Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins Page 6

  Jim’s mind was galloping. It was Sunday after all—a day of rest. He needed to occupy himself with something more pleasant. He looked around. There was no one home to talk to, not even the dog. He got up from his easy chair to look out the window. It was gray and ugly outside. He headed for the kitchen.

  He cut himself a heel of Hannah’s brown bread, took the tin of peanut butter from the cupboard, stirred the contents to incorporate the oil, spread a thick dollop on his shingle, then tromped up to the attic. It could use a good tidying, he justified, but in truth he was feeling nostalgic. He had a hankering to rifle through some of the trunks toward the back wall, trunks preserving things that had belonged to his late mother, gone eighteen years now.

  He tugged the chain on the Edison light that hung from a cord. The filament, encased in clear glass, quickly glowed hot orange. He made his way past broken chairs that he’d never gotten around to fixing, crates and boxes he thought he might need some day if they ever decided to move but had forgotten were even stored here, and the chiffonier his mother loved but Hannah thought hideous. He spotted a smallish trunk. He’d tackle that first.

  He opened the latch and raised the lid. A whiff of musty air awakened his memories. Inside, yellowing books and newspapers sat atop a short pile of neatly folded unworn clothing items, two shirts and a jumper. One of the shirts still had the price tag attached: $1.20. The pieces had belonged to his stepfather Peter Halloran who stated that he was “savin’ ‘em fer good.”

  Halloran died before “good” had a chance to come a-knockin’ at the front door.

  Beneath these was a surprise: a long-forgotten toy fire steamer that had occupied hours of Jim Jr.’s otherwise mischievous time, ten, twelve years back. He pulled it out, knowing little David might make good use of it now. A few books came into view. Halloran’s signed copy of Mark Twain’s Innocents Abroad. A colorfully illustrated copy of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol flooded his head with memories of many a happy Christmas in the early years of his marriage before tragedy visited them. He would read the story aloud to the kids after tucking them into bed. He flipped through the pages. A news clipping fell out. He picked it up and glanced at the first few words.

  He’d successfully forgotten all about it, until now.

  He recalled rescuing it from the trash torn and crumpled after his mother had angrily thrown it away long ago. That was, what? A year or two before she died? He had retrieved it then and hidden it away. He didn’t know why exactly, other than wanting to remember just how cruel people could be for no reason at all.

  He scoffed at how naive he had been back then, still believing for the most part that newspapers only printed the truth. He settled himself in the light of the attic’s one small window and began to read.

  Only one week after joining the Buffalo Police Department twenty years previous in May 1883, Jim Sullivan had come home from work to find his mother crying in the parlor. She was unwilling to tell him the reason. The following morning Mike Regan pulled him aside at the station house and asked if he had read the previous day’s Buffalo Evening News. Jim had not. Mike produced a copy. There, on the editorial page, just a column away from the masthead announcing “E. H. Butler, Editor and Proprietor,” was a story titled A Romance of The War.

  “This? You want me to read this?”

  “Aye,” responded his friend since childhood.

  Mike Regan’s father, a shoemaker from Cork, had stood up for Jim’s mother Mary and stepfather Peter Halloran at their wedding at St. Brigid’s back in ’64 when the two friends were barely eleven. The families remained close to this very day.

  “I thought I should be the one to bring it to your attention, before anyone else had the chance,” Regan intoned sorrowfully.

  A ROMANCE OF THE WAR

  Peter Halloran’s Hasty Marriage, Which

  He Is Now Repenting at Leisure

  Peter Halloran was a Union soldier during the war, and at the Battle of the Wilderness was badly wounded. He was taken to the hospital, and when he had recovered sufficiently to travel was furloughed to come home until he completely recovered from his wounds. When he reached Buffalo he met in the depot Mary Sullivan, the widow of John Sullivan (no relation to the Boston slugger), another Union soldier, who was killed in the second battle of Bull Run, August 30th, 1862. It is not known the reason that prompted Widow Sullivan, but then and there she proposed marriage to Halloran, who immediately accepted, and the twain were married.

  Peter, as in duty bound, fell deep in love with his new-found buxom wife, so much so that be gave her all the money he had. After the war was over he returned to Buffalo and lived with his wife, who in the meantime had secured a pension on account of the loss of her first husband and Peter himself secured a pension for wounds received in battle. He continued to give his money freely to his wife, Mary, who saved it and at length purchased a house and lot on Hamburg street in her own name where she now lives. Of late years, Peter, his wife alleges, had been addicted to drink and become a useless appendage about the house, so much so that she turned him out from under the roof his money had helped to procure. Peter, who is gray, old and feeble from age, applied to the courts for relief and now sues his wife for money advanced, amounting in all to $3320. The case is now on trial before Judge Beckwith in the Superior Court.

  Jim’s jaw unhinged as his eyes widened. He remained silent for some moments, seething.

  “Who... who concocted this shite?” he finally bellowed. His facial expressions had a difficult time keeping up with the succession of murderous thoughts galloping through his mind.

  “There are more than a quarter million people in this city to write about—rich people getting away with their terrible deeds, dirty politicians, drunken railroad engineers, cruel teachers—yet the News devotes the top of their editorial page to printing slanderous dirt about my poor old sick mother who never hurt nobody?”

  Jim studied the thing. The entirety of the Buffalo Evening News story was cruel fantasy from beginning to end.

  After Jim had read the article Mike Regan reminded Jim of an important fact.

  “My uncle Brendan was killed in the Battle of the Wilderness, which was, let me see...” Mike silently resurrected the events surrounding the family tragedy. “In 1864. It was the month of May if I recall correctly, because my neighbor old Mickey Shea wouldn’t shut up about what a hero he himself had been in that scuffle. But in fact, my own father stood up at your mother and Halloran’s wedding in ...”

  “January 1864!” Jim recounted. “My mother and Halloran were married in January 1864! That’s almost a half year before the Battle of the Wilderness. Yet in this trash piece the News claims my lovely mother was as yet a widow some five months after her marriage to Halloran, loitering away her days in the rail depot, painting her as being some kind of trollop out on the public hunt? Insinuating that she was out to entrap that worthless old piece of shit? I’m goin’ to go pay that Butler dirt bag a visit!”

  “Thought you might. We’ll go together,” offered Regan. “Grab yer coat. And your revolver.”

  They walked briskly down headquarters steps toward their goal. Regan, angry for his friend and wishing to help preserve the good name of Jim’s mother, whom he held dear, continued. “And how about them claimin’ too that yer not related to the great John L.? That fat buggerer sits up there on North Street in his grand mansion all high and mighty, havin’ to resort to yellow journalism just to sell a few more newspapers so’s he can keep current with all his gamblin’ debts?”

  Fifteen minutes later Special Sullivan and Lt. Regan entered the Buffalo Evening News offices on Main Street. Inside, people were running to and fro like mad. It was eleven o’clock. The paper went to press at noon. The two friends bypassed the manager’s desk in the lobby and climbed the stairs to the first floor where Butler’s office door was closed. An editor tried to intercept.

  “Where’s Butler?” demanded Lt. Regan.

  “Mr. Butler is in an important meeting, offic
er. He must not be disturbed.”

  “It’s ‘Lieutenant’ to you, ass-wipe,” said Regan lifting his arm to display his chevron.

  The two pushed past the minion and opened the door. An enormous fat man resembling a walrus lay snoring on a luxurious $250 tufted leather sofa specially constructed to withstand the daunting demands his girth made upon it. He startled awake at the cops’ entry.

  “Hello there Mr. Butler,” said Regan.

  “What the hell’s the intention of your cheap yellow sheet printing such a slander about my dear mother?” Jim hollered. He threw the folded paper in Butler’s lap.

  A group of newsmen raced into the office protectively.

  “Gentlemen, we’ll be with you momentarily,” smiled Regan as the towering six-foot-four mick blocked their progress. He herded them out and gently shut the door behind them.

  “What is the meaning of this?” bellowed Butler. “How dare you barge into my office. I’ll have you both fired!” he said primarily addressing rookie patrolman Jim Sullivan.

  They played the age-old game of good cop bad cop. Regan pulled back his coat. “This is a just friendly call, Proprietor,” Butler’s eyes went right to the gun. “That’s all.” Regan smiled amiably, then casually-on-purpose moved his hand to within and inch of the pistol. There he hooked his thumb into his belt.

  “My attorney will be visiting you before the day is out,” lied Jim, for it had only just occurred to him he had a legal claim on his hands, or rather, his mother did. “Call the man in here who wrote this despicable garbage immediately, or a $50,000 defamation lawsuit will be served upon you at your home tomorrow morning for all your neighbors to witness!”

  Butler studied the article fleetingly then paused a few moments, his inflated sense of self-importance wrestling against the practicalities of things. He reached over and opened the door.

  “O’Malley. Come in here.”

  O’Malley had been standing right outside the door in a huddle with half a dozen other employees eavesdropping, muddling over what to do about the police intrusion.

  “O’Malley, who reported this piece?” Butler pointed out the article. O’Malley read the first few lines.

  “That would be Cooper, sir.”

  “Go get him and bring him in here.”

  O’Malley scurried off. He ran down the hallway and into the loo. Cooper was sitting on the pooper taking a crap.

  “Cooper, I warned you about writing that piece about that big-tittied old widow down there on Hamburg Street. Now the police have shown up and they’re in E. H.’s office. Wipe your ass and get yourself out here now. The Boss is waiting!”

  “The police? Why would the police be interested in that? What am I going to do now?” he blurted as the stiff brown toilet paper crinkled against its target.

  “I’m not interested in ‘what you do now’,” mocked O’Malley as he heard the snap of Cooper’s braces. “I told you to watch it! Your little favor for the benefit of your drinking buddy might just end up costing you your job. And don’t you dare bring my name into this or I swear I’ll put the gloves on and beat your ugly face to a bloody pulp. This is entirely your doing.”

  Cooper pulled the chain on the commode, exited the stall and hurriedly headed for the door.

  “Wash your fucking hands, Cooper! Where were you brought up, anyway? The Hamburgh Canal?”

  Cooper backtracked and washed his hands with a dirty chunk of lye soap, then dried them on the soiled towel that hung from the hook adjacent.

  “This towel is filthy!” spat the slanderer.

  “Said the man with shit on his fingers!” replied his editor.

  O’Malley and Cooper hurried down the corridor and entered the boss’ office. When Cooper’s eyes met Jim’s, the journalist’s heart sank.

  “It’s you!” accused Jim. “Just last week I had to pull your drunken carcass off that girl out front of Halloran’s saloon, you dirty little pervert.”

  “What?” howled Butler.

  “This degenerate of yours practically lives at my stepfather’s saloon. What’s the story Cooper? What have you been cookin’ up down there with Halloran?”

  Cooper looked at his boss, then at Jim, Regan, then his boss again. He knew he was cooked.

  “I...I owed Halloran some money. From our games of chance. Dice mostly. He told me he was havin’ troubles with his wife, that she was going to kick him out ‘cause his drinking had gotten so bad. He was afraid she could do it too. He got the idea of threatening a lawsuit against her to scare her into letting him stay in the house. So he told me a story, and I wrote it down. He never told me you were his son! ”

  “Stepson, regrettably,” corrected Jim, “and you printed a pack of lies without so much as a second thought? You publicly demeaned my mother! She can’t show her face in church because of what you wrote about her. You damaged the reputation of a good woman. That’s known as slander in litigation terms! You didn’t even check your facts! If you had you might have thought twice before bringing a warm lawsuit down upon your own head. But what better can we expect of a boozer who spends as much time as you yourself do, drinkin’ and sniffin’ for cunny right downstairs from where my expectant wife and my dear old mother sleep? You think you were afraid about the money you owed before? Well, let me tell you! Yer goin’ to be in it for a fortune now!”

  Jim and Mike Regan headed for the door. Jim turned for one last volley.

  “I’ll be expectin’ a retraction with many regrets expressed on your part, Mr. Butler. Meantime I’ll leave it up to my attorney to finalize the details.”

  After the police left, Butler turned to Cooper. “Get back to work, Cooper,” said the proprietor.

  Astonished that he wasn’t dismissed, Cooper slinked out.

  “Feel better now?” laughed Regan as the two coppers walked out the door onto the street.

  “We’ll see,” Jim smiled.

  “Hey, Mike. Look over there.” Jim pointed to a suspicious character. “That one’s up to no good,” he announced with authority. Regan had trusted his friend’s instincts for detection ever since they were kids. He allowed Jim to lead the way. They followed the suspect up Main Street. The man walked briskly but erratically, head down, both hands in his pockets past the Tifft House, the Buffalo Freie Presse offices, and Fuchs Wine and Groceries, seemingly intent on a mission.

  As they neared the intersection of Genesee Street, the man crossed over the trolley tracks toward Georger’s Furs. He paused on the plank sidewalk in front of the store and steadied himself on the pole that held aloft a clock in the form of a giant pocketwatch. He looked wrung-out. Then after looking around, he entered Diehl’s Drugs & Medicines at the corner of Genesee and Main.

  Jim and Mike obscured themselves behind carriages parked along Main Street to avoid detection as they tailed their suspect. After the man entered John P. Diehl’s establishment, Jim approached and discreetly peeked in the window. The suspect headed directly for the counter while proprietor Diehl was distracted helping a customer. He stuffed small paper boxes and a bottle into his coat pocket and ran out directly into the waiting arms of the police. His face was deeply drawn and strained. His eyes were underlined by dark circles. He was disturbingly thin. Jim went through his pockets.

  “Morphine and laudanum,” he read aloud from the small boxes. “And a bottle of One Night cough syrup.” He read the ingredients on the bottle: “Alcohol, Cannibis Indica F.F., Chloroform, Morphia Sulphate. Hmm. So, who you plannin’ on killin’?”

  “Nobody. I swear. It’s fer my dyin’ wife. She’s in a terrible state, yer honor. I learned this combination would provide her some peace, as I bought some last week here. She’s been quiet and peaceful so long as the medicine’s lasted, but now it’s done, ’n’ I no longer got no money. Now she’s in a heap o’ pain again.”

  “You’re under arrest,” announced Regan.

  “But sirs, there ain’t nobody at home to care for her. She’s alone ’n’ sufferin’ somethin’ terrible. Plea
se! Let me go. I swear I won’t steal no more. We’re in desperate straits! Please let me go to her! I’ll do anything!”

  Jim held him while Regan returned the purloined drugs to Mr. Diehl. Then the officers steered the man down Main Street toward Headquarters and into a basement jail cell, the prisoner pleading the entire way. He was in tears.

  “I’ll go check on your wife,” promised Jim. “What’s your address?”

  Jim finished his paper work, then headed for wretched Peacock Street. He climbed the rickety steps of the tenement structure and found the door to his prisoner’s room ajar. A sickening stench seeped through the breach. A small famished dog, dirty and rawboned, whined pathetically in a corner of the mostly empty room. The canine shook uncontrollably. The space reeked of decay and feces and death. There on a rudimentary bed lay the motionless body of a skeletal woman with a gaping mouth and unblinking eyes. A puddle on the floorboards directly below her pooled the fluids still leaking through the canvas cot. She was cool to the touch. He figured she’d been dead for about an hour.

  Sullivan realized right then that he’d deprived her of her beloved during her last minutes of life on this earth. She had died alone. As he stared at her he wondered if she had cried out for her husband as the end came.

  Of course she did.

  He could have just let the man go. He had thought about it at the time, but he didn’t. Now he felt ashamed. The terrified expression on her poor face made everything painfully clear. His own face burned hot with self-reproach.