Free For the Thrill of It: Leopold, Loeb, and the Murder That Shocked Jazz Age Chicago by Simon Baatz Page B

backward in the chair. 33
    It was almost one o’clock in the morning, and Loeb was very tired. He had slept during the day but only for about four hours. He demanded to know why Crowe was holding him. He knew nothing, and he wanted to talk to a lawyer. 34
    Crowe heard the words but ignored the request. He had been expecting one of the boys to ask for a lawyer—he was surprised it had taken so long. He pretended not to hear; behind him, Joseph Savage, the assistant state’s attorney, was entering the room; he was followed by Michael Hughes, the chief of detectives. The stenographer was the last to enter, and as the door closed behind him, Crowe turned to face Loeb.
    “Now, Loeb, you told me that Wednesday…you drove down town with this young fellow Leopold, in his car, that is a sport model, it is a red car with a tan top, a Willys-Knight?”
    “Yes….”
    “You had lunch at the grill room at Marshall Field’s?…Then you went out to Lincoln Park?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And that all the driving you did this day was in this car?”
    “Yes, sir….”
    Crowe had been sitting casually on the edge of the gray metal desk; now he got to his feet and stood in front of Loeb, looking down at the boy in the chair before him. He spoke louder now, in a voice calculated to intimidate the boy, and he moved closer, so close that his physical presence in itself seemed to threaten and menace.
    “Isn’t it a fact that Wednesday, May 21st,…you drove up to that garage, to Leopold’s garage, you driving your mother’s car, that green Cadillac, he driving the red car…and you turned the car over to the chauffeur and got into your car and drove away?”
    “No,” Richard replied.
    “That is not a fact?”
    “No,” Richard answered again.
    Crowe was shouting now. The anger in his voice filled the interrogation room. He wanted that confession so much—he needed Richard to confess—he had to force the boy to break, to admit his guilt to the murder.
    “If this chauffeur says so, he is a liar?”
    “Yes.” 35
    Richard’s hands were shaking, and the color had drained from his face. As he slumped down in his chair, the detectives heard him whisper to himself, “My God.” He tried to speak, but his words died before they reached his lips. Crowe waited impatiently for the boy to drink a glass of water.
    “If the chauffeur took the car in and oiled it up, oiled the brakes and fixed it up, that would make an impression on his mind, wouldn’t it?”
    “Yes.”
    “If he says that is a fact, he is a liar or mistaken?…”
    “Yes…. I would say he was still a liar or mistaken.” 36

    R OBERT C ROWE WAS EXHAUSTED. B OTH boys denied everything; Crowe was discouraged: they were holding fast and he saw no way to break their resistance and force a confession. He stepped out of the office. Perhaps it was time to go home—he badly needed some sleep.
    One of Crowe’s assistants, John Sbarbaro, remained with Richard Loeb as Crowe talked in his office with Joseph Savage. Twenty minutes passed, then half an hour. There was a sudden bustle in the corridor; Sbarbaro had left the room and was striding, almost running, toward Crowe’s office. The assistant state’s attorney was breathless as he opened the door. Richard Loeb wanted to talk to the state’s attorney…there was no time to lose…quick, quick, before the boy changed his mind! 37

7 THE CONFESSIONS
S ATURDAY, 31 M AY 1924–S UNDAY, 1 J UNE 1924
It was really too bad, for the cause of justice, that they were so loquacious. 1
Robert Crowe, 15 August 1924
    A S R OBERT C ROWE ENTERED THE interrogation room, Richard wiped a tear from his cheek. Crowe noticed the jerky, staccato movement of the boy’s hand. It was, he thought, as if Richard were ashamed that he had been crying, as if he hoped to wipe away the evidence of his panic.
    The state’s attorney pulled up a chair, making a scraping noise as he dragged the legs of the chair across the concrete floor. As he sat down