Public Enemies_ America's Greatest Crime Wave and the Birth of the FBI - Bryan Burrough [64]
Weaver watched as Officer Yeaman slipped into his squad car in the alley in front of him. From watching the policemen work the last two weeks, the gang knew Yeaman would sit in the car and wait for the others to come out of the post office next door. Weaver was assigned to make certain Officer Yeaman stayed put. Meanwhile, Officer Pavlak accompanied the messengersaround the corner into the post office, where a few moments later they reemerged in front of the building.
Just then a black sedan pulled up in front of the post office. Karpis was behind the wheel. Dock Barker, dressed in denim overalls, jumped out and trained a sawed-off shotgun on Officer Pavlak. Chuck Fitzgerald, wearing a gray suit, followed, a pistol in his hand. “Stick ’em up!” Barker yelled.
Pavlak froze, then slowly raised his hands above his head. Fitzgerald bent forward and took his gun.
“Throw down those bags!” Barker commanded. The two men did as they were told. Fred Barker slipped out of the car and positioned himself in the street, circling warily, a submachine gun in his hands.
Around the corner, Officer Yeaman finished his break and began to back the car up the alley toward Concord Street. Standing beside the car, Bill Weaver threw the newspaper off his shotgun, raised it, and fired through the driver’s window. The blast struck Yeaman in the head, knocking his cap off; he slumped in his seat, badly wounded.
Startled by the shots, Dock Barker thought the gang was under attack. He raised his shotgun into Officer Pavlak’s face, shouted, “You dirty rat son-of-a-bitch!” and fired. The blast all but decapitated Pavlak; he died instantly. Fred Barker began firing as well. Spotting Yeaman’s squad car, he opened fire, hitting the wounded officer in the head and chest. Fred then wheeled in a circle, shooting into storefronts all around him. Everywhere passersby dived for cover. The two messengers hit the ground, then scrambled beneath a parked truck.
Behind the wheel of the getaway car, Karpis also thought they were under attack. In fact, no policeman had fired a single round. Suddenly Fitzgerald fell, struck by a ricochet. “I’m hit!” he yelled. Both Barker brothers thought Fitzgerald had been hit by fire coming from inside the post office. Dock pulled two .45 caliber pistols from his overalls and joined Freddie as he fired on the building’s brick facade. Windows shattered. Women screamed.
After a minute the Barkers stopped firing, picked up the money bags, and turned toward the car. “Goddamnit, don’t leave me here!” cried Fitzgerald. He lay on the sidewalk. The Barkers threw the money bags in the car and returned for Fitzgerald, lifting him into the backseat. Bill Weaver ran up and jumped in the car, and Karpis stomped the accelerator. The car shot forward, swerving to avoid a streetcar. With Freddie shouting out directions from the git, Karpis turned up a hill and within minutes was into the countryside.9
“Fuck! Fuck!” Fitzgerald cursed from the backseat. Blood was streaming down his legs.
“Where ya hit?” Freddie asked. “It looks like you’re hit in the leg.”
“In the hip!” Fitzgerald said. Stopping at the first gasoline cache, they jabbed Fitzgerald with a shot of morphine and washed his wound with alcohol. Karpis headed toward Chicago. They gave Fitzgerald two more shots of morphine on the way, but by the time they crossed the Illinois line he was thrashing in pain. Karpis drove past downtown, left the highway, and coasted to a stop in the driveway of a friend’s home in Calumet City, a gritty suburb on the Indiana border.
After finding a doctor for Fitzgerald, Karpis drove back to his lake house. At the house he and Delores Delaney sat around the kitchen table talking until it got late. He told her he had been on a business trip to New York; she knew enough not to ask questions. At one point, Delores said, “Well, I got something to tell you.”
Karpis braced himself. “What is it?