Treason at Hanford

Excerpt:

Monday

April 17, 1944

4:13 p.m., Pacific War Time

 Horace K. McLeod stood on the platform at the Pendleton, Oregon, train station and held his hand over his eyes to block the late afternoon sun. His brown suit showed the wrinkles from sitting too long in the station and he tried to smooth them out. The blue striped tie matched the handkerchief in his breast pocket and his shoes showed barely a scuff.

He looked down the tracks for any sign of the incoming train and saw none. He pulled a shiny gold pocket watch from the vest pocket of his three-piece suit and checked the time. It was 4:13, two minutes past when he last checked it. He sighed, put the watch back in his pocket, inwardly vowing not to look at it again until after the train arrived.

He walked over to the ticket booth. “You’re sure the 4:15’s on time?” he asked, glancing at the clock on the back wall above the ticket taker’s head. The man wore a blue uniform, a brass nametag on his lapel with “Dan” etched in block letters.

 “Mr. McLeod, as I said a few minutes ago, the 4:15 is on time. If you just go get yourself a drink at the water fountain inside, the train will be here by the time you get back.” Dan lowered his head and began reading his paperback, ending the conversation.

 McLeod took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was by himself on the platform, the rest of the patrons waiting inside the station. He pushed open the door leading into the station. As the door was closing behind him, he heard the approaching whistle. He caught the door before it closed and ran out to the platform.

The train made its slow approach to the station. When it finally stopped, McLeod glanced at the clock above Dan’s head again. The clock read exactly 4:15 and Dan wore an I-told-you-so expression. As the train doors opened, an airplane squadron roared overhead. No one but McLeod looked up, so used to the sound were the local residents.

He stood just to the right of the door leading into the station. Senator Truman had wired McLeod asking that he search out the senator since the lawyer knew what Truman looked like. What the senator was too modest to include was the fact that his face had graced the cover of Time magazine the previous year. The news magazine had run a cover story on the work the Truman Committee was doing in ferreting out companies and men who thought it was a good idea to skim money from the government while American soldiers died overseas.

The lawyer stood and scanned the disembarking passengers. Behind a family of four strode Harry Truman. His walk was brisk, a suitcase in his right hand, his hat set firmly on his head. Truman was so smartly dressed that McLeod thought that he looked as if he had just stepped out of a tailor’s shop.

Keeping pace with Truman was another man wearing a suit of the western variety. The Stetson was kicked back on his head and the man’s boots clonked on the wooden platform. Taller than Truman’s five foot nine by a few inches, the man looked totally out of place in Oregon.

McLeod raised his hand and walked toward Truman and his companion. McLeod extended his hand. “Senator Truman, it is so good to meet you. I’m Horace K. McLeod.”

Truman shook the extended hand. “Thank you, sir. It’s good to meet you, too, although I wish it were under other circumstances.” He motioned to the other man. “This is Carl Hancock. He’s one of the investigators assigned to the committee.”

Hancock’s hand clamped down around McLeod’s. In McLeod’s profession, a handshake with opposing counsel was the opening volley in the warfare that was litigation. He was accustomed to meeting or exceeding the grasps of his opponents. It was all he could do not to grimace with pain at the bigger man’s grip.

“Howdy. Pleased to meet you.”

“I see you have your bags,” McLeod said as he opened the door and let his guests precede him into the station. “My car’s out front.”

***

After the three men disappeared into the station, the ticket taker put down his book and picked up the telephone in his booth. He gave the operator the exchange and waited. After a moment, he said, “Yes, this is Dan Morgan. I work at the Pendleton, Oregon, train station. I need to make a report.” He waited while the person on the other line spoke.

“No, it’s not about him. It’s about Horace McLeod, one of the other names on that list.” A pause. “Yeah, him. He met Senator Truman from the 4:15. Is he a state senator?” Another pause. “Really? From Missouri? Wow.”

Morgan picked up a pencil and made a note. “Oh and there was some other guy with Truman. Didn’t catch his name. He wore a cowboy hat, though.” Morgan began to chew on the eraser end of the pencil. “Yeah, okay then. Just wanted to do my part, ya know. Well, you’re welcome. Bye now.”

Morgan hung up the telephone and hunched his shoulders, lost in thought. A United States Senator out here in Pendleton, he thought. I should have gotten his autograph.

***

McLeod led Truman and Hancock out into the parking lot after the two travelers had refreshed themselves. As McLeod was getting his keys from his pocket, Truman said “This is your car?”

“Yes, it is,” McLeod said, a hint of pride in his voice as he admired how the sun shone off the chrome grill and the midnight blue paint. “It’s a 1941 Lincoln Continental, the last major line produced before the war started.” He ran a hand along the roof on the driver’s side. “This baby really purrs, too. Smoothest riding car I’ve ever known.”

He opened the back door behind the driver’s seat and placed both suitcases on the seat. He leaned in and unlocked both passenger doors. The other two men climbed in, Truman in the front. McLeod slid behind the steering wheel and started the engine.

He paused with both hands on the wheel and looked over at Truman. “I deeply appreciate you both coming out here. I know you don’t know me from Adam and I’m not even a constituent. But it’s reached the point where I don’t trust anyone official over in Richland.”

“Well you can trust us,” Truman said, his finger idly tracing the curve of his hat, now on his lap. “Your letters, taken as a whole, amount to something we’ve not encountered. Usually, we get the company cheating the government and hampering the war effort with cheap products. Yours was, well, unnerving.” He glanced back at Hancock. “Carl?”

“It’s certainly unusual, I’ll give you that,” Hancock said. “But I’d like to hear some more details, if you don’t mind.”

“We have the time,” McLeod said, putting the car in gear and backing out of the parking space. “We have a little drive back up to Richland.”

Hancock said, “That reminds me. Why’d you have us meet you here in Oregon? Ain’t there a train station in Richland or some other town near there?”

McLeod looked at him in the rearview mirror. “I think I’m being watched. Those two hoods convinced me of that. I wanted to get out of the spotlight and meet somewhere where no one knows who I am.”

“You give your name to anyone here?” Hancock asked.

“No.” McLeod thought. “Yes, to the ticket man. I introduced myself and asked whether or not your train would be on time. Why, was that wrong?”

“Not necessarily, no, but it might’ve been better if you hadn’t.”

McLeod frowned. “But we’re more than an hour away from Richland. Why would it matter if I gave my name down here? Besides, I live in Seattle so Richland’s not even my hometown.”

“But you’ve been in Richland for a few weeks working for your client.” Truman said, seeing where Hancock was going. “You’re probably known around town, too. You aren’t just some worker. You’re the attorney for a man suing the federal government. Word spreads in small towns when out-of-towners come in. Back in Independence, the whole town would know if so-and-so’s uncle or aunt were visiting almost as soon as they arrived.”

Hancock said, “Mr. McLeod, I’ve come late to this party. I just read your letters this morning. And I don’t know what else you and Harry’ve talked about. Why don’t you fill in some details while we’re driving?”

“I didn’t leave much out of the letters. I had to make a compelling case to get some help out here. As I wrote in the last letter, I’ve gotten to where I don’t trust anyone official out here, even Ira, the local sheriff.” McLeod shook his head. “Ira. That one’s hard to explain. He’s such a straight arrow. Nothing bad ever happened to him except for the loss of his wife back in ’37. My wife and I were at Donald’s house for Christmas and he’d invited Ira over so he wouldn’t be alone on Christmas. He’d even…”

“Why were you at Mr. Bumble’s house for Christmas?” Hancock asked, his gaze never leaving the passing scenery outside his window. “I thought you were just his lawyer.”

McLeod’s face reddened at the question and Truman, half facing McLeod, leaned in closer. “Is there something you’ve left out of your letters, Mr. McLeod?”

“It’s not important, really,” McLeod said, “and it doesn’t have any bearing on my standing as Donald’s attorney.” He eased off the gas as he approached a slow-moving truck carrying crates of apples. “I didn’t think you’d come out here if I wrote it in a letter.”

“What is it, Mr. McLeod?” Truman asked, a bit more firmly.

“Donald, or Donnie, as my wife likes to call him, is my brother-in-law.”

Truman sat back and Hancock let out a little chuckle. “Let me guess. Your sister didn’t want to live on a farm for the rest of her life so she got outta there as fast as she could. ‘Cept that left Mr. Bumble as the only one to tend the farm when dear old mom and dad went to the great orchard in the sky. Then, when the government took the land, your wife got all guilty and ‘persuaded’ you to represent her brother.” The word “persuade” was said in such a way that each man, husbands all, exactly knew the meaning.

McLeod eyed the Texan sitting in his back seat. “That’s about eighty percent correct. How’d you know?”

“Because I was in a similar situation. Me and your wife played the same part and my sister and Mr. Bumble played the other part. ‘Course, in my case, it was the other war. Took me away from the farm and I never went back, despite what I told my sister. She hated me for a while, too. Spent the first Christmas after the war stuck at my podunk apartment in Austin.” Hancock turned from his window and looked at McLeod through the rearview mirror.

“What changed your sister’s mind to invite you back the next time,” McLeod said.

“Oh, she didn’t. After that, I met my future wife and she invited me to celebrate Christmas with her family.” Hancock’s voice sounded like it was far away. “Fact is, it wasn’t  until I went into law enforcement that Edna finally came around.”

McLeod had sat up straighter. “Did you say ‘law enforcement’? Are you a cop?”

Truman jumped in. “I recruited Carl straight out of the sheriff’s office in Texas.” He shifted in his seat so that he faced McLeod. “That’s beside the point, Mr. McLeod. Aside from the many details of dates, times, witnesses, et cetera, is there anything else you need to tell us before we proceed?”

McLeod shook his head then stopped. “Well, as Donald was feeling the heat, I took steps to get him to dictate and sign an affidavit. We actually drove all the way to Walla Walla to see one of my law school buddies we could trust. He’s a county judge out there. We got the affidavit four days before Donald was drafted.”

Truman noticed that Hancock was nodding. “Okay, that’s good,” he said. “Anything else? Anything at all?”

McLeod, finally realizing the fruit truck was not going to turn anytime soon, downshifted the Lincoln and sped past the truck. “No,” said McLeod, settling back into his casual driving position, the open highway before him.

“Tell us about the warehouse where Mr. Bumble worked.”

“Moore Shipping and Warehousing? They have branches all over the Columbia River, from Spokane to the Pacific, as well as Portland and Seattle. I didn’t know anything about them but my firm represented them once, before I was on board. The owner is Edward P. Moore, avid hunter and outdoorsman. Real Hemingway type, if you know what I mean.”

The conversation went on in this manner with Truman and Hancock asking questions about Richland, other people McLeod represented, and other theories the attorney had. Hancock, his eyes rarely leaving the view outside his window, caught the first glimpse of a river he assumed was the Columbia. He also was the first one to see the police lights.

McLeod slowed the car and stopped at the junction of two roads. Both he and Truman saw the police cars, now clearly visible about fifty yards away to their right.

“That the direction we’re going? Hancock asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s stop and say hello.”