The Murder of the Century Read online

  ALSO BY PAUL COLLINS

  The Book of William:

  How Shakespeare’s First Folio Conquered the World

  The Trouble with Tom:

  The Strange Afterlife and Times of Thomas Paine

  Not Even Wrong:

  A Father’s Journey into the Lost History of Autism

  Sixpence House:

  Lost in a Town of Books

  Banvard’s Folly:

  Thirteen Tales of People Who Didn’t Change the World

  Copyright © 2011 by Paul Collins

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crown Books, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  Crown and the Crown colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Collins, Paul, 1969–

  The murder of the century: the gilded age crime that scandalized a city and sparked the tabloid wars / Paul Collins—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  1. Nack, Augusta. 2. Murder—New York (State)—New York—Case studies.

  3. Crimes of passion—New York (State)—New York—Case studies. 4. Tabloid newspapers—New York (State)—New York—History—19th century.

  5. New York (N.Y.)—History—19th century. I. Title.

  HV6534.N5C66 2011

  364.152′3092—dc22

  2011009390

  eISBN: 978-0-307-59222-4

  Jacket design by W. G. Cookman

  Jacket photograph © Bettmann/Corbis

  v3.1

  To Mom and Dad,

  who let me read the mysteries from their bookshelf

  (photo credit col2.1)

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  A Note on the Text

  I. THE VICTIM

  1. The Mystery of the River

  2. A Detective Reads the Paper

  3. The Jigsaw Man

  4. The Wrecking Crew

  5. Jill the Ripper

  II. THE SUSPECTS

  6. The Baker in Hell’s Kitchen

  7. The Undertaker’s Neighbor

  8. The Widow’s Friend

  9. The Disappearing Shoemaker

  10. The Silent Customer

  III. THE INDICTMENT

  11. A Case of Life and Death

  12. Heads or Tails

  13. Queen of the Tombs

  14. The High Roller

  15. Klondike Willie

  IV. THE TRIAL

  16. Corpus Delicti

  17. Covered in Blood

  18. Caught in the Headlight

  19. Scythe and Saw

  20. A Wonderful Murder

  V. THE VERDICT

  21. Mrs. Nack’s Office

  22. The Smoker to Sing Sing

  23. A Job for Smith and Jones

  24. A Story of Life in New York

  25. Carry Out Your Own Dead

  Epilogue: The Last Man Standing

  SOURCES

  Primary Sources

  Notes

  Acknowledgments

  Illustration Credits

  About the Author

  A NOTE ON THE TEXT

  The tremendous press coverage of this affair, with sometimes more than a dozen newspapers fielding reporters at once—not to mention the later memoirs of its participants—allowed me to draw on many eyewitness sources. All of the dialogue in quotation marks comes directly from conversations recorded in their accounts, and while I have freely edited out verbiage, not a word has been added.

  —P. C.

  I.

  THE VICTIM

  (photo credit p1.1)

  1.

  THE MYSTERY OF THE RIVER

  IT WAS A SLOW AFTERNOON for news. The newsboys along the East River piers still readied themselves on a scorching summer Saturday for the incoming ferry passengers from Brooklyn, armed with innumerable battling editions of Manhattan’s dailies for June 26, 1897. There were sensational “yellow papers” like Pulitzer’s World and Hearst’s Journal, the stately flagships of the Herald and the Sun, and stray runts like the Post and the Times. By two thirty, the afternoon editions were coming while the morning papers were getting left in stacks to bake in the sun. But there were no orders by President McKinley, no pitched battles in the Sudan, and no new Sousa marches to report. The only real story that day was the weather: OH! YES, IT IS HOT ENOUGH! gasped one headline. The disembarking ferry passengers who couldn’t afford lemonade seltzer from riverside refreshment stalls instead downed the usual fare—unsterilized buttermilk for two cents, or sterilized for three—and then headed for East Third Street, where Mayor Strong was giving the dedication speech for the new 700-foot-long promenade pier. It was the city’s first, a confection of whitewashed wrought iron, and under its cupola a brass band was readying the rousing oompah “Elsie from Chelsea.”

  Weaving between the newsboys and the ladies opening up parasols, though, were four boys walking the other way. They were escaping their hot and grimy brick tenements on Avenue C, and joining a perspiring crowd of thousands didn’t sound much better than what they’d just left. To them, the East Eleventh Street pier had all the others beat; it was a disused tie-up just a few feet above the water, and surrounded by cast-off ballast rocks that made for an easy place to dry clothes. The boys took it over like a pirate’s landing party, claiming it as their own and then lounging with their flat caps and straw boaters pulled rakishly low. It was a good place to gawk at the nearly completed boat a couple of piers over—a mysterious ironclad in the shape of a giant sturgeon, which its inventor promised would skim across the Atlantic at a forty-three-knot clip. When the boys tired of that, they turned their gaze back out to the water.

  Jack McGuire spotted it first: a red bundle, rolling in with the tide and toward the ferry slip, then bobbing away again.

  “Say, I’ll get that!” yelled McGuire’s friend Jimmy McKenna.

  “Aw, will you?” Jack taunted him. But Jimmy was already stripped down and diving off the pier. A wiry thirteen-year-old with a powerful stroke in the water, he grabbed the bundle just before the wake from the Greenpoint ferry could send it floating away. They’d split the loot; it might be a wad of clothes, or some cargo toppled off a freighter. There was no telling what you’d find in the East River.

  Jimmy dragged the parcel up onto the rocks with effort; the boys found it was the size of a sofa cushion, and heavy—at least thirty pounds, tightly wrapped in a gaudy red-and-gold oilcloth.

  “It’s closed,” Jimmy said as he dripped on the rocks. The package had been expertly tied with coils of white rope; it wouldn’t be easy for his cold and wet fingers to loosen it. But Jack had a knife handy, and he set to cutting in. As kids gathered around to see what treasure had been found, Jack sawed faster until a slip of the knife sank the blade into the bundle. Blood welled out from inside. He figured that meant they’d found something good; all kinds of farm goods were transported from the Brooklyn side of the river. It might be a side of fresh pork.

  “I’m going to see what’s in there,” he proclaimed, and dug harder into the ropes. As they fell aside, Jack peeled back the clean new oilcloth to reveal another layer: dirty and blackened burlap, tied with twine. Jack cut that away too, and found yet another layer, this one of dry, coarse brown paper. Annoyed, he yanked it off. And then, for an interminable moment, the gathered boys stopped dead still.

  On the rocks before them was a human arm. Two arms, in fact. Two arms attached to a muscular chest—and nothing more.

  THE POLICE KNEW ju
st who to blame.

  Medical students, they muttered as they examined the sawn-off torso. The riverside boys had dithered for half an hour over the grisly and headless find, deciding what to do—though Jack had hastily tossed his knife into the river, afraid of catching any blame. But there was no real cause for alarm; a patrolman arrived and dragged the parcel up onto the dry pier, followed by two detectives from the Union Market station. In no great hurry, they eventually put in a call to the coroner’s office to note that the med students were up to their usual pranks. The city had five schools that were allowed to use cadavers, and parts of them showed up in the unlikeliest places: You’d find legs in doorways, fingers in cigar boxes, that kind of nonsense. By the time the coroner bothered to pick up the parcel, it had been on the East Eleventh Street pier for three hours, exposed to the curious stares of the entire neighborhood. Meanwhile, boys had eagerly taken to diving into the water trying to find, as one observer put it, “every floating object that might by any possibility be part of a human body.” They gleefully dragged waterlogged casks, boxes, and smashed timbers onto the pier, but alas, nothing more.

  The morgue driver finally arrived. He wrapped the cloth back around their gruesome find, tossed the whole package aboard his wagon, and trundled it away with a signal to his horse. The city had yet to buy its first horseless carriages; it had been only two years since the first one had been seen in New York, and they remained such a rare sight that Manhattan still hadn’t even recorded its first auto fatality. Every other kind of fatality, though, ended up where this one did, fifteen blocks north in Midtown, at the morgue’s squat brick building on Twenty-Sixth Street.

  They all came here: any skipping child struck by a dairy wagon, any organ grinder downed by apoplexy in the middle of Central Park, any wino found expired in a Bowery gutter, any sporting gentleman stabbed in a saloon. The Bellevue morgue was the haunt of the dead and the deadlined; newsmen were always around, because with about twenty unclaimed bodies a day thudding in—more during a good cold snap or a heat wave—you were always guaranteed some column inches for the late edition.

  Even before the latest heat wave, Bellevue had been especially rich in news; its old morgue keeper had been arrested after twenty-seven years of illegally selling bodies to the local med schools at $5 a pop—selling so many, in fact, that he’d accumulated a $100,000 fortune on his morgue salary of $60 a month. The lowlier attendants were more cheaply bribed. A cigar or a pouch of shag tobacco would get a reporter the run of a windowless building some sixty by eighty feet wide, lined along one side with marble slabs, the other with chest-high tiers of cooled body drawers.

  To wander through this library of corpses was a dubious privilege. The dead room’s only respite from the gloom came from a single skylight, and the occasional nudge from a resident tomcat. There were no fans, and flies buzzed constantly over the marble slabs where the latest deliveries reposed naked, awaiting identification. A thin mist of icy water was kept running over the slabs in an ineffectual attempt to keep the bodies fresh and to shoo the flies away. The effect was that of a dark, dripping cave filled with the broken bodies of Manhattan. It was, by universal assent, the most miserable place in the city. Worst of all were the mangled and bloated remains of bridge jumpers and failed swimmers pulled daily from the river.

  “That horrible place—God!” novelist Theodore Dreiser would later recall of his days there as a World reporter. “Daily from the ever-flowing waters of New York there were recaptured and washed up in all stages and degrees of decomposition the flotsam and jetsam of the great city—its offal, its victims, its what?”

  The who and what were always the questions for these nameless corpses. But the source of the oilcloth-covered bundle that had arrived that evening was not so hard to guess at.

  “Medical students,” an attendant seconded, noting its arrival in the ledger.

  Probably cut from one of their own bodies here in the morgue, maybe off a cadaver sold just a day or two earlier. Well, now whoever it was had come back. They’d wait the obligatory seventy-two hours, of course, and then send it on to the coffin room, where another attendant hammered together cheap plank boxes. Anyone left unclaimed for three days went there—the body photographed, the clothes stored for laggardly friends or relatives to make a later identification, any money or jewelry on the body quietly pocketed—and then the newly filled coffins were disgorged out the back of the building onto the pier. Each day a dead-boat pulled up for a final stygian journey up the East River to a waiting trench in the potter’s field on Hart Island.

  That, no doubt, is where this misbegotten parcel would go, and nobody would ever hear of it again.

  BY THE TIME Bellevue superintendent Dr. Thomas Murphy and city medical examiner Dr. George Dow arrived on their evening rounds, there were reporters from the World, the Herald, and the Evening Telegram all gathered in the morgue, waiting for their day’s quota of Dreadful Cases and Awful Tragedies. They’d already gotten a good one out of Bellevue that day when Diamond Jim Brady forcibly checked his mother in to the insane ward next door. But the reporters could always hope for more, and as the two doctors made their obligatory check of the day’s casualties, they froze before the river parcel, exchanging significant looks.

  Dr. Murphy closely examined the oilcloth-wrapped package: the well-muscled chest and shoulders of a white man, its arms folded across in an X with the hands lying on its shoulders. The head, wherever it was now, had been rather raggedly hacked off at the larynx, while down below, the torso had been cleanly cut under the fifth rib.

  “There is a mystery here,” Dr. Murphy muttered cryptically.

  Dr. Dow nodded. He felt the tone of the body’s skin, and lifted the arms to reveal that an irregular horseshoe-shaped chunk had been sliced away from the chest. But it was the saw marks at the neck that most immediately caught his eye.

  “No medical student would have done this,” he announced. It was simple, Dr. Dow explained to the reporters: This body was no more a med-school cadaver than you or I. “A saw, and not a knife, was used to sever the head and the body,” he explained. That was the mark of the untutored; professionals saw bone and slice flesh.

  “I am pretty familiar with the methods employed by the different colleges,” agreed Bellevue’s superintendent. “None of them does this kind of work. The removal of the flesh from the breast has a very suspicious look.” It might have been done, he ventured, to dispose of a telltale tattoo. But without a head or an identifying mark on the body, how could they describe it?

  “Let me see …” Dr. Murphy brightened. “The height of the average man is that of arms extended and measuring from the tips of the fingers.” He turned to a morgue assistant. “Measure the arms and fingers.”

  The assembled men watched as the orderly eased the headless trunk down from its drawer and laid it out at full length on the floor, then ran the measuring tape along the arms.

  “Five foot eleven,” the assistant announced.

  Dr. Dow continued to examine the body and added his own guess. “I would not want to be quoted as expressing a positive opinion,” he warned the reporters, “but I should think the man when alive weighed 190 pounds.”

  The muscular body the oilcloth enclosed, the Herald’s reporter wrote in some admiration, showed “a man of magnificent physical development.” The hands were remarkably soft and uncalloused—genteel, even, with the nails carefully manicured. Dr. Dow pressed on the flesh of the arms and found it still soft and supple; he moved the fingers back and forth, and they yielded and straightened easily. Rigor mortis had not even set in.

  Word spread quickly among the Bellevue buildings; a dozen physicians from the hospital piled into the morgue, each wanting to poke and prod the mysterious cadaver. The city’s coroner was roused from his house. But as for Dr. Dow, he’d already seen enough. The medical examiner stood over the severed trunk and rendered his professional judgment.

  “The man of which this formed a part,” he informed the startled
room, “was alive twenty-four hours ago.”

  2.

  A DETECTIVE READS THE PAPER

  IT WAS A GLORIOUS Sunday morning. Julius Meyer was home in his Harlem tenement on 127th Street, enjoying a day off from his job as a mechanic.

  “Papa, let’s go cherrying!” pleaded his eight-year-old son. He could hardly say no, and so the father and his two boys—little Edgar and strapping teenaged Herbert—made their way up toward Ogden’s Woods. Getting there meant a forty-block train ride north to the Highbridge station, and then a ten-block walk into the northern reaches of the borough—out toward the Bronx, that drowsy region of farms, apple orchards, and placid dairies.

  Up here, between a densely wooded crescent bounded by Undercliff Avenue and the Harlem River on one side, 170th Street and the Washington Bridge on the other, one could forget the city altogether. These were the hinterlands, thick with pines and huckleberries and cherries but scarce in people; you could stand on Undercliff Avenue for an hour or more without seeing another soul. Just one house was visible along this lonely stretch of road, with nary another shack for a quarter mile around. As Julius and the boys wended their way into the woods—a good twelve-foot drop from the main road—it was as if they’d shimmied down into another country.

  While Julius and Herbert pressed forward through the swatting tree limbs and the thick brambles, Edgar was able to snake through the tangled brush and scamper ahead of them—too far, almost. They’d entered down by Sedgwick and 170th Avenue, but Edgar, an ebullient boy, was charging into wild and thorny depths, far from any entrance.

  Julius could no longer see his boy.

  “Edgar!” he called out. “Edgar?”

  SUNDAY AT the Highbridge station house was neither challenging nor especially rewarding police work—at least not for someone like Detective Arthur Carey. Once a rising star at HQ, he’d been caught in a department power struggle, knocked down a couple of pay grades, and exiled to the sticks. For two years Carey had been deprived of the murder cases he’d once landed downtown; testifying to packed courtrooms and seeing his name in the paper weren’t part of his job in Highbridge. “I was walking a post,” he’d explain without irony, “where, according to police tradition, a patrolman helped tend the goats.”