Bath Massacre: America's First School Bombing (11 page)

On December 31, as 1926 turned into 1927, Bath celebrated in typical fashion. The Community Hall was crowded with teens for a New Year’s dance, which, of course, was overseen by a few adult chaperones.
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Elsewhere in town friends gathered to mark Mrs. Artemus Clark’s ninety-third birthday. The weather that night was typical of the season, with the temperature holding in the mid-twenties.
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Midnight struck. As couples kissed and people wished each other happy New Year, the celebrations were interrupted by loud
booms!
Massive explosions rocked the area as though Bath was under attack. A series of bright flashes lit up the Kehoe farmland. Then all was silent. A cloud of dust and smoke hung in the air.

It was unsettling for a quiet farm town, something for people to talk about. A few days later Harry Cushman ran into his friend Job Sleight and asked if he had heard any dynamite explosions on New Year’s Eve.
“No,” Job replied, “what of it?” Sleight apparently was the soundest sleeper in town.

“Kehoe shot off some New Year’s night about midnight,” Cushman told Sleight. “He was shooting off the old year.”

“I guess so,” said Sleight. It occurred to Sleight that he’d seen Kehoe walking around his farmhouse on January 1, looking upward with a careful eye. It was as though Kehoe wanted to be sure the chimney was still attached.

A few days later Sleight and his wife paid the Kehoes a visit. The foursome talked a bit, then Sleight asked about the holiday cacophony. “I heard you were shooting off dynamite New Year’s Eve,” he said.

“Yes,” Kehoe replied. “I thought I would shoot some off. I set some out and wired it up and set it for twelve o’clock.” He explained that a timing device was used to set off the explosives.

Kehoe laughed a little to himself. “I guess I jarred them up,” he said.

As Sleight later recalled it, Mrs. Kehoe, who’d just been released from one of her many hospital stays, didn’t say a word about her husband’s New Year’s festivities.
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And still there were no payments on the mortgage.

In February of 1927 a professor at Michigan State College, looking to purchase a home for his father, made an offer for the property, the original twelve-thousand-dollar price Kehoe paid in 1920. Kehoe was hesitant about selling, but his feelings were quickly moot. The offer was withdrawn when the potential buyer decided the taxes on the land were exorbitant.
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The farm still generated interest even though the owners hadn’t put it up for sale. A few weeks after the professor’s offer fell through, a potential buyer asked Dunnebacke about the property; wisely the attorney decided to stay out of the situation, sending the man to Nellie’s sisters. His reasoning was that the sisters knew Mrs. Kehoe best, which put them in a better position to discuss a potential sale. Again nothing came of the offer.

On March 31, Kehoe paid an unexpected visit to Dunnebacke’s office. A third party was interested in buying the farm. As part of the sale, Kehoe was offered equity in an unnamed property and would have to sign an option agreement.

What did Dunnebacke think?

The attorney told Kehoe he “wasn’t crazy about the deal.” It would put Kehoe in a bad negotiating position. He would have to sign an option, whereas the buyer would not; additionally, there was little information on the second property for which Kehoe would be given equity.

Kehoe thanked Dunnebacke. It seemed like good advice, he said.

In mid-April Dunnebacke and Kehoe ran into each other downtown. The two men shook hands, made small talk.

What did you do about that deal, Dunnebacke asked.

The advice was good, Kehoe told him. He had decided not to sign the option.

It was a pleasant enough exchange. It appeared that any animosity between the two had evaporated. Dunnebacke was relieved; perhaps Kehoe was finally coming to his senses.

It was his last meeting with Andrew Kehoe.
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Kehoe’s duties as school board treasurer included dispensing employee checks. This was a task Kehoe engaged in with cynical relish. Every twenty days he’d roam the school hallways, going from classroom to classroom, giving each teacher a paycheck. In a cold voice and with an expressionless face, he would tell each recipient, “Well, it’s another month.”
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When it came to Huyck’s salary, Kehoe’s delivery was sporadic at best. He’d often “forget” to bring the paycheck to the superintendent’s office.
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Obsessive frugality was one thing for a school board member. Contempt for the faculty and administration was another animal. Kehoe wasn’t winning any friends among his peers.

Not that it bothered him any.

As janitor, part of Frank Smith’s job was to make sure all the doors were closed at nightfall. It was a simple enough task, never a problem at all. That changed in early spring when he saw something a little out of the ordinary.

The back door was split around the lock. It was an odd little break; Smith couldn’t really tell how it had happened. Still, with a little effort the door closed.

In early May the lock stopped working altogether. As usual when it came to repairs, Kehoe was consulted. This time he couldn’t do a thing,
so the lock bracket was taken off its shock absorber and sent to Lansing for repairs.
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Allen McMullen, a man of some sixty-nine years, enjoyed watching Kehoe install a lighting system on a neighbor’s farm. It was something new, something different. McMullen and Kehoe exchanged pleasantries, just idle chitchat between two men. One evening Kehoe made McMullen an offer.

“Have you any use for a horse?” asked Kehoe.

“I don’t know,” McMullen replied. It had been a few years since he had had a horse on his farm. “I expect I could use one once in a while.”

“Well,” Kehoe said, “There is two horses over in the barn tearing the barn down. Come on over and get one.”

Kehoe asked what McMullen would give him for the horse; McMullen said he wasn’t interested in buying the animal. They let it go at that.

A few days later Kehoe arrived at the McMullen farm, proffering horse and harness. The animal, named Kit, was blind in one eye.

Regardless of the horse’s condition, the gift caught McMullen by surprise. “This is pretty nice to have somebody wait on you like that,” he told Kehoe.

“Oh, I don’t mind that,” Kehoe said.

McMullen’s sister happened to be at the house; would Kehoe like her to drive him back home?

“No,” Kehoe told McMullen, “I don’t mind walking back.” The whole visit, from beginning to end, didn’t last more than five minutes.

Two nights later McMullen was having supper at a mutual friend’s house when Kehoe stopped by on some business. Once again Nellie was in the hospital, and the friend, a man by the name of Weed, insisted that Kehoe stay for dinner.

It was a clear evening, a nice time to be outside before a meal. McMullen and Kehoe sat on the porch for a few minutes, talking shop. Then, almost as an afterthought, Kehoe reached into his pocket, pulled out a typewritten piece of paper, and handed it to McMullen.

“What is this?” McMullen asked.

“Read it,” Kehoe told him.

“I can’t read it,” McMullen said. “I haven’t got my glasses.” Kehoe offered to oblige.

He read the paper nonchalantly.

It was a bill of sale for the horse.

May 4. 1927, Received from Allen McMullen

One hundred twenty dollars in

full payment for one bay mare, ten years old, blind in left eye,

weight 1800 pounds. Named Kit.

$120.00. A. P. Kehoe.

This was the first Kehoe told him the horse was not a gift but a sale. Money was not asked for until now.

McMullen was at a loss for words.

Not knowing what the legalities were in this situation, McMullen held on to the horse for a few more days. Did the bill of sale mean he was responsible even though he never asked to buy the horse? Finally he drew one conclusion: he must go to Kehoe and say he would return the animal.

Although he knew Kehoe was spending every morning in Lansing visiting Nellie in the hospital, McMullen took a chance and went over to the house on May 7 around eight o’clock. He saw Kehoe’s Ford in the yard; apparently he was home. McMullen went to the backdoor and knocked. No answer. He went around to the front and knocked on that door, again no answer.

McMullen dawdled a bit in front of the house. Maybe the man was just sleeping in.

Finally he walked across the road to the David Harte place. Did they know if Kehoe was home?

“I saw a light there late in the night,” Lulu Harte told him.

David Harte invited McMullen in to use the telephone and call Kehoe. “You might rout him up,” Harte said.

There was no answer. McMullen visited with the Hartes a while, then decided to try knocking on Kehoe’s door again. Still no answer. He sat down on the steps, sat there the better part of an hour, wondering what was going on inside. McMullen tossed over various scenarios in his mind, none of them pretty. Maybe Kehoe’s gone and hung himself, he thought, though there was no reason to believe this was the case. Finally, McMullen figured he ought to round up some neighbors. Something was seriously wrong; if Kehoe was hurt he would surely need help.