Bath Massacre: America's First School Bombing (9 page)

Another thing Ward observed was that whenever a proposition was put
before the board Kehoe inevitably would raise some kind of objection.

Ward’s bus route never took him past the front of Kehoe’s place unless the weather was bad; generally speaking, he always took a shortcut on the gravel road behind the property. Every afternoon Ward passed Kehoe’s fence at about the same time.

And—Ward eventually noticed—Kehoe would be there, keeping his eye out for the bus. As Ward passed, Kehoe would look at his watch. It was almost like a ritual.

Nothing was ever said between the two about this routine. Ward figured Kehoe was just making sure the bus was running on time.
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Ruth Babcock, the home economics teacher, inadvertently provided Kehoe with an opportunity to take Huyck down a notch. The superintendent, a no-nonsense man, had difficulties with the headstrong teacher. Her educational methods didn’t mesh with Huyck’s ideas. There were confrontations between the two, battles for control over classroom decorum. At the end of the school year in 1926, Huyck recommended that Babcock’s contract not be renewed. Babcock wrote down her observations and feelings about the superintendent, then provided these missives to the board of education. Kehoe demanded that the issue of Babcock’s employment be reconsidered at the next meeting. The board agreed under the condition that Kehoe “investigate” the situation.

At the June meeting, Kehoe presented Babcock to the board. She explained in detail what was necessary for home economics—a vital part of any young woman’s education—to succeed at the Bath Consolidated School. Babcock concluded her presentation by presenting the board with a table made by her students.

Kehoe’s case for Babcock was reconsidered. A vote was taken. Huyck’s decision stood.
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In July of 1926, all of Bath turned out for the annual school meeting. It was asked that the voting rules be suspended so two pro-Huyck trustees could be reelected by acclamation. Through a series of procedural confusions the standard rules were followed, but Huyck’s supporters were easily retained. Kehoe’s tightfisted ways were clearly no longer in favor with the citizenry.

For the time being, Huyck retained a very public power over the obstinate trustee.
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Kehoe’s public life was spiraling. He was looking less like a crusader and more like a crank. Still, the buttoned-down farmer had some standing in the community as an active participant in school interests. As an expert electrician and mechanic, it was inevitable that his assistance would be sought—and it was freely volunteered—when various problems cropped at Bath Consolidated. One of Kehoe’s more stellar contributions was his conquest over a bee infestation. Over the winter of 1925–26, a nest of bees hibernated beneath the school. As the furnace warmed up the school during those cold days, it inadvertently aroused the sleeping bees. They swept throughout halls and classrooms, stinging children and adults without mercy. The school board authorized Huyck and his principal, Floyd Huggett, to do something,
anything,
to stop these swarms. Twice they tried, and twice they failed. When a third infestation hit the school, Kehoe volunteered his services.

The bees were quickly annihilated. Just how Kehoe exterminated the pests is unclear. No one seemed to know what he did beneath the school, yet his solution did the trick.
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(Years later, when athletic teams representing the Bath schools were named the Bees, rumors lingered that this was a throwback to the great bee infestation of 1925–26. In truth the moniker came from a contest in which a student submitted the name “Bees” in dubious honor of a swarm that had infested his father’s workplace.)
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After demonstrating his ability with bees, Kehoe was asked if he wouldn’t mind doing some much needed work on the school’s electrical system. The board also authorized him to oversee other aspects of school’s maintenance program. Plumbing. Tiling. General repairs. He agreed, did the chores without assistance, and was given unlimited access to the building, day or night, as needed.
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These jobs demanded intimate knowledge of the Bath Consolidated School building, inside and out, above and below. Kehoe learned about every corner, every crevice, every unused space. It was powerful knowledge for someone entrusted with upkeep and maintenance. The added duties certainly provided a unique perspective on the school for a trustee with his eyes on the future.

Job Sleight had a good reputation for helping neighbors who didn’t own automobiles. All people had to do was ask when Sleight was headed to Lansing and he’d be happy to drive them where they needed to go, load their purchases into his truck, and drive them back to Bath. In October of 1925, Kehoe asked Sleight for a favor. Kehoe needed supplies for repairs at the school. His laundry list included bolts, pipes and fittings, and range boilers for the furnace. Sleight was happy to oblige. After the trip, he even helped unload the supplies at the school so Kehoe could begin his work.

Sleight always marveled at Kehoe’s ingenuity. The man was a natural mechanic.
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On another occasion that fall, Kehoe telephoned Sleight for a ride. “Would you like to do me a favor and go to Jackson?” he asked. This was no small request; the round trip between the two towns was nearly a hundred miles.

“I presume I can,” Sleight told Kehoe. “Maybe I can go soon. I have to go to town anyway.” Sleight said he’d think it over and get back to Kehoe. As it turned out, Sleight made the trip the next day, though Kehoe couldn’t go along. First, he explained, he needed to contact suppliers in order to make his purchases.

“What do you need?” asked Sleight.

“Pyrotol” was the reply. Kehoe explained that he wanted to blast some old tree stumps on the west side of his farm.

Going to Jackson just to pick up some pyrotol was an odd request, Sleight later thought. After all, Kehoe did a lot of volunteer work with local farm bureaus, and these organizations sold army surplus pyrotol to anyone who needed explosives.

Still, Sleight did the neighborly thing. Some time later the two men drove to an outfit just northeast of Jackson. They loaded ten boxes of pyrotol into Sleight’s truck, a total of five hundred pounds. Kehoe also bought four boxes of blasting caps with which to set off the explosives.

“You don’t want those caps anyplace but in your pocket,” Sleight told Kehoe. “You keep them caps right with us.” It was simple common sense. Put those blasting caps next to the pyrotol, hit one bad bump, and the two men would be blown to bits.
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During the drive back Kehoe mentioned that he’d be happy to pass
along some of the explosive material. “If you know anybody that wants to buy it, they can get it for a little more than I paid for it,” he told Sleight.

They unloaded the boxes in Kehoe’s barn, said their good-byes, and Sleight went on his next errand, a ride to the local freight house where he needed to pick up a stove. It was late afternoon when Harry Barnard met Sleight there. They lifted the stove onto the truck bed, then headed over to Sleight’s. “I haven’t been home since this morning,” Sleight told Barnard. “I have been down with Andrew Kehoe to get some pyrotol.”

“I wish I had known that,” Barnard said. “I would have sent for some.”

Some time later, Sleight ran into another friend who said his brother needed explosives for stump blasting. Sleight suggested that the brother contact Kehoe. As it turned out, Kehoe said he didn’t have any left.
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Eventually Kehoe didn’t need Sleight or anyone else to drive him on errands. In February 1926, some seven years after moving to town, Kehoe finally acquired a machine of his own, a flatbed Ford truck, good transportation for a farmer.
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Still, considering his penny-pinching reputation, it seemed like an expensive purchase, particularly for a man who wasn’t exactly getting rich in the farming business.

In the summer of 1926, Nellie Kehoe, always a quiet woman who seemingly lived in the shadow of her boisterous husband, developed serious health problems. She was hospitalized for a short while in the summer; soon she was plagued with a series of mind-numbing headaches, followed by severe coughing. Color drained from her face. Nellie lost weight off her medium-build frame. She was in and out of Saint Lawrence Hospital in Lansing throughout the fall and into the winter.
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Doctors first thought it was tuberculosis, then decided it was asthma.
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At home she rarely ventured out of the house, becoming something of a recluse to her already small social circle. A young woman was hired to help around the house as Nellie couldn’t do much for herself.

Charlotte Howell, the wife of the Kehoe’s neighbor Sydney Howell, was deeply concerned about the situation and often stopped by to check on Nellie. On one visit, the hired girl whisked Mrs. Howell to an upstairs room. Nellie Kehoe sat in the corner, pale, sickly, coughing, wheezing. Every breath, it seemed, was a painful struggle. Worried that her presence was too upsetting, Mrs. Howell offered to leave lest she upset Nellie. The feeling was mutual, albeit opposite: Mrs. Kehoe was more concerned that she might pass her illness on to Charlotte. “Mrs. Kehoe,”
Mrs. Howell said, “you know there is nothing in the world I wouldn’t do for you.”

“I know,” Nellie responded.

But there was nothing she could do. As Charlotte Howell walked down the staircase, she heard the sounds of Nellie Kehoe’s loud coughs following her every step.
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A grove of trees, always a beautiful sight no matter what the season, was on the edge of Kehoe’s farm. Over time it unofficially became known as Kehoe’s Woods.

It was a plentiful source of firewood. Once, while Kehoe was working in the grove, a tree crashed through the foliage, bringing down heavy branches and landing with a magnificent thud.

Kehoe was hit, hit bad. He emerged from the woods, blood pouring down his face.

Unlike his fall in Saint Louis, this crack on the skull didn’t knock Kehoe into a coma.
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