Public Enemies_ America's Greatest Crime Wave and the Birth of the FBI - Bryan Burrough [116]
“Drop that gun!” Eyman shouted. “Or I’ll kill you!”
Pierpont went slack. An officer vigorously twisted his arm while the others searched him. “You’re treating me pretty rough, aren’t you?” Pierpont said, forcing a smile.
“What do you want us to do? Kiss you?” Eyman said.
Three down, one to go. John Dillinger was somewhere in Tucson; the police were sure of it. Night was approaching. With no clues to work on, officers kept watch on the Makley bungalow and the Sixth Street motor court. A squat Irish detective named James Herron and two uniformed policemen drew up to the bungalow. The sun was just beginning to set as they parked out front. The two officers slipped into the house through the back door. Detective Herron circled back to move his car, thinking it might scare Dillinger off should he appear.
Just then a shiny new Hudson sedan rounded the corner and parked in front of the house. Herron shrank behind a bush as a man in a brown suit got out and approached the front porch, leaving a woman sitting in the front seat. Herron stepped from behind the bush just as the man lifted his foot to climb the steps. As he did the man paused, looking down at the bloodstains. He whirled, as if to run to his car—and came face-to-face with Detective Herron.
Dillinger and Herron stood five feet apart on the front lawn. It was a moment out of the Wild West. Herron drew first, a pistol appearing in his right hand. “Put up your hands!” he ordered.
Dillinger stared. Herron stepped forward and jammed his pistol into his ribs. “Up with those hands or I’ll bore you!” he snapped.
Dillinger slowly raised his hands.
“What’s this all about?” he asked.
Just then the two officers materialized on the front porch.
“Cover the car!” Herron said.
As the two officers hustled past, Herron grabbed Dillinger by the coat and shoved him forward. It was then that Dillinger realized he could not fake his way free. He went for the gun in his shoulder holster. Herron jabbed his pistol deeply into his back and one of the officers poked a riot gun in his face. Dillinger gave up.
Game, set, match, Tucson police.
The arrests in Tucson were front-page news across the country. The next day crowds of the curious swarmed the Pima County Jail, where the four gang members and their girlfriends were kept under guard. Chief Wollard’s office was inundated with telegrams and phone messages. Out at the airport, every arriving plane disgorged a stream of reporters and photographers from Chicago, New York, and other cities. Every time a cop left the jail, he ran a gauntlet of flashing cameras.
At 10:00 that morning, all seven of the prisoners were led in shackles into a packed courtroom to be arraigned. Dillinger glumly slumped in a chair. “Stand up,” the judge ordered.
“I ain’t Dillinger,” Dillinger mumbled. A bailiff yanked him to his feet. The gang members were ordered held on $100,000 bail each. Flashbulbs popped madly as the prisoners were led out of the courtroom. Billie smiled at Dillinger, who smiled back. He leaned over and kissed her.
That afternoon a steady procession of reporters, politicians, and policemen filed by the gang’s jail cells, ogling the infamous gangsters from the distant Midwest as if they were monkeys in a zoo. Dillinger warmed to the attention, finally admitting his identity and playing his favorite role of gregarious, big-time bank robber.
“I’m an expert in my business,” he told a group of scribbling reporters hovering at his cell. “I can play tag with the police any time. They just dodge around on old trails like fox hounds that don’t know what’s going on. And the dumbest ones in the world are the