Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins Read online

  Richard Sullivan

  The First Ward III:

  Murderers

  Scoundrels

  and

  Ragamuffins

  ◆◆◆

  And On It Continues...In The First Ward

  At the beginning of the 20th Century unspeakable murders plague the city of Buffalo that expose the police department’s inability to solve any of them, causing much frustration for Detective Jim Sullivan and his life-long friend, Police Chief Michael Regan. Dysfunction within the department attracts nationwide ridicule and causes the citizenry concern about their own safety. Jim, who was present at the site of the assassination of President William McKinley at the Pan American Exposition, is determined to prevent any such repeat when President William Howard Taft comes to town.

  Detective Sullivan’s younger brother, Alderman John P. Sullivan continues to be an absentee father to his ten children even as one of his young sons becomes the victim of a predator. The Alderman joins forces with “frienemy” Fingy Conners to rid the city of an honest political candidate who’s campaign promise is to take them both down. Meanwhile the Alderman directs the most wildly successful bash in the city’s history.

  The Sullivan brothers’ mother Mary is recalled as the victim of a vicious character assassination at the hands of Buffalo Evening News proprietor Edward H. Butler.

  Both tragedy and near-tragedy visit the Alderman’s home, leaving wife Annie reeling while bringing her closer to similarly-afflicted sister-in-law Hannah. Hannah Sullivan meanwhile makes friends with a fiercely opinionated woman with a dark past who helps her see the light.

  Cousin John L. Sullivan, former heavyweight champion of the world, entertains as guest of honor at a Mutual Rowing Club celebration while earthy W.C. Fields impresses the Sullivan brothers’ sons. John L. reflects on the failures in his life despite his worldwide success.

  Fingy Conners rises to greater heights financially and politically than ever before while boldly protecting his criminal friends and bulldozing over anyone who threatens to get in his way. Conners signs on as William Randolph Hearst’s campaign manager during Hearst’s run for Governor of New York and is rewarded handsomely. Fingy establishes a charitable fund for a hero’s widow and their three children, widely touted on the front page of his Buffalo Courier newspaper. After urging Western New Yorkers to contribute generously he subsequently hordes all the money, leaving the penniless family in the lurch for a year and a half. An astonishing revelation pertaining to the true cause of death of Fingy’s son and successor threatens to launch a “war in the streets.”

  Visit www.mutualrowingclub.com

  for photos and information on

  the Mutual Rowing Club.

  Other Books

  by Richard Sullivan:

  The First Ward

  The First Ward II: Fingy Conners & The New Century

  The First Ward IV: His Lips Forgot The Taste Of Truth

  Driving & Discovering Hawaii: Oahu

  Oahu Spectacular Beaches: Driving & Discovering Hawaii

  Driving & Discovering Hawaii: Maui and Molokai

  Reclaim Your Youth: Growing Younger After 40

  Family Tree Secrets & Genealogy Search Tips

  The First Ward III: Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins

  by

  Richard Sullivan

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2018 by Richard Sullivan

  Montgomery Ewing Publishers

  [email protected]

  [email protected]

  No part of this work or publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means whether digital or analog without prior permission of the publisher Montgomery Ewing Publishers LLC.

  ”Mutual Rowing Club” is a trademark of the Sullivan Family Trust.

  ISBN-13: 978-1515212515

  ISBN-10: 1515212513

  Dedicated to the Memories of

  Steven Whelan & Sonja Stieglitz

  for their life-long friendship, ceaseless generosity and

  indelible imprint upon my life

  — ever since we were kids together.

  A C K N O W L E G E M E N T S

  At the dawn of the 20th Century in the United States, the idioms, phrases and habits in use in both speaking and writing were quite unique. Varying from neighborhood to neighborhood and publication to publication, so distinctive are these from the homogenized mainstream language that we know today that any attempt to mimic their unexampled prose is destined to end in failure. As a writer I have tried, but it is impossible to paraphrase or adapt early 1900s language into my own author’s voice in any manner or style faithful to the colorful inimitable original. Therefore I acknowledge I have freely purloined phrases and sentences from unnamed published news writers of the day to whom I would gladly give credit had a byline appeared alongside their news story. Unfortunately this was rarely the case.

  Transcriptions of actual news articles are sprinkled throughout every volume of The First Ward series including this one, Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins. Although ultimately a work of fiction, the copious use of actual historical figures, facts, and events is at the heart of my The First Ward series. It is especially vexing to accept that so dictatorial a figure as Fingy Conners, who had his four-fingered hand in every pocket and his threatening fist in everyone’s face, could have disappeared into the mists of time so richly rewarded. The characters in The First Ward are my ancestors, either by blood or marriage, including the infamous Fingy. You can visit virtually the entire cast of characters at Holy Cross Cemetery in Lackawanna NY if so inclined.

  I am indebted to my cousin Corky Connors whose stories, as told him by his grandfather Harry Bullen in the 1930s about events connected to Fingy Conners contributed invaluably to this volume.

  A special appreciation goes to Mary Lou Woelfel who entrusted me with a handwritten history of life in Buffalo’s Old First Ward as authored by her many family members, and to Joe Coutrara of Vincennes Street for sharing with me his remembrances of the Beaches and of the Mutual Rowing Club boathouse on South Street.

  The First Ward series would not be possible without the astonishing accomplishments of Tom Tryniski and his newspaper archive Fulton Postcards. On his own, with no funding from any outside source, Mr. Tryniski has as of 2015 archived over 30 million newspaper pages from his home in Fulton NY, all searchable online. By contrast, The US Library of Congress has received $22 million in public funding as of 2015 to archive only a fraction of that number of news pages.

  ◆◆◆

  Most appreciatively of all, I wish to thank my sister

  Barbara Sullivan

  for her enduring support and encouragement.

  Little Girl Lost

  ◆◆◆

  It had been ten days since the disappearance of little Marian Murphy from her family’s home at 259 West Avenue.

  “We are not in circumstances to pay a ransom,” stated Cornelius Murphy, her father. “I am only a subscription agent for the Catholic Union & Times newspaper and thus not particularly well-to-do.”

  On the evening of June 17th Marian had gone to a candy store on Malta Place with her friend Emma McGinnis to help her spend a portion of the 5 cents Emma’s father had given her. Marian let Emma ride her bicycle. On the way back, Marian ran ahead. When Emma finally caught up to where she thought Marian would be waiting, the corner of Pennsylvania Street and West, her friend was nowhere to be seen. It was 8:30 o’clock. The sun would not set for another half hour. Emma rode around the corner to Marian’s house to return her wheel. There she asked where Marian was. One of her siblings told her that Maria
n was in bed. “Already?” responded Emma. That’s odd, the little girl thought to herself. Emma nevertheless accepted that answer and left to walk back home alone.

  Unfortunately, Marian Murphy was not safe in bed but was rather in quite dire straits at that very moment.

  Marian’s father Cornelius returned home from work at 10 p.m., much later than usual. By that time Mrs. Murphy had become quite worried. Mr. Murphy notified the police. Later he claimed he left immediately afterward to go out searching for Marian and didn’t return back home until sometime after midnight.

  The hearts of the city’s mothers and fathers beat with greater anxiety upon digesting the details boldly printed in the subsequent days’ newspapers. Theories ranged from Marian’s drowning in the Erie Canal seven blocks away to being taken by hobos but no theory carried greater weight than any other, for there was as yet no trace of her.

  It was realized that no child was safe on the streets if the Murphy girl could be so discreetly carried off in broad daylight from the very avenue upon which she lived without one single person claiming they’d witnessed the abduction. Since nothing amiss had been seen nor heard, it might have been assumed she went willingly in light of warnings from her parents about strangers offering candy. Her mother began to fear that perhaps her abductor might not have been a stranger after all.

  Overnight, parents throughout the region assumed a keener vigilance with regard to the whereabouts of their children. Mothers who previously had little reason to worry about their offspring suddenly took to periodically pausing in the midst of their chores to stand on their front porches and call for their children to come report. Traditionally children had free reign to roam. But once Marian Murphy vanished, closer scrutiny was applied overall. The usual gangs of youths that reliably gathered on every street corner after supper in the extended daylight hours of summer were no longer evident. The laughter and shrieks of children joyfully carousing with sheer abandon, so ubiquitous in the city’s neighborhoods in the evenings as to be scarcely noticed, were eerily silenced.

  Marian’s mother was distraught. She had taken to sleeping on the couch in the front room, she explained to her husband, to be close to the door in case news arrived in the night That in fact was not her real reason. She dozed there fitfully between caring for her two month old baby and suffering crippling despondency over her missing six year old. Her guts were entangled in knots as much from anguish as suspicion.

  Marian, like most children, reliably held to a predictable routine. Hers included gathering with playmates down the street to invent games, throwing stones at passing horses and then running away to hide from their infuriated owners, and absconding with fruit from the neighbors’ pear and peach trees. She had the habit of calling on the friendly Chinamen at the laundry around the corner where the yellow men provided modest treats of nuts and sweets to the neighborhood children.

  A public feud played out on the city’s front pages between Chief of Detectives Patrick Cusak and Police Superintendent Bull. Bull was convinced Marian was kidnapped and he doggedly pursued that possibility through his detectives. Cusak on the other hand was certain Marian had drowned in the Erie Canal. Neither man had any proof whatsoever to support his theory. Bull stated he didn’t have a problem with Cusak’s theory so long as his activities did not take anything away from the investigation relating to the kidnapping theory. Cusak had the canal trawled with a grappling hook for days on end. The search party began below the Townsend Street bridge where Hudson Street intersected the Erie Canal at the Scheu Malt House and worked their way down toward The Front. The work was tedious. The men toiled in eight hour shifts. Nothing was ever found.

  On that terrible evening that no one will ever forget, Robert Troup, a florist and the son of Forest Lawn Cemetery superintendent George Troup, was sent by his father to patrol the banks of Scajaquada Creek and the goldfish pond at the perimeter of the cemetery. This was his daily habit. Fishermen haunting the bridge routinely invaded the lovely cemetery property whilst fishing in the creek. They left behind trampled shrubbery, crushed flower beds and fetid deposits of their own excrement in their shameless wake. Supt. Troup was disgusted by this. Forest Lawn was a showplace. So exclusive was it that there was a requirement that visitors halt, register, and obtain a Single Grave Ticket at the guarded entry gate before being admitted to visit the cemetery grounds.

  It was shortly after 6 o’clock in the evening. The cemetery gates had already been locked. The summer solstice sun still burned hot. Young Troup walked his route with his friend George McGill, also a cemetery employee. They reached the fence at the bridge but found no fishermen there. They dawdled a bit, watching pedestrians and wheelmen go by. Then they crossed over the Delaware Avenue bridge. Looking down into the water, Troup saw something odd. As they studied the sight from above, it appeared that the object might be the head of a doll. Then they saw a little arm. It was human.

  Shocked, the young men sped quickly back to the Troups’ home, the caretaker’s house on the cemetery grounds. There a lead plummet and a chalk line were secured. They returned to the spot, tied the plummet to the line and cast it out from the shore. When Troup drew the line back in, the plummet caught the body. By careful handling the corpse was dragged through the motionless water to the stream bank. There they bent down to inspect their regrettable catch. They saw that the small bloated cadaver was wrapped in a fragment of a cotton sheet and some old newspapers with twine. The frightened boys ran home and notified Troup’s father who immediately dashed across Delavan Avenue to the saloon at the corner of Main Street to place a call to the police at the Sixth Street Station.

  ◆◆◆

  The scene at the morgue when the bundle was opened was one of horror. Chief of Detectives Cusak and Detective Jim Sullivan, having witnessed every conceivable form of depravity in their long careers, pressed handkerchiefs firmly to their nostrils. They were sickened to the point of vomiting. Jim, having fathered seven children, almost blacked out upon seeing what had been done to this once beautiful baby.

  The coroner stated there was no way he could determine how long she had been in the water since decomposition was so advanced. Marian was bound and hogtied in such an unnecessary manner as to suggest torture being its primary purpose rather than immobilization. Hands and feet were tightly bound behind her. A rope looped around both was pulled to its most extreme extension so as to cause unbearable pain, if indeed she had still been alive at the time. Appallingly, a line tied tightly around the little girl’s throat had also been attached to the wrist and ankle ropes so rigidly that the line itself was now hidden from view, it having bitten deeply into the flesh of her neck. The knots were all a jumble, indicating the knot-tier was unfamiliar with the finer points of the seaman’s art. Her front teeth had been knocked out.

  Detective Sullivan was intrigued by the way she was wrapped. He had ongoing associations with detectives in the New York City Police Department. He often went to New York to retrieve a suspect or prisoner or to question a witness. The detectives there had some interesting ideas. Among these were the differences in the conditions in which a murder victim might be found. The covering or wrapping of a dead body, they’d come to believe, indicated that the killer had feelings for the victim. That the killer was not some stranger.

  As soon as the outraged body of the child was found, the Buffalo Express newspaper retained a private physician and dispatched him immediately to the morgue to make his own examination and hand in the report to the editors. The report was impressively complete in light of obstacles both legal and ethical. The Express chose not print these details even though their advantage in reporting the findings in the highly competitive news market would be unrivaled. The Express kept private this information and only made use of it to further the investigations of its determined reporters.

  It was late when officers showed up at the Murphy home. They asked Cornelius Murphy to accompany them in the patrol wagon, not revealing for what purpose.

  “Di
d you find my little girl?” he asked unemotionally.

  The officers did not respond. Murphy nervously accepted their silence as a yes. It took them fully a minute, but one of the officers finally piped up.

  “We just found something that we’d like you to study for clues.”

  Murphy exhaled a temporary sigh of relief, his composure lasting only until the patrol wagon pulled up to the brick building with the word MORGUE painted starkly in mournful black.

  Cornelius Murphy was escorted inside trembling. He stood frozen by the door at first, hat in hand. Detectives Cusak, Sullivan and Cornish, the Coroner Mr. Danser, and two Specials assembled morosely around a copper table. The bed of the table was pierced with hundreds of utilitarian holes arranged in a decorative pattern. Murphy saw liquid dripping onto the floor from these perforations. A brass-lined channel embedded in the concrete floor guided the liquid to a drain. A little blob having somewhat of a human form lay on the table still wrapped in the sheet fragment and newspapers as found. It was fettered with what appeared to be clothesline cordage. The form was turned on its side.

  Cornelius Murphy was cooler than circumstances might warrant considering his reputed temperament. He walked deliberately to the side of his decomposing child. A little undershirt with elastic at the hem was all that the little girl wore. Otherwise she was entirely naked. For a full two minutes Murphy studied the baby with an unyielding gaze. His eyes grew watery; the detectives wondered if that may have originated more from the stench rather than from emotion. He maintained his composure in eerie silence. Finally he monotoned, “I think it’s the child.”

  Sullivan took note. Then Murphy placed his hands on the jellied surface of the body and began feeling around the midsection. He was searching for a mole or wart or some such so that he might be certain. His fingers slipped around due to the slimy surface. He found nothing that would make his identification absolute.