Public Enemies_ America's Greatest Crime Wave and the Birth of the FBI - Bryan Burrough [115]
The three officers were soon parked outside Makley’s bungalow. They had been watching the house for a little over an hour when they began to grow impatient. The least they could do, they agreed, was check whether anyone was inside. They came up with an easy ruse. Detective Sherman got out of the car and walked toward the house, taking a letter from his jacket pocket. On the porch, he rang the bell. A woman opened the door. It was Russell Clark’s girlfriend, Opal Long.
“Yes?” she asked.
Thrusting the letter forward, Sherman said he had a delivery. When she reached for the letter, Sherman threw his shoulder against the door and stepped inside. There he came face-to-face with Russell Clark. Sherman drew his service revolver and ordered Clark to raise his hands. Instead Clark lunged for the gun, grabbing it by the barrel. The two men wrestled for the pistol, whirling in circles through the living room and into a bedroom. Outside, spying the commotion, Detectives Eyman and Ford broke into a run, bounding up the front steps. Opal Long saw them coming and slammed the door, just as Ford thrust his hand forward; the door shut on his finger, breaking a bone.
Sergeant Ford kicked the door open, knocked Long aside, and burst into the bedroom to find Clark and Sherman grappling on a bed. Clark was reaching for a pillow when Ford brained him with his pistol. Sergeant Eyman grabbed Clark’s shoulder and pulled him off the bed. In moments they had him in handcuffs. Beneath the pillow they found a .38. A further search turned up two Thompson submachine guns, an automatic rifle, two pistols, two bulletproof vests, and $4,526.68 in cash. The three officers bundled Clark and Long into a car and took them downtown. No one thought to remain at the house.
Two down, two to go. Downtown, Chief Wollard canvassed his men. Dillinger and Pierpont had to be out there; if they learned of the arrests before the police located them, they could melt into the desert within minutes. The chief’s instincts were dead-on. As he spoke, Pierpont arrived at Makley’s bungalow. Walking up the steps, he noticed drops of what appeared to be blood on the porch. He jogged to his car, drove back to his tourist cabin, and told Mary Kinder to start packing.
As the couple packed, a patrolman walked into Chief Wollard’s office and mentioned the friendly Florida tourist he had encountered a few days earlier. The description matched Pierpont. The chief dispatched Sergeant Eyman and two patrolmen to check out the tourist camp where the “Florida tourist” had said he was staying. Just as the three men drove up, they spotted Pierpont driving off in his new Buick. The three lawmen followed the car for several blocks, discussing how to proceed. They decided to stage a routine traffic stop; maybe they could take Pierpont unprepared. Honking their horn, Sergeant Eyman waved for Pierpont to pull over. He complied. The sergeant stepped out.
“How do you do,” Eyman announced. “May I please see your driver’s license?”
Pierpont handed over the license—a fake—and Eyman looked it over. He handed it back and apologized, pointing out that Pierpont didn’t have a visitor’s inspection sticker on his car, as the law required. It was no trouble to get one, Eyman went on. If Pierpont could just drive down to the police station, he could have a sticker within minutes. Outnumbered, Pierpont had to agree. “I’ll even ride down with you,” Eyman volunteered, sliding into the backseat.
Pierpont adjusted his rearview mirror to keep an eye on Eyman as he drove downtown. Eyman kept up a stream of happy chatter as they went, going on about Tucson’s beautiful weather. Pierpont nodded a lot and smiled. Mary Kinder sat frozen. Slowly Sergeant Eyman drew his gun and slid it between his legs, out of sight. He took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Pierpont. He declined.
At the station, Sergeant Eyman led