Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins Read online

  “Who would drown this little girl?” he asked the room.

  It had not been determined that she had died of drowning. It registered with Jim Sullivan that Murphy was not referring to Marian in the possessive, such as “my child,” or “my little girl.”

  “The brute what done that,” declared Murphy after a period of silence, “deserves the same fate.” Next he grasped the undershirt, He examined it closely. Again he found nothing to make his identification absolute. “Can’t I take this to Mrs. Murphy and see if she recognizes it?” he asked. Coroner Danser denied this scant privilege, saying he’d rather Mrs. Murphy come to the morgue to identify it.

  Cusak pulled Sullivan and the coroner aside to discuss whether the shirt should be removed or kept in place. Removing it would require cutting the ropes. It was argued it might be best the body not be disturbed in case some additional clues remained to be discovered therein. Jim Sullivan offered the opinion that knowing Mrs. Murphy’s fragile condition, exacerbated by ten days of tortuous uncertainty since Marian had disappeared, and understanding that she had been kept from becoming a nervous wreck solely by the administration of powerful drugs, that it would be unwise to bring her to the morgue.

  “Come. We’ll take you home, Mr. Murphy,” Cusak offered.

  ◆◆◆

  In the days previous to the discovery of his daughter’s body, Cornelius Murphy had conducted a number of odd discussions with his wife. Stories had floated around the neighborhood about a threat made against their rich neighbors. Cornelius theorized to her that Marian was kidnapped mistakenly due to her physical resemblance to the daughter of the wealthy Gibbs family living around the corner.

  Little Helene Gibbs had black hair and dark brown eyes.

  Marian Murphy had flaxen hair and blue eyes.

  Immediately following that conversation, Cornelius paid a visit to the Gibbs home. There he spoke to Mrs. Clara Gibbs who became quite disturbed by him. She had learned from the neighbors that Murphy had spent some time previously in a mental institution. His questions, Clara reported, were so threatening that she ordered him to leave. Thereafter she called the police. Detective Sullivan was sent to her home. She related the details to him. He thought them disturbing. Mrs. Gibbs told Sullivan that her conversation with Murphy ended with her screaming at him, “You know very well that Marian was never stolen! You’re only pretending to be looking for her!”

  Mrs. Gibbs and her husband Albert were individually persons of independent means. Mrs. Gibbs was the sister of Alonzo J. Whiteman, the cleverest bank swindler, forger, and all-round crook in the annals of American crime. Whiteman had a history of more than twenty arrests. He had been released on parole in Boston the previous October. Mrs. Gibbs had supplied money to Whiteman several times when he was in trouble with the police, always against the wishes of her husband and because blood is thicker than water. Recently Whiteman was said to have made frequent demands for more money and to have threatened Mrs. Gibbs when he failed to get it.

  Alonzo Whiteman quite enjoyed his reputation as the most remarkable crook and check forger in the entire country. He was born in Dansville NY, and like his sister, had an excellent education. He went through Hamilton College and was graduated with honors from the law department of Columbia University to join the bar in Livingston County. His exceptional talents seemed to assure for him a brilliant career. When 24 years old he was a member of the Legislature of the State of Minnesota. Four years later he was a state senator and member of the national Democratic committee and held an enviable public position in Duluth, where he had built a beautiful mansion. He was president of two banks and had been elected Mayor of that city. It is said that Whiteman’s father left for him and his sister Mrs. Gibbs $1,500,000 to be divided equally. In fact more than that sum had been originally bequeathed to their mother Rebecca Whiteman on the condition that after her husband’s death she not remarry. The requirement of the will was that if Rebecca remarried she would forfeit everything. Loneliness prevailed and a canny attorney arranged for Rebecca to retain a certain portion of her husband’s wealth.

  Alonzo had a working basis financially and he was rated in Duluth at $2.000,000. Whiteman’s downfall began when he ran for Congress and was defeated. Perhaps the most notable fact about the man’s criminal life is that he had never served a day in a real prison, avoiding commitment there each time upon some technicality of the law.

  The main theory of Marian’s disappearance was a botched kidnapping attempt by an agent of Whiteman named Bob Knox whose actual target was Mr. & Mrs. Gibbs’ daughter Helene. Whiteman had demanded from his sister $2500 three weeks previous. She refused him. He became infuriated and made threats of kidnapping the Gibbs child. For that reason the girl was not allowed to wander away from the front of their home located at the corner of Pennsylvania Street and West Ave.

  Mrs. Gibbs had been thoroughly shaken both by Cornelius Murphy’s visit to her house and the threat posed by her brother. She was terribly frightened and beseeched her husband to flee with the family. That night at 2 a.m., the same night of Murphy’s threatening Mrs. Gibbs, the Gibbs loaded up a hack with their trunks and fled their house. Hot on their heels were Cornelius Murphy and the older Murphy children riding bicycles. They kept a discreet distance. Murphy had deemed the Gibbs’ flight suspicious. The Gibbs’ vehicle made a roundabout route to the C&B docks. There the Gibbs family waited to board the Western States. Mrs. Gibbs was interviewed by a Courier reporter waiting there.

  “No significance at all,” said she, “can be attached to our leaving. Oh, yes, in fact we have intended to go for four or five days. Mr. Gibbs was thinking of going yesterday ahead of me, but we decided it would be better to all leave together. Yes, we’re bound for Detroit. We have business up there. Yes, it’ll be a very pleasant trip up the lake, I’m sure.”

  The newspapers had gotten wind of the rumored kidnapping plot of the Gibbs daughter and had questioned Mrs. Gibbs previously.

  “You still maintain, don’t you,” she was asked by the newsman. “that your brother made a verbal demand for $2,500 in Detroit three weeks ago?”

  “Nothing further to say than I said last time. I think that covers it all. I’m awfully sorry I told you of my suspicions previously. It has brought much unpleasant notoriety upon us, but what’s done can’t be undone.”

  The Murphys on their bicycles watched from the shadows as the Gibbs boarded the Detroit-bound steamer, then returned to their West Ave. home. The following morning friends called at the Murphy house to tell Cornelius that they had raised $1000 to put up as a reward for the return of Marian. He was especially relieved for this affirmation of his public attempts to locate his daughter, especially coming so soon after Mrs. Gibbs’ damning accusations.

  ◆◆◆

  Murphy had seen enough to convince him that the body lying before him was indeed that of Marian. He was anxious to return to West Avenue and deliver the tragic news to his wife. Driver White of the Fire and Accident Dispatch wagon was assigned to take Murphy home. Detective Cornish followed on his bicycle. The other detectives followed minutes later in a patrol wagon. Cornelius Murphy arrived home well before his followers. Reporters encamped there anticipated his entering the house immediately, which he did not. Rather, he dawdled out front.

  “Well, why don’t you go in?” asked one of the reporters.

  “I want everyone to go in when I do,”said Murphy.

  Murphy was still loitering in front of the house when the detectives arrived. They assumed he was steeling himself for the dreadful errand that lay ahead: telling the child’s mother. The detectives approached him. He remained motionless.

  “So, what are you waiting here for, Murphy?” asked Cusak.

  Murphy replied, “Before we go in I want it understood that Mrs. Murphy is to say nothing unless all of us are present. I want everything out in the open and above-board.”

  The detectives exchanged quizzical looks with each other.

  “Whatever do you want
that done for?” queried Detective Cornish.

  “Well, I don’t want you to think I am keeping anything from you.”

  Murphy unlocked the entry door. It was almost midnight. The detectives followed him in, tailed by the reporters. Mrs. Murphy was sound asleep on the sofa. He shook her gently to awaken her. The baby stirred in the crib next to her but did not cry.

  “Mother…” he began. She awoke groggily.

  “What? Oh my!” she gasped. There was a sickening scent on her husband’s hands. “Who...?” She recoiled seeing the detectives and the reporters standing there invading the privacy of her parlor. She shot bolt upright. The time had come.

  Cusak introduced himself. He gently took her arm and said he wished to speak to her alone with the other officers on the case. He asked her to step into the kitchen. When she got up to accompany Cusak, Cornelius Murphy followed. Cusack and Sullivan blocked his way and told Murphy to wait a minute.

  “The Chief wants to talk to your wife alone,” Jim Sullivan said. “You had better wait out here.” Sullivan then joined the other detectives and Mrs. Murphy in the kitchen. Murphy sat down and waited in the parlor with the reporters. Nervously he kneaded his fingers. He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose thoroughly. He fished his subscriptions notebook from his breast pocket and flipped absentmindedly through its pages. After a few minutes he got up and once more tried to get into the room in which his wife was holding the conference with the detectives. Sullivan stood right inside the kitchen door and refused to allow him in. After a few minutes Mrs. Murphy came out. She seemed greatly perturbed and cried as she paced slowly up and down the floor. The detectives, with Chief Cusack, still remained within the kitchen and could be heard commiserating in low voices. Mr. Murphy grew uneasy. He cautioned his wife not to get excited. The detectives soon emerged.

  “Come with us,” Cusak said.

  Cornelius Murphy was removed to station No. 10 and questioned intensely there for a half hour by the detectives. Among the details he was queried about was the cord that Marian was bound with. Murphy was quick to respond that a length of clothesline had been stolen from his backyard a week previous.

  “Was that before or after Marian disappeared?” Cusak asked.

  “Before.”

  “Did they steal anything else?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Why would anyone steal a length of five cent clothesline?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did you discover it? Why would you care about such a minor thing? Do you ordinarily do the family laundry?”

  “No, I was in the yard tidying up and simply noticed the clothesline had gone missing. That’s all.”

  At 1:15 a.m. he was allowed to leave. From there he went to the morgue to claim the body. He was refused. He argued, but the coroner was adamant. He turned to exit. Then pivoted and approached the body once more. He set to examining the hands closely. He was looking for any trace of certain little marks. These he could not locate. Suppuration had already set in. The skin was receding from the flesh. The marks he was searching for seemed to have been entirely obliterated by the deterioration that the body had suffered after so many days submerged. Murphy left the morgue at 2 a.m. He was immediately accosted outside by a reporter from the Buffalo Express: The reporter had been made aware by his editors of certain details gleaned from their hired physician’s examination.

  “Do you suspect anyone?” Murphy was asked.

  “Whom would you suspect?” he replied. “When I walked in just now and saw them pull out the thing on which my little girl lay I thought it was my child lying asleep. But of course, when I came to look at the face the features were gone. Yet in my heart I knew it was my little girl.”

  “What is the name of the person you suspect?” asked the reporter.

  “I’m not saying anything,” answered Murphy, “because until tonight I would not believe that any human being would be monster enough to do such a thing.”

  “Was your child assaulted?”

  “No,” said Murphy.

  “How do you know?”

  “Well. I don’t think she was at least. I haven’t been told she was.”

  “How long do you believe the body has been in the water?”

  “I have no way of knowing that, have I?” stated Murphy.

  “It was in longer than a day, was it not ?” queried the reporter.

  “I can’t tell how long it was in.”

  “You think she was not thrown in the water the first night after being kidnapped?”

  “She never went near the water of her own account, anyhow,” replied the father.

  “Where do you think the clothes are?”

  “Why, they would burn them, wouldn’t they?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “So there would not be any trace of her left, and the police would not know.”

  “What was there around the body?”

  “There were newspapers and the little shirt she had on. The other clothes were not there.”

  “Do you think the police will ever find those?”

  “I don’t think they ever will.”

  “You think there was more than one person in this affair?” inquired the reporter.

  “Why?” responded Murphy.

  “Because you said ‘they’ burned the clothes.”

  “How could one person have got her over the fence alone?” said the father.

  “What fence?”

  “Forest Lawn.”

  “Why should they have to put her over the fence?”

  “Because,” said Murphy, “the gates at Forest Lawn close at 6 o’clock.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Someone told me.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “What part of the fence did they put her over?”

  “I don’t know that; how should I know it?” shot back Murphy defensively.

  “Then you believe they put her over the fence and dropped her into the water where she was found?”

  “I didn’t say that, except as I know she never would go near the water of her own accord.”

  “She was found beneath the Delaware Ave. bridge which might allow some to think she had been thrown off that bridge, yet you believe she was hoisted over the high fence around Forest Lawn instead and thrown into the creek thereabouts?”

  “If she were thrown from the bridge they may have been noticed.”

  “Then they took her there after 6 o’clock at night, you think?”

  “They must have.”

  “You think that was the night she was kidnapped?”

  “I am sure I don’t know about that.”

  “If it wasn’t that night where do you think they kept her until they did throw her in?”

  “I don’t know; and come to think of it, I believe they got her that night after she left home, tied her up, took her out there, hoisted her over the fence and threw her in.”

  “Well. Mr. Murphy, you say they did not assault her, so why should they have taken her off the street, burned her clothes, left nothing but a shirt on her, wrapped her in newspapers, tied ropes around her, taken her out there, hoisted her over the fence, and thrown her in?”

  “Well, do you think they could have kept her for ransom, and then, when they found out such a muss was being made about it, sneaked out there some night and thrown her in?”

  “Then you are quite sure there was more than one in it?”

  “Yes, because how could only one have hoisted her over the fence?”

  “Are you very sure she was hoisted over the fence?”

  “Well. I believe they took her out there, hoisted her over the fence, and threw her in.”

  “Have the police any clue?”

  “I don’t want to talk about what the police are doing.”

  “They talked with you at police station No. 10, didn’t they?”

  “Why, yes. Naturally, I wouldn’t
say anything what they talked to me about.”

  “Did anything they said to you point to any definite clue or toward suspecting anyone?”

  “No, not that I know of, because all that I know is that I never knew until I saw that little body that anyone could do such a thing. I didn’t think there was anyone alive who could do it.”

  “Well, Mr. Murphy, have you in mind the name of any person you suspect?”

  “All I have got to say about that is that I didn’t believe until I saw it with my own eyes that there was anyone alive who would do such a thing. But, at any rate, that ends the suspense, although I was sure all the time and told Mrs. Murphy that the body never would be found in the Erie Canal.”

  The following morning with the help of stimulants the grieving mother of Marian Murphy was able to sob out the identification of a lock of hair and the little shirt brought to her still wet by the police. Surrounded by detectives and reporters she turned to them, and in her medicated haze uttered in a barely audible voice, “It is God’s will.”

  Austin Crowe

  ◆◆◆

  Less than twenty-four hours after Mrs. Murphy had received the horrifying news about her little girl, four well dressed young men entered the combination saloon and grocery store owned by Austin Crowe at 130 Fulton Street in the First Ward. Upon approach the four men spotted Patrolman Bill Storck up ahead, his back to them as he walked away. Storck was walking his beat and had just poked his head into Crowe’s Saloon to say goodnight. Crowe had closed the grocery and was in the process of closing up the saloon for the night. He was tallying receipts. The young men ordered a round of beers. They had previously been to a couple of other First Ward resorts, drinking beer and overall spending not more than ten minutes in each. They had been to Cavanaugh’s saloon on Perry Street immediately before. There they caught the attention of customer Peter Kane. The four were strangers to him. They were all young, he recalled, smooth shaven and well dressed. All wore fancy vests and white shirts and collars. Two wore derby hats and the other two fedora soft hats.