Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins Read online

  “Why are you searching over there for heaven’s sake? I believe my grandmother is in that same hole,” she reasoned through chattering teeth.”It only makes sense! The murderer’s not going to labor himself digging two holes!”

  The officers returned to the spot and resumed digging. She was correct. Less than a foot of earth had separated the couple.

  Men, women and children gawked from the now-jammed yards of neighbors who were charging five cents for access to the fine view of the proceedings from their property.

  “What kind of mothers are you people?” shouted Jim Sullivan at the predominantly female crowd. “You’re little better than ghouls!”

  The crowd stood stone-faced, unmoved and without shame.

  As soon as word was relayed to Supt. Bull of the gruesome discovery the wily Chief sprung into face-saving action. He ordered Captain Regan and Detective Sullivan off the case entirely. Bull declared the murders a top priority at Headquarters now that all the work had been done despite his lethargy and ridiculing. Notwithstanding Regan’s entreaties for Bull’s cooperation and the city’s newspapers’ criticism of his department’s inaction, the Superintendent immediately put in place a scheme to deflect attention away from his own ineptitude. Captain Regan’s relentless good work in ferreting out the crime had caused Bull and the other discredited Headquarters brass to become quite piqued with him.

  An armada of police entered the Jefferson St. house to search it thoroughly. Inside they discovered a letter to a woman in Erie Pennsylvania alluding to a visit there by the suspect Bonier. Word was sent to Erie, where Bonier, operating under the name of John Meyer of West Seneca N.Y., was arrested by local officials and taken to the Erie Police Station on 7th Street. Supt. Bull ordered Detective Hanafelt to Erie where he picked up the prisoner for transport back to Buffalo.

  In an editorial, Fingy Conners’ Courier newspaper usurped credit from Regan and Sullivan for their dedication and independent investigation of the Frehr business and instead congratulated itself for calling attention to the circumstances surrounding the Frehrs’ disappearance.

  From the Buffalo Courier:

  Our Palsied Police Department

  Within a comparatively brief period this city has been the scene of a number of ghastly tragedies. The latest, the murder of old Franz Frehr and his wife in the home they had occupied for more than an ordinary lifetime, classes with the most ruthless. They disappeared, and another old man, known as Charles Bonier, immediately assumed possession of the premises, explaining that he had bought the house and the former owners had gone away; he knew not where, but he believed to some retreat in which they would be secure from annoyance by grasping relatives. This man, of the age of seventy-five, but well preserved and burly, is in custody. He denies that he killed the victims, but confesses to forgery of the deeds by which their property was conveyed to him.

  This much known, the rest can be expected to be early revealed. The case has many features to make it one of the most interesting in the criminal records of Buffalo.

  On the 20th of last month the old couple dropped out of sight. Relatives became anxious as to their whereabouts. The statement of Bonier was inconsistent with the opinions of these relatives, and becoming apprehensive that evil had happened, they reported the matter to the police officials, who jeeringly put it aside as not worth considering. The Courier took it up and from day to day urged the spineless department to make some exertion for solving the problem. Eventually at the insistence of relatives, “John Doe” proceedings were instituted for obtaining testimony, possibly, that would show where Mr. and Mrs. Frehr had gone. Bonier was subpoenaed. His failure to attend the hearing partially roused the police authorities from the chronic coma which made the quest of the Burdick murderer futile, let the assassins of Austin Crowe escape, and permitted the unspeakably horrible death of little Marian Murphy to pass unavenged. Abject failure in relation to these three atrocious crimes brought the attention of the entire country to the Buffalo police department’s incapacity.

  Galvanized to motion by Bonier’s highly suspicious absence, men were called to the home of the Frehrs, the bodies of the murdered pair found but a little way below surface of the ground enclosed by a newly erected shed. Their skulls had been crushed. A hammer with which the slaughter doubtless was perpetrated was also found. The most self-sufficient and know-all specimens of police imbecility who had sneered at the suspicions of foul play were now compelled to admit that murder had been done. Plainly the next thing to be done was to find the murderer, or at least the person who could be fairly suspected of the deed. He had been allowed every opportunity for getaway, and might never again have been located but for his own indiscretion in leaving behind a letter with the address of the people with whom be sought a temporary asylum at Erie.

  In not one particular has the police department earned credit in this remarkable affair. But for the insistence of the Courier and the relatives, and the sensible course of the latter, the disappearance of Mr. and Mrs. Frehr might have remained a mystery until their disappearance was ultimately forgotten.

  Abomination

  ◆◆◆

  Ruth had a lovely tea set out for just the two of them.

  The white ceramic imported teapot was spotted with tiny green raised shamrocks. She had asked Mr. Carlo to notify her when the National Biscuit Company made a delivery to his grocery store so she could buy unsullied Lorna Doones and Vanilla Wafers. She had seen people with dirty hands reaching into the bins to fill their paper bag with the treats, and was repulsed. “The children I understand,” she declared, “but the old people! Ugh! Why are some old people so neglectful of their cleanliness?”

  Since that revelation she’d sworn off buying unwrapped items from bins accessible to the public. Fig Newtons came in a wrapped box as well, just like Arrowroot Biscuits, but Carlo said he hadn’t the room on his shelf to stock them. In truth he was able to sell far more of the treats from the bins because customers who could not afford an entire package, especially children, could buy as few as they wanted, and these numerous little sales mounted up nicely for him.

  So Ruth purchased two packets of Ridgways tea at ten cents per package and a good assortment of the freshly-delivered biscuits, along with laundry soap, noodles and sundry other items that she’d not have difficulty carrying home on the streetcar.

  Hannah was attracted to Ruth like a magnet. She had no one else to talk to, truth be told. Annie was overwhelmed with babies these days. Annie was also mired deeply in her Catholicism, becoming terribly uncomfortable whenever Hannah launched into questioning certain things.

  Annie had lost her little Michael in 1899 after only eight days alive. She’d confessed to Hannah at the funeral that she was finished having babies, her body exhausted from the physical abuses of pregnancy.

  Hannah suggested she try the half-lemon method, but Annie reacted as if she were slapped across the face. She would not defy the Church.

  “What other choice have you, Annie?” she reasoned. Annie just shrugged.

  Some weeks after Michael died the alderman remarked unkindly to his wife that she had gotten fat. An insensitive ass was he, oblivious to the ravages that carrying multiple human children for nine months had inflicted upon her body over the years and the sadness and pain she was suffering. His way was to just move on, as if the death of a baby was no more disruptive than a common cold. “Chalk it up and get on with life” was his motto, and for him moving on required sexual intercourse at least three times a week. “Imagine, at his age!” Annie would despair to Hannah about the alderman’s “carnal desires” which thankfully had diminished somewhat since she gained the weight. “He doesn’t like me stout at all,” she said, “but I am quite enjoying having some peace and quiet from him and not being awakened in the middle of the night to satisfy his urges.”

  And so she made no effort to lose the weight and even delighted in no longer denying herself when she hungered for a sweet. When Annie discovered she was again preg
nant on the last day of the Pan American Exposition in October 1901, she despaired, and cried on Hannah’s bosom.

  Ruth had said something to Hannah that she repeated to Annie not attributing its source, but Annie well knew where it came from.

  “How brazen of priests and nuns who have never made a family, never experienced the pain of birth, never had to scrimp and save just to buy food and coal and children’s shoes, to demand blind obedience from those of us who have had to do all these things. Where in the Bible does it say we cannot ourselves decide how many children to birth?”

  “It’s not for us to question Hannah,” Annie scolded. “Seems to me that Ruth woman sure’s been fillin’ your head with dangerous ideas. I’d be careful of her if I was you.”

  ◆◆◆

  Ruth smiled at her patiently as Hannah sipped her tea, holding it, allowing the buttery Lorna Doones to melt in her mouth. “Whoever invented Lorna Doones deserves a medal,” stated Hannah matter-of-factually.

  Ruth had for all intents become Hannah’s new confessor. She talked to her about everything. About Fingy Conners’ wife Mary, who had not so long ago spread the false rumor that Hannah’s Jim was enjoying the pleasures of another woman, and how Hannah had boldly visited the mansion to have it out with her, and victoriously hadn’t heard so much as a peep out of the woman since.

  Hannah was boastful of how she’d handled that, with less violence than she’d feared. But Ruth theorized she hadn’t heard a peep because Mary thinks of Hannah as not worth a peep, if she even thinks about her at all. This took the wind out of Hannah’s sails for a moment. Then she said, “If she doesn’t think about me then she’d never have invented such a detailed story about my husband.” Ruth had to agree she had a point. But now after the fact, the victory she enjoyed in her head might rightfully be more as Ruth theorized. The thought brought her down a bit. Somehow Ruth artfully bridged that discussion to settle on the rumors about Father McGill.

  “He’s molesting that child and the parents are lookin’ the other way. It’s a crime how Catholics are so spineless and compliant, so willing to shut up and do as ordered. If it was my child I’d take a butcher knife and cut that priest’s dirty cock off,” calmly stated Ruth.

  Hannah was a bit shocked. She had never heard another woman call it a “cock” before. Hannah felt guilty pushing the thought of that priest hurting little children out of her mind, but she had no idea what to do about it. She tried feigning ignorance, even once claiming she was not aware of that rumor. “Oh that’s hard to believe, Ruth. He’s a priest after all. Those children might just be making up stories.”

  “‘Those children’? Who said anything about there being more than one?”

  “Oh, uh, I misspoke. What I meant was…”

  Ruth riveted her eyes on Hannah’s. “Yes, Hannah. I know exactly what you meant. You cannot turn your back on something so despicable. You’ve heard the stories but preferred not to listen. I’ve caught you now.”

  Hannah looked down at her tea cup and turned red. “I thought of going to Father O’Connell about it but I had no proof. Stories without proof are just rumors, Ruth. What would it look like if they turned out to be untrue? How could I face those priests ever again?”

  “Well, because nobody’s been speaking up now it’s your own nephew who gettin’ buggered.’”

  Hannah jolted and spilled some hot tea in her lap. “What?” she yelped. “My nephew? Which one?”

  “The alderman’s namesake. Johnny,” revealed Ruth.

  Hannah had to catch her breath at the news.

  “Mary Sweeney told me she’s seen him from her parlor window across the street. She’s seen that priest take those little boys from the rear of the church into the side entrance of the rectory, and a half hour later the boys come out all alone with troubled looks on their faces.”

  “I can’t believe it!” Hannah gasped, at the same time knowing she finally had no choice now but to accept the rumor as true, what with McGill’s aggressive behavior and sanctimonious airs towards her and others. For a moment she was going to tell Ruth that Ruth herself had been a topic of discussion in McGill’s confessional, with the priest demanding to know who she was and where she lived. But Hannah caught herself.

  Then Ruth surprised her. “Mary Sweeney told me that priest has been asking about me all around the neighborhood. She stopped me two days ago up on Elk Street. That priest said to her ‘Do you happen to know the name of Hannah Sullivan’s blasphemous friend who’s turning her away from the Church?”

  Hannah was stunned. The priest had violated the Seal of the Confessional. He had revealed to others what transpired between him and Hannah within the confidence of the holy sacrament. She felt betrayed. Used. Violated. She became livid.

  “He’s taking what was said between him and I in the sacred confines of the Church’s confessional and spreading it all over the Ward!” she squawked. ‘And even broad-casting my name?”

  It was a watershed moment for her. One of the strongest tenets Hannah Sullivan held pertaining to her Catholic faith immediately came crashing down. Her head was sent spinning.

  “Oh, Hannah! Honestly! Of course you should be confessing your sins to God directly. Have you never even given a thought to what kind of charade that is, that demand of Catholics to tell a priest all their supposed wrongdoings? As if he is some direct conduit to God Himself and you yourself are not? As if you are unworthy, as if you have no right to form a relationship with God directly? It is a ruse, a method of control, to keep you and others like you in line, to keep you going to church, to keep you putting money in the collection plate! Confession indeed!”

  Ruth harrumphed loudly.

  “Anyway, Mary Sweeney told me that on the previous day she had heard a dog barking and looked out her window to see the Alderman’s dog Mickey tied to a post in front of the church rectory. He was on a rope lunging wildly toward the rectory door, as if trying to reach it, and barking as if in a panic. Then, twenty minutes later, the Alderman’s little boy came out the side entrance, looking quite distressed. The boy couldn’t untie the dog quickly enough. The dog seemed so relieved, so agitated, as if he had been terribly worried. Johnny took the dog and ran away with him in the direction of his house.”

  Hannah was stunned silent.

  “Here I thought you and Mary Sweeney were the best of friends. And yet she’s keeping this terrible secret from you...you and the Alderman.”

  Ruth locked her gaze on Hannah. She leaned forward in her chair and touched her hand gently. “So now it’s up to you to tell his parents, Hannah. You must do it quickly. But first you need to pay a visit to Mary Sweeney so as to get the story straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  ◆◆◆

  From the Buffalo Courier:

  Judge Murphy, at Close of Inquest, Decides to Issue Warrant Charging Old Man With Killing of Aged Mr. & Mrs. Frehr.

  Bonier Will Be Arraigned in Police Court Monday.

  Capt. Regan’s Activity and Good Work in Ferreting Out Crime Caused Headquarters Officials to Become Piqued.

  One of the two or three unique and interesting features connected with the cold-blooded butchery of Franz and Johanna Frehr, whose lives and property were taken from them by Charles Bonier, the police believe, which came to light yesterday, was the ardent activity suddenly shown by the headquarters detectives and Supt. Bull in placing the crime at Bonier’s door. To such lengths did the zeal of some of the enthusiasts carry them that Captain Regan of the William Street Station, who had started the investigation and carried it nearly to definite ends, was suddenly told to “go way back and place himself in a sitting position”; to subside, as it were, and pay no more attention to the butchery or to its solution, as the Detective Bureau would carry on the case.

  It was a strange proceeding. There is no precedent for it. In former days and under former Superintendents of Police the theory on which all were asked to work was the theory that when murder was committed it was the duty of all to bend all t
heir energies to solve the mystery and apprehend the malefactor.

  No active, energetic, skillful and experienced man who was working on a mystery and was gathering in stray strands was ever told to stand back lest there might be an unfair division of public approbation.

  Last night Capt. Regan, who was taking a night at home, was called from bed at his home at No. 85 Louisiana Street and asked to say whether or not it was true that he had been summarily called out of the Frehr case.

  Being a far better soldier than one Teddy Roosevelt of national notoriety, Regan was too diplomatic to voice any criticism of his superiors.

  “Why, anything that was done was according to department rules, I suppose,” said he. “You see, it was much easier for headquarters to handle such a case. There are stenographers there to take statements from witnesses, the office of the District Attorney is close at hand and frequent conferences are always necessary in so blind a case.

  “That’s all there is to it. As far as I know, there is no friction, certainly none on my part. Gen. Bull didn’t give me any call-off of the case. The Headquarters gang are in a better situation than the men of No. 8 to handle case.”

  Capt. Michael Regan, the gigantic head of the William Street Police Station, who took charge of the search for the bodies of the Frehrs upon notification of their disappearance, was the first witness on the stand. The big thief-catcher and riot-breaker was not in his usual good natured mood; presumably because the various Vidocqs and Lecoqs at Headquarters had used influence to have him taken out of the case, lest a member of the uniformed rank should overshadow the sleek disciples of Sherlock Holmes who work from Headquarters, wear plain clothes, look wise and take life easy.