The Crime of the Century

It's October 1st, 1910, in Los Angeles. It's just after 1am, and the night is calm. Light from the full moon bays the city in a soothing glow. The syncopated rhythm and rich harmonies of jazz bands drift from open doorways all over the city. Late night revelers spill out of smoky clubs blissfully unaware of the chaos that's about to be unleashed. Suddenly, a flash of light disrupts the inky night, briefly illuminating the darkened streets. There's a low rumble, the ground shakes violently for a couple of seconds. Earthquakes aren't uncommon in California, but any thought of a natural disaster is stopped by the sound of a powerful explosion ripping through the Los Angeles Times building on 1st Street. Huge blocks of stone are catapulted skywards before falling back to Earth like enormous hail stones. Jagged shards of glass are blown from windows creating a fragmented carpet on the ground. Printing presses, heaviest railroad carts, cascade through the office floors, and crash into the basement. Broken pipes spew out toxic clouds of gas, fanning an already blazing inferno. The fire spreads, and on the higher floors, panicked employees tried outrun the blaze, knowing they're trapped. Some smash windows and jump to the hard concrete below. Others don't have the nerve. They simply wait for the fire to claim them. Soon, the sound of wailing sirens fills the air. Fire crews arrive and begin battling the blaze. Backbreaking work. But finally, they manage to get the fire under control. Over 100 survivors are pulled from the debris, soot strained and coughing violently. As the sun begins to rise, the firefighters drive away. They may have been able to extinguish the fire, but the once towering building is now nothing but a pile of rubble. Huge crowds gather as charred bodies are pulled from the ruins. Twenty of them, the air is thick with black smoke and the stench of burnt flesh. Many of the onlookers have scars pulled over their mouths. Others simply stand and stare, unable to make sense of what they're seeing. One of them is Georgia Alexander, the mayor of Los Angeles. Bomings have been happening with increased regularity across the country. Mayor Alexander hoped that LA would be spared, but it seems domestic terrorism has reared its ugly head in the city of angels. Not wanting to waste any time, the mayor vows to find the bombers who attacked his city. And he knows just the man for the job. Enter William J. Burns, a private detective known as America's Sherlock Holmes. According to some, he's the best the U.S. has ever produced. Tackling domestic terrorism is no walk in the park. These men have shown that they're willing to kill innocent workers to further their cause. Can one man really take on the terrorists and win? My name is Mark Dodson and welcome to Detectives Don't Sleep. Each week, we'll shadow the world's most remarkable sleuths, real detectives who worked extraordinary cases. This week we're in Los Angeles, hot on the trail of private detective William J. Burns, as he investigates the bombing of the LA Times Building. What follows is a case that takes him across the states, following shady characters with murder on their minds. The New York Times once called him the only detective of genius from the country has produced. But with a bombing case proved to be the one that finally bests the celebrated private investigator from Noiser. This is the story of the crime of the century and this. His detectives don't sleep. Now as luck would have it, William J. Burns is already in Los Angeles on the morning of the bomb. From his room at the high end Alexandria Hotel, he watches the column of smoke billowing from the ruins of the Times Building. What happened is a crying shame. If he could help, he would, but Burns' biggest client has paid for him to deliver a speech to a room full of employees later that day. Can't let his client down. As he turns away from the window, there's a knock on the door. When he opens it, he's greeted by George Alexander, the mayor of LA. Burns offers his hand and invites him in. There's no small talk between the two old friends. Instead, Alexander launches straight into his plea. He is terrified that more bombs will go off in his city. Enough blood's been spilled on these streets already. And he wants to put a stop to it. He appeals to Burns' inquisitive nature. Take the case. Find the bombers. Burns' America's most famous private detective enjoys a celebrity lifestyle. Regularly taking up column inches in newspapers like the New York Times and even the London Spectator. He knows that the eyes of the world will be fixed on the events of LA for some time to come. And he wants to be a piece of the action. They'll take the case. But where to begin? Now, before Burns gets started, it's important for us to know a little bit about the United States at the time of the bombing. You see, in 1910, a domestic war was being waged between labor unions and those trying to suppress them. For years, the unions have campaigned for fair wages for the often dangerous work they did. The companies didn't just want to shell out the cash. So they began hiring non-union workers at cut prices. As a result, America's cities became hotbeds of unrest. Picket lines blocked business entrances. When non-union workers tried to get passed, violence erupted. But the situation reached a fever pitch when the first non-union construction site was bombed in 1906. In the years it followed, over 100 bombs went off across the United States, causing millions of dollars worth of damage. One of the most powerful voices within the anti-union movement was the owner of the Los Angeles Times, Harrison Otis. Otis exclusively hired non-union workers and turned his paper into a fiercely provocative anti-union journal. It's really no surprise that the LA Times Building was targeted. By the time Burns took up the case, hundreds of detectives across the United States had investigated the union bombings without ever getting close to solving them. So to say the odds were stacked against the celebrated private eye is an understatement. Okay, let's get back to the story. An hour after agreeing to take the case, bad news reaches Burns. An anonymous phone call to the police issues a further two bomb threats. Officers travel to Harrison Otis' mansion and discover a battered suitcase wedged into some hedges. After a quick discussion, an officer carefully removes it from its hiding place and carries it across the vast lawn. He gently unhooks one of the suitcase clasps, but a worrying noise from inside stops him in his tracks. Run, he yells, and his team follows him. Their feet slip on the morning dew, but they make it to a drainage ditch just in time. An explosion rips up turf and leaves a deep crater in the lawn. Thankfully, the blast is reasonably small and no one's hurt. The other explosive device is found at the home of the secretary of a prominent non-union association. A bomb disposes the expert succeeds in diffusing the device before it can explode. It's a stroke of luck because it means Burns now has a fully intact bomb to examine. Immediately, Burns notices a connection between this bomb and another he recovered in an investigation a few weeks back in Illinois. A detonation blew up a part of a railroad track, but another device, hidden under a girder, failed to explode. That bomb was also concealed. inside a suitcase. Burns calls his agency headquarters in Chicago and asks for the bomb to be sent to LA at once. It'll take a couple days to get there. Time Burns can't really afford to waste. Could there be a link between the LA and Illinois bombs? And if so, could that mean all the bombings are connected? Three days later, a courier shows up at police headquarters in LA with the explosive device from Illinois. Burns takes his place at the front of a packed room in the police station on first street. It's filled with police chiefs and some of the mayor's staff. Everyone wants to catch a glimpse of the enigmatic detective work. Like a magician, Burns holds the suitcase aloft. The similarity in their appearance is noted. Same size, same color. Then he lays him side by side on the table and opens them. Inside each is an alarm clock manufactured by the new Haven Clock Company and a battery. He tugs gently on the colored wires and checks the soldering that connects the various parts together. He's impressed by the workmanship. Burns closes the suitcases in unison and looks around at his waiting audience. They're silence as the assembled officers wait for Burns to make his proclamation. Identical, he finally announces. This means that both bombs were most likely made by the same person. You see, every bomb maker has a signature style. The way they solder the various pieces together, the type of wires used, the order of the circuit they make. Every single manufacturer is unique. Now this is good news, but not particularly helpful. Sure, I mean, it lets them know that they're probably looking for just one person, alone wolf. But how can they find out who the bomber is? There's a general air of frustration in the room, but Burns is relishing the moment. Let me inform you of something we've been fortunate to keep secret. The detective says he pulls a vile of sawdust from his jacket pocket and sets it on the table with a flourish. The frustration quickly turns to confusion. How can a few sawdust shavings help track down a bomber? Some of the crowd laugh. Is this a joke? But Burns hasn't been compared to the world's most famous fictional detective for nothing. Burns begins his explanation. Sawdust, he says, is used in the transportation of explosives. It's poured into the crate around the dynamite and acts as a kind of shock absorber. Of course, not everyone employs this method. Others use scraps of newspaper or wax covered cardboard. The other thing with dynamite is that it can't be transported over large distances. There's always the possibility that a light jolt will set it off. So it's usually bought close to where it's going to be used. And so, just after the railroad bombing, Burns hit the road to find nearby distributors who you sawdust to pack their dynamite. It led him to a storefront in Portland, Indiana. The owner remembered selling several crates of explosives to a man he had never laid eyes on before. The buyer had given the name J. W. McRaw and requested a rather unusual delivery. The owner was trying to bring the dynamite to a crossroads more than 200 miles away or the handover would take place. I mean sure it's stuck the owner as odd, but it's not illegal. So he did is instructed. While there was no address for the alleged bomber, the store owner did give Burns a good description. McRaw was in his mid-30s, chubby, medium height, with a dark, bushy mustache and dark eyes. Having examined both bombs side by side, Burns is convinced that McRaw is behind the Illinois Railway bombing and the LA Times bombing. Now just has to find him. But where? He could be anywhere in the States. And even worse, he could be building his next bomb at this very moment. Burns is at a loss, but one local officer has an idea. He examines the unactivated dynamite from the bomb found at the house of the anti-unionist. The officer tells Burns that it's what is known as 80%. It's more powerful than standard dynamite. What's more, 80% is generally manufactured in San Francisco. Excited by a break in the case, Burns immediately books a taxi and sets off for San Francisco. Two days later, Burns throws along the waterfront San Francisco, votes away in the general current, and overhead, flock of seagulls swoop and squawk loudly. The salty smell of freshly caught fish hangs in the air. Burns stops in front of an enormous red brick building. Assigned displaying the company's name, giant powder works, creaks as it swings in the light breeze. If he walks to the door, he passes sweat to drenched employees, wheeling wooden carts to waiting wagons. Inside, he's greeted by a clerk. During their conversation, he tells Burns about a suspicious character who had ordered 80% dynamite a couple of months back. "Why suspicious?" Burns asks. The clerk says that a man named Bryson called up inquiring about purchasing 80%. He was told to visit the store. The next day, when Bryson appeared, he introduced himself as "Bryce." When the clerk queried the change in name, Bryce became angry and threatened to take his business elsewhere. Keen, not to lose a sale, the clerk apologized and said "He must have misheard." But the incident lingered in his mind. The Burns asked the clerk to describe the man. Assuming that McGraw is a pseudonym, he's expecting to hear a similar description of the man he's already trailing. But the clerk's account is vastly different. The man calling himself "Bryce" is around 32 years old. About 5'10", maybe 190 pounds. His eyes are blue and his hair is sandy-colored and wavy. His most distinguishing feature is a large hooked nose. It quickly comes clear that Bryce and McGraw are two different men, which is a problem for Burns. He was convinced that McGraw was acting alone, that he was the sole bomb maker. Now it seems that there's at least two men in on the dynamite plot. So the clerk provides Burns with Bryson San Francisco address, the detective hurries across town, only to find that the address Bryce gave is actually an empty lot. The bombers are a step ahead of him, and it looks like he's run out of options. It seems that for the first time in his career, the famed William J. Burns might be beaten. The For a couple days, Burns lies low in a hotel room. His name's being dragged through the mud by non-unionists in LA for his failure to catch the bomber. He can't bear to face Mayor Alexander to relay the fact that he doesn't even have a lead. And so he goes back to the drawing board. He's known all along that the bombings have targeted non-union work sites. It stands to reason that the bombers are on the union side, right? So he delves in to other union bombings. In parts of the country he hasn't already visited yet. He quickly becomes apparent that Seattle was a hotbed of activity the previous summer. It's the only ladies got, so he makes his way to the Pacific Northwest, then really have a plan, but one quickly develops. After a conversation with the chief of police, he learns that the city of Seattle is known for being a teaching center for the construction trade. There are at least a dozen schools in the city that sell dynamite and show you how to use it. This gives Burns an idea. Could McGraw or Bryce have traveled to Seattle to learn how to make bombs? So Burns spends a couple days traveling around the schools, and he's rewarded for his determination. At the Seattle Trade School, a teacher remembers a JB Bryce. What's more, he matches the description of the man who purchased the 80% dynamite in San Francisco. The teacher tells Burns that Bryce had registered for a blasting course, but his enrollment seemed odd to the teacher. You see, Bryce gave his home address as Portland, Indiana. The training school is much closer than Seattle. What was this young man doing over 2,000 miles away from home? The mention of Portland and Indiana reminds Burns of something. Now if you recall, Portland just happened to be where the man calling himself "Megra" bought the dynamite used on the Illinois Railroad job. So, could Bryce and Magra be working together? Burns needs to get to Indiana and fast, but it's the other side of the country. It'll take days to get there. Luckily, his son is also a private detective, and he's closer. Burns sends a telegram, the message is simple, likely Bryce in Indiana. It's late October, 1910. Detective William J. Burns' son, Raymond, emerges from a train in Indianapolis. He walks through a cloud of accurate smoke, squints, you can see early morning sun. He sets off down the platform on the hunt for Bryce. With just a description to go on, it's not going to be easy. First, he walks to a telephone exchange in the center of the city. He rifles through phone books and finds that there aren't any JB Bryce's listed. Raymond was expecting this, so he goes with plan B. Since the man calling himself "Brice" is familiar with dynamite, Raymond reasons that he probably works in the construction business. It just so happened that the headquarters of the structural iron workers is downtown. Seems like a pretty good place to start, right? But he can't just barge into reception and state his business. That would alert Bryce, McGraw, and any other unknown players that the net is closing in on. Instead, he rents a room and an apartment block opposite the building. For four days, he watches and he waits. There's no sign of his man. On the fifth day, his persistence is rewarded. With his forehead leaning against the cool glass of the window, he watches two men emerge from the Union headquarters. Neither match the description of Bryce. One is tall and muscular, with kind eyes and gray hair spilling over his forehead. But the other man grabs his attention. The short, stocky man with the bushy mustache matches the description of the other suspected bomber. The man going by the alias J. W. McGraw. He watches as the two men say goodbye and then follows McGraw to the train station and onward to Chicago. When they reach the windy city, McGraw hurries to a street car outside the station and takes off. Raymond hails a cab and asks the driver to follow. And why the sudden haste does McGraw know he's being followed? He spots his tail on the train. He's going to try some sort of elaborate escape to throw Raymond off the scent. Apparently not. 15 minutes later, McGraw gets out of the street car at South Sangamon Street. He walks to a small red house that appears to be his home. As soon as he opens the door, two young children run up to him and he swallowed in a hug. Now that Raymond knows where McGraw lives, finding out more about him is simple. J. W. McGraw, as expected, is a pseudonym. The man is actually called "Ardie McManagal". He's unemployed and lives with his wife and kids and runs down suburb. Now, Raymond telephones his father and he relays what he's found out. He tells him about McManagal and is meeting the Greyhaired man who he doesn't recognize. For weeks, Burns has been researching the main players in the unions. The Greyhaired man, his son described, sounds like "J.J. McNamara". J.J. is a big deal. He's a high-powered union official responsible for the safety of thousands of working men throughout the United States. Now, I would a big shot like that. Take time out of his day to meet with the unemployed McManagal. Was it out of professional courtesy? Was it McManagal trying to gain lawful employment? Or was there a more sinister reason behind the meeting? Could J.J. McNamara be the mastermind behind all the bombings? After Raymond finds McManagal, Detective Burns orders round the clock observation. Raymond has pressing matters to attend to on another case, so Burns asks one of his most trusted detectives, William Dean, to take over. For a week, McManagal leads a fairly normal life. But on November 5, 1910, he bids his family goodbye. Dean follows him to the station, where he meets a friend and boards a train headed to Wisconsin. A little reason does McManagal have to travel nearly 400 miles to the frozen plains of Wisconsin, and who's the mysterious stranger he's traveling with. Dean intends to find out. He rents a cabin in the small town. He can't be too obvious in his attempt to befriend the man. He needs a plan, but before he can come up with one, there's a knock on his door. When he opens it, he's shocked to see McManagal staring back at him. He's even more surprised by the gun in his hand. McManagal, though, is not here for a shootout. He's crying, and he asks Dean if he can help. You see, his friend from the train, a guy called Sullivan, has gone missing. The two were out hunting, and his friend just wandered off. Dean grabs his coke, and follows McManagal out into the swirling snow. Could this be a trick? I mean, could McManagal have spotted Dean on the train and identified him as a detective? Is he being led to his own execution deep in the Wisconsin woods? Whatever's going on, Dean plays along. He knows he won't get a better opportunity to get acquainted with the suspected bomb maker. The two men troop through the forest. The falling snow obscures his vision, and the cold numbs his hands. The search proves fruitless. With darkness descending, Dean suggests turning back. Maybe Sullivan has already made it back to his lodgings, so they get back and they retire to the saloon for a beer. And they find Sullivan asleep in a chair in the corner. McManagal is thankful to his new friend, and asks Dean if he'd like to come to dinner. His way of saying a proper thank you. Later that night, Dean sits down at a table with McManagal and Sullivan. McManagal is good natured and humorous. Sullivan though, he's the opposite. He's Sullivan. He doesn't say much. Dean uses that opportunity to get a good look at him. Despite the blonde mustache and sideburns he's grown, the large hooked nose and wavy hair remind him of Bryce's description. It seems Dean may have found the man they suspect of planning the LA Times bomb. He needs to get a photograph of the man to burns to help with identification. But how? The next day, the trio are out hunting. Dean is slightly on edge. He's in the middle of nowhere with suspected terrorists and worse. They both have rifles. The early morning is eerily quiet. The sun is bright in the vast blue sky, but the day is cold. The only sound is the crunch of their boots on the powdery snow and the occasional burst of a song from a nearby bird. Suddenly, the gunshot tears through the stillness. Dean flenches. The bullet's not meant for him. He runs, pushing branches out of his way, emerging into a clearing. He finds Sullivan standing triumphantly over an enormous moose. He slugs whiskey from a hip flask, offers Dean a rare smile, spotting an opportunity that it takes. The detective offers to take a photograph of him and his kill. There's a long pause while Solomon ponders this, though he's always being tricked. Dean's about to put the camera away, feigning an error of non-chalance. And finally, Sullivan agrees. After the hunt, Dean develops the print and sends it to Burns. He hopes it's enough to confirm his suspicions that Sullivan is actually the LA Times bomber. It takes a week for the photograph to reach Burns, who's in San Francisco. He shows it to the salesman at Giant Powder, who confirms that the man in the picture is definitely the one who ordered dynamite from him. Burns reckons that the two suspected bombers are using their time and the wilderness to plan another attack. He digs into Bryce's life, makes a fateful discovery. Bryce's real name is Jim McNamara, the brother of high-powered Union Boss, JJ. Alright, now let's just pause here for a second. From months, the suspected bombers have gone by a variety of names in order to avoid detection, which can get confusing. From now on, we'll be referring to the two men using their real names. Ordy McManagall, the man accused of bombing the Illinois Railroad, and Jim McNamara, the guy suspected of planning the bomb in LA. Okay, now let's get back to Burns. The private detective and his men trail Ordy McManagall and Jim McNamara for months. The conspirators crisscross state lines and meet up many times. But there are no more bombings, if the Reyna Terabie over, have they seen the error in their ways or are they planning something even bigger than the LA Times bomb? It's April 12, 1911, six months since the blast in Los Angeles. A train chug slowly into the station in Detroit, the squeal of its brakes echo off the stone wall as it comes to a stop. A horde of passengers wrapped up in thick overcoats and wearing heavy-duty boots get off. Raymond watches from the end carriage as Ordy McManagall and Jim McNamara are swept towards the exit by the crowd. Are they here to meet someone or is the most populated city in Michigan, the scene of their next attack? Raymond follows it a distance with a couple of plain clothes officers in tow. McManagall and Jim McNamara's pace is leisurely. They walk in silence, taking care to avoid the cracks on the sidewalk with their suitcases. Could there be dynamite in them? Is that why they're taking such care with their movements? When they reach the Oxford Hotel in downtown Detroit, they stop and look up. The grand stone building runs for a block and stretches high into the sky, disappearing into the looming grey clouds. Then discuss something for a moment and then walk through the entrance. Raymond waits a beat and follows. He sneaks into a chair in the corner of reception and listens in. McManagall and Jim McNamara book their rooms using yet more pseudonyms when the receptionists hands in their keys. McManagall asks if they can leave their bags in the lobby and collect them later. He tells her that they've traveled a long way and just want to curl up in bed. Now Raymond had been given instructions from his father not to make an arrest unless absolutely necessary. He wants the bombers to implicate themselves. However, Raymond is convinced that there's ticking time bombs in those suitcases. He considers his options, but with hundreds of lives at stake, he realizes he doesn't have a choice. From inside his jacket, he pulls his trusty revolver, his footsteps echo off the tiled floor and marble walls. In a few quick strides, he crosses the lobby and jams the gun and McManagall's back. Before the suspected bombers can make sense of what's happening, the plane closes officers, slap handcuffs on the men and lead them away. Raymond asks for the hotel to be cleared and approaches the suitcases. His hands are shaking, his stomach contracts, one wrong movement, and the whole hotel could be blown to pieces. Sweat pulls on his forehead and dampens his shirt. Slowly, the undies one of the clasps and then the other. With one final deep breath, he opens the case. Relief floods his body. There's no dynamite, but there's a couple of guns. More importantly, there are 12 identical clocks manufactured by the new Haven-Cloth. The same type used in the LA and Illinois bombings. It seems Raymond has interrupted a manufacturing rendezvous. It'll be enough for the jury to convict the two men. Raymond's sure that. He has an idea. Faced with the prospect of the death penalty, one of the men might be willing to talk. Jim McNamara remains silent and non-compliant during his arrest. While McManagall seemed nervous and jittery, Raymond knows which one to target. From reception, he telephones his father and delivers the news of the arrest. Burns praises him for his quick thinking and asks his son to hold off interviewing. He's on his way and he wants to be the one to talk to Ordie McManagall. The next morning, Burns sits opposite McManagall in a cold, dark jail cell. He buttons his overcoat and introduces himself to the prisoner. Tries to strike up a conversation, but McManagall remains defiant. Undeterred, Burns tells him everything he knows. McManagall is a bomb maker. He bought dynamite using the name J.W. McGraw. He blew up the railroad in Illinois and may have played a part in the LA bombing. He'd been in the Wisconsin woods with another suspected bomber. Burns finishes by telling McManagall that the hangman's news is waiting. But if he cooperates, he might just be able to find a way to lessen the sentence. The realization of just how much trouble he's in seems to register. McManagall barely takes a breath before a grang to give a full written confession. But give it right now if the detective is willing to hear him out. Burns nods and McManagall begins his story. It goes something like this. Two years ago, he'd been working on a construction job in Detroit. It was there he was approached to undertake dynamite bombings on non-union construction sites. Jim McNamara showed him how to make a time bomb using clocks and batteries. Though it was his brother, JJ, the Union boss, who chose the locations and directed the operations. He is adamant that he had nothing to do with the LA Times bombing. It was Jim McNamara who bought the dynamite in San Francisco and planted the suitcase in the alley behind the building. Burns sits back in his chair. Over the years, he's interviewed a lot of men. He knows how to weed out a liar. On this occasion, he believes every word that leaves McManagall's mouth. What's troublesome is the news that JJ McNamara is the mastermind behind the scheme. He's a powerful man, well protected by the finest lawyers the country has to offer. All Burns has its hearsay from a soon to be convicted arsonist. Need something more? Something concrete that he can use against the Union boss. Luckily for him, McManagall hasn't finished his story. He knows exactly how to bring JJ McNamara down. It's April 22, 1911. A light drizzle falls from the gunmetal sky. As Burns and two Indianapolis detectives make their way up the steps of the structural iron workers office. The lobby is a bustling hive of activity. But their business is not down here with the laborers. No, they're here to take down the boss. Burns proceeds to the top floor and wraps on a heavy wooden door. The handle creaks and the door swings open to reveal a tall man with a youthful face and a shock of grey hair. JJ McNamara grins at the detectives and asks how he can be of help. The Smile Falters. When one of the office Officers, reads him his rights and holds out a pair of cuffs. JJ's eye scammed the hallway as if searching for a way out. Reluctantly, he offers his wrists, and the handcuffs are slapped on, but detectives lead him away, but Burns remains. There's evidence to be uncovered. To be sure that this moment is captured for the nation to see, Burns invites a number of reporters to JJ's office. He leads the members of the press to the cellar. Reporters and cameramen mill around the gloom, unsure of what's about to happen. Yet again, Burns plays the showman. He strides to and fro in front of a locked vault, before reaching into his coat pocket. To the quiet tinkle, he produces a set of keys given to him by the building's janitor. One by one, he inserts a key of the padlock, but none seem to work. The suspense builds. Some of the reporters begin to grumble. His Burns leading them on a wild goose chase. Just what is he up to? And then, a click echoes around the drafty space as the padlock yields. Burns steps wearily into the vault, like an archaeologist exploring a tomb. He shines his flashlight around, searching for something. The weak beam of the light travels over uneven stone walls and boxes of paperwork. So far, nothing incriminating. He moves deeper into the vault. And there it is. He stands for a moment, savoring his victory, before inviting the press to join him. There's a collective gas, as Burns theatrically pulls a blue tarpoli in off a tall mound. Under the covers are seven crates of dynamite. Boxes of fuses, piles of ledgers, detailing how JJ funded the terrorism. Perhaps most incriminating of all, there are 14 alarm clocks manufactured by the New Haven Clock Company. Burns stands in front of the vault, with his arms raised, like a Messiah. The evidence uncovered by the great detective is damning enough to convict already mcmanigle and the McNamara brothers. When the trial begins on December 1, 1911, the judge decides to spare the trio the death penalty. Instead, he hands down lengthy prison sentences. JJ gets 15 years for his part in orchestrating the scheme. While Jim receives a life sentence to be served at the infamous San Quentin, due to his part in helping bring JJ to justice, Ordemig Manigle gets off lightly, receiving only two and a half years. The destruction of the Los Angeles Times building was only one of hundreds of bombings carried out by the unions over a four-year period. More than a century later, Burns and his men are still remembered as the figures who brought that particular spate of domestic terrorism to an end. Burns sought in one justice for the 20 innocent souls who died in the LA Times bombing on that fateful night in October 1910. Praise reigns down on the detective from all sides, including from former president, Theodore Roosevelt. He tells Burns that all good American citizens feel they owe you a debt of gratitude or your service. It's a fitting epitaph for the man dubbed America's Sherlock Holmes, who, against all odds, solved the crime of the century. Next time, on detectives don't sleep. Jerry and El Paso, Texas, in 1972, following a man who is without a doubt America's most recognizable and flamboyant private eye, JJ Arms. His cases have taken him all over the world and back again. He's hunted down murderers, kidnappers, robbers, and cheats. Or for millionaires, celebrities, and poppers alike. In this particular paper, he's tracking down the kidnapped son of Hopper. Hollywood icon, Marlon Brando. For the time he's done with the case, JJ Arms will have his name and headlines all around the world. He'll almost die in a helicopter near miss and will have helped the Hollywood legend in the 10-year custody battle. That's all in a day's work for this guy. Join us next time on detectives don't sleep for the ballot of JJ Arms. (soft music)