled from the ruins. It was heartbreaking. And futile. His mind raced. Billy thought about Otis. He detested the man. A price had been put on Billy’s head, and Otis and the
Times
had supported—even encouraged—the men who had wanted him murdered.
It was only five years ago when, on secret orders from President Teddy Roosevelt himself, Billy Burns had gone off to San Francisco to make a case against a well-connected group of, as the detective called them, “rich crooks.” He succeeded in getting Abraham Rueff, the city’s political boss, to confess to taking a fortune in bribes. Rueff then testified against Mayor Eugene Schmitz, and he, too, was convicted. But after the indictment for bribery of Patrick Calhoun, the president of the United Railroad, a man whose patrician pedigree and polished demeanor symbolized, in Billy’s prickly immigrant mind, elitism and ruling class arrogance, the campaign against corruption in San Francisco turned dangerous.
The home of the chief witness Billy had recruited
The front page also carried “A Plain Statement” signed by Harry E. Andrews, the paper’s managing editor. It read:
The
Times
building was destroyed this morning by the enemies of industrial freedom by dynamite bombs and fire.
Numerous threats to this dastardly deed had been received.
The
Times
itself cannot be destroyed. It will be issued every day and will fight its battles to the end.
The elements that conspired to perpetrate this horror must not be permitted to pursue their awful campaign of intimidation and terror. Never will the
Times
cease its warfare against them . . .
They can kill our men and can wreck our buildings, but by the God above they cannot kill the
Times.
Even on that first day, as the story was told in headlines across a shocked nation, not everyone was as certain as the
Times
editors about what had caused the explosion. Many people had the suspicion—and some had the firm belief—that the obvious cause was too obvious.
EIGHT
______________________
I N BILLY BURNS’S orderly world, tardiness was an unforgivable sin. He would not tolerate it when his agents were late, and his usually genial mood would quickly turn sour and often abusive. He lived his own life, too, by a precisely calibrated timetable; punctuality, he lectured his four sons, was the necessary foundation for a logical mind. So on Saturday morning, October 1, 1910, Billy’s anxieties lifted when his train pulled into Los Angeles station at eight. He was right on schedule. He’d have sufficient time to go to his hotel, freshen up from the journey, get his suit pressed, review his speech one last time, and then head to the American Bankers Association luncheon.
His satisfied mood was reinforced when he looked out the train window and saw Eddie Mills, from his Los Angeles office, waiting on the platform—just as scheduled. Mills would help with the bags and then drive him to the Alexandria Hotel. Perhaps there would even be time for the two of them to catch up over breakfast. Billy loved a good breakfast. “A good day needs a good start” went another of the precepts he repeatedly shared with his sons.
He hurried to the platform to meet his agent. Only then, as he looked into Mills’s somber face, did Billy realize something was not right. Mills handed him the morning papers, and he read the shocking headlines: twenty-one dead, the
Times
Building destroyed.
On the ride to the Alex, Billy could see a column of gray smoke rising high in the downtown sky. The smell of fire, of seared wood and stone, remained strong in the air. Within moments Billy felt as if the awful smell of disaster had become trapped in his lungs. It coursed through him like a plague. He was visiting a ruined city. They drove as close as they were allowed to the scene, and Billy saw people crowding the police lines. He imagined that many were the wives and children of the dead waiting for the bodies to be pulled from the ruins. It was heartbreaking. And futile. His mind raced. Billy thought about Otis. He detested the man. A price had been put on Billy’s head, and Otis and the
Times
had supported—even encouraged—the men who had wanted him murdered.
It was only five years ago when, on secret orders from President Teddy Roosevelt himself, Billy Burns had gone off to San Francisco to make a case against a well-connected group of, as the detective called them, “rich crooks.” He succeeded in getting Abraham Rueff, the city’s political boss, to confess to taking a fortune in bribes. Rueff then testified against Mayor Eugene Schmitz, and he, too, was convicted. But after the indictment for bribery of Patrick Calhoun, the president of the United Railroad, a man whose patrician pedigree and polished demeanor symbolized, in Billy’s prickly immigrant mind, elitism and ruling class arrogance, the campaign against corruption in San Francisco turned dangerous.
The home of the chief witness Billy had recruited
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