John DeVries was murdered in Milwaukee in 1950. His killer was never found. When Will read of Johnny’s murder in the Milwaukee newspapers, he tried to contact Marcella. It was no use–he sent telegrams to her last known address only to have them returned stamped “Gone, No Forwarding Address.” He called every William Harris in the Los Angeles directories, to no avail. Finally, he drove to Milwaukee and talked to the two detectives assigned to investigate the killing.
Johnny had been found at dawn on the grass at a park a few blocks off Milwaukee’s skid row. He had been stabbed repeatedly with a butcher knife. He was a known morphine addict and sometime dealer. His death was obviously tied into the drug underworld. The detectives, Kraus and Lutz, were considerate and kind to Will, but closed-minded about broadening their investigation. Although they told Will they would keep him informed, he drove back to Tunnel City troubled and feeling powerless.
He was to see Marcella one last time. She knocked on his door in the summer of 1951. It was the most startling event of his life. Marcella had lost weight and was close to hysteria. They talked of John’s death and she sobbed in Will’s arms. Will told Marcella of the Clandestine Heart monastery, and she seemed to listen and gain brief solace.
Marcella drank herself to sleep that night, passing out on Will’s living room sofa. When Will awoke early the next morning she was gone. She had left a note: “Thank you. I will consider what you have said. I will seek what I have to seek. I envy your peace. I will try to gain what peace I can.” * *
Will Berglund anticipated my one question: “I’ll call those policemen in Milwaukee. I’ll tell them you’re coming.”
I nodded at the farmer-lover-spiritual seeker. He seemed to take my brief turn of the head as absolution, and a slow trickle of tears ran from his eyes.
It was 5:00 AM. I walked back to the Badger Hotel. My room had been gone through–magazines had been turned over and the bed had been tousled. I checked the contents of my suitcase. Everything was there, but my gun had been unloaded. I packed and walked downstairs and through the lobby, getting curious and hostile looks from some early-rising townspeople. I walked down Main Street feeling awed and humbled–and also powerful; I had been handed the wonder on a platter, and now it was up to me to put it in order.
20
It took me two hours to get to Milwaukee. The Wisconsin Dell Highway was deserted as I drove past small towns and through deep green grazing land. I had been awake for more than twentyfour hours, had traversed fifty years of history and was now nowhere near tired. All I could think of was the history lying in wait for me in Milwaukee, and how to synthesize all the knowledge that only I could tie together.
I thought of pharmacist’s mates John DeVries and Eddie Engels. Had they known each other at the Long Beach Naval Hospital? Was Eddie connected to Marcella there? Was that the genesis of the train of deadly events that erupted in 1950 and continued through this summer?
Coming into Milwaukee on Blue Mound Road–an incongruously named, smog-choked four-lane highway–I said to myself: don’t think.
Milwaukee was red brick, gray brick, white brick, factory smoke, and rows and rows of small white houses with small Wisconsin green front lawns, all modulated by the breeze wafting from Lake Michigan. I parked in the basement of the Greyhound Bus Depot on Wells Street, then shaved and changed clothes in the huge lavatory.
I checked my image in the mirror above the basin. I decided I was an anthropologist, well suited to dig into the ruins of blasted lives. This conclusion reached, I threaded my way down a corridor laced with sleeping winos to a pay phone, where I dialed the Operator and said, “Police Department, please.”
Detectives Kraus and Lutz were still partners and were working the Eighth Precinct, located on Farwell Avenue, a few blocks from the sludgy, waste-carrying Milwaukee River. The old three-story police station was red brick, sandwiched between a sausage factory and a parochial school. I parked in front and walked inside, feeling nostalgia grip me in a bear hug: this had been my life once.