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by Sean Moynihan


  The killer was still out there, he thought, and he was a vicious, cruel, and extraordinarily bloodthirsty killer—a fiend, essentially, unlike any other that he had ever encountered before. This person was calculating, clever, and relentlessly…evil. Yes, that was the word. The murderer was not simply some outraged and drunken lout who had not gotten what he wanted from a woman in a hotel room. This person was different, Falconer thought—like the famed Ripper from London whom the papers now hypothesized was here in the city. Or maybe they were right—that it was the Ripper himself.

  Falconer stood and contemplated the present situation facing the police department. Whoever had committed this murder, it would take some doing and extraordinary efforts—and perhaps a little luck—to capture him, despite what the brass was saying down on Mulberry Street. What a thing it is, he thought, to have to catch a killer who has vanished into the night without a trace. The vast amount of humanity rushing by him on the avenue every which way, as it always did every morning of every year in this great big city, was composed of people who did not think of these things. They were too immersed in their errands, appointments, frustrations, and personal problems in their own lives to think this deeply into a frightening occurrence in their city.

  Yes, they read the daily papers and were on edge about the callous killing that had occurred just days earlier. But they did not go deeper, down into the very darkest places of what men can do if not confronted by other men. They did not actually have to think of taking responsibility for finding the devil and stopping him. Falconer knew that he was different: he was a detective on the police force, and he was paid to think of these things. He was paid to live with the filth and the horror day by day, and to try and do something about it. And so, he was left standing on street corners, feeling for the presence of the devil, for the scent of the killer, for the eyes that were out there, gazing excitedly at all the humanity and lusting perhaps for more blood. And he determined then and there to find this fiend and capture or kill him.

  He placed his hand inside his coat and fingered his Army revolver, and then stepped off the curb and headed across the avenue and down the island of Manhattan.

  13

  The crafty, bespectacled reporter, a veteran of the New York crime beat and now a published author celebrated for his groundbreaking exposé of the filthy and forgotten tenements that rose high up out of the city blocks, stood near the back of the crowd of reporters lingering in the hallway outside Captain O’Connor’s private office at the Oak Street station. It was getting late—around eight o’clock at night on the 25th, almost forty-eight hours since the woman known as Old Shakespeare had disappeared up the rickety old stairway of the East River Hotel. Jacob Riis, reporter for the New York Tribune, had done this many times in the past, waited like this, so late into the night at Mulberry Street or at a precinct station house to get some morsel of information for the morning edition, some electrifying new development in a murder or a kidnapping that would grab the readers’ attention the next day.

  Now, however, having made a new mark with his book decrying the miserable plight of the misbegotten wretches living down in the dark tenements, he did not really need to track down the crime stories for his living anymore. He still worked for the paper, but his books were now taking up much of his time, and so, lately, other beat reporters on staff were doing the chasing and the digging.

  This time was different, though. The story was getting big. They were saying that Jack the Ripper was in New York and had killed the woman in the hotel, and so he felt that his place was here on this night—that this was a story he had to follow. So, he waited patiently along with the other reporters as the heads of the police department gathered behind the closed door and did whatever they did when confronted with such a heinous, noteworthy crime that apparently was baffling them.

  He had waited for some time at the station, chatting with his other colleagues from the newspapers—about baseball, or about the latest political news coming out of the mayor’s office, or about the new book that he was working on, a sequel to his book on the tenements that would focus more on the children who lived down here in the squalor—but it had been quite some time since the detectives and inspectors had shown themselves, and now the men out in the hallway were growing restless.

  The door to O’Connor’s inner sanctum suddenly opened and O’Connor poked his head out. “Come on in, boys,” he said. “The inspector wants to see you.”

  Riis and the other reporters eagerly followed O’Connor inside and saw Byrnes sitting behind the great big desk, chomping on a half-burned cigar. McLaughlin sat on a couch nearby, while Inspector Clubber Williams and Captain O’Connor took seats behind the desk as Byrnes addressed the newsmen. Riis and a few other reporters sat down in chairs in front of the desk, while the remaining scribes stood nearby, pencils and pads in hand. “I’ll just say this,” the chief inspector began, “to put you in an intelligent position to understand the statement that Mister McLaughlin will read to you. There is a mystery about this case, and there isn’t a mystery.”

  Ah, Riis thought, smiling slightly in his seat. Classic Byrnes. Giving just a little bit but hiding something else. The Magician on Mulberry Street.

  “We know very well who the murderer is,” Byrnes continued, “but we don’t know where he is.”

  A reporter sitting next to Riis started to write quickly in his notebook, and Byrnes looked at him. “Now don’t take this that I tell you now,” he said to the man. “Wait until Mister McLaughlin reads it in detail. As I said, we know the murderer, and we have a man locked up who is a relative of the murderer. He and the murderer were consorts of the vile women who frequent the places around where the murder occurred, and they did all sorts of unnatural and disreputable things. They liked old women for companions rather than young. They were vicious and desperate fellows. The man we have arrested has been identified by two women as the man who went to the room with the murdered woman, but another witness positively denies this, and says that the man who occupied the room with the murdered woman was the relative of the man we have arrested, and we believe her. Now Captain McLaughlin will read to you the statement we have prepared.”

  Byrnes sat back in his chair and took a long puff of his cigar as McLaughlin stood up, stepped to the middle of the room, and unfurled several pieces of paper that were rolled up in his hand. He then proceeded to recite the facts of the case as deduced so far by the police department, and the reporters listened intently. Near the end of his presentation, he spoke of how the description of the suspect referred to a thin, lighter-complexioned man. “It is learned,” he said, “that the man we have arrested has a cousin who is exactly the build of this man and who is fair. He answers in every way the description of the man who went to the room with the old woman. These men have been seen together in the locality often, and on several occasions have asked for each other in the different saloons.”

  Byrnes sat up from behind the desk and interrupted. “The way we fix the relationship is this,” he said. “When one was around the place alone, he would ask the women if they had seen his cousin. Both did this, and all the women understood they were cousins and of the same name, it is supposed. Both were nicknamed ‘Frenchy.’”

  He then sat back again and looked over at McLaughlin. Riis kept his own gaze locked on Byrnes leaning back in his chair behind the desk once more. Now what are you up to this time, you old devil? Do you have the killer or not?

  “This light man, the cousin, is the suspected murderer,” McLaughlin announced firmly, “and a search is being made for him. Francis, the man who is under arrest, refuses to give any information at all concerning his cousin, the suspected man.”

  McLaughlin finished his presentation with a short history of Carrie Brown, known in the neighborhood as Old Shakespeare, and then he folded up the papers in his hand and sat down once again.

  “That will be all for now, gentlemen,” Byrnes said, standing up behind his desk. “We thought that we have a
dvanced far enough in this investigation to provide the general facts to the public. And we also think that having this information out in the public will assist in the apprehension of the murderer. Thank you for your time this evening.”

  McLaughlin led the reporters out into the hallway again, and then he turned and disappeared back into the office. As the reporters scrambled down the stairwell headed back to their respective papers, Riis stood to the side and contemplated what he had just seen and heard. Why would Byrnes—who up until now had refused to divulge much of anything about the investigation—suddenly reveal the identity of the suspected killer and thus, give the man a chance to flee? Why, further, would the chief inspector say that he had no idea where the murderer was? What was his game, after all?

  He slowly walked down the stairway and tried to put Byrnes’ puzzle together in his mind. It must be, he thought, that the revelation of “Frenchy II’s” identity was just a ruse and that something else was up the chief inspector’s sleeve, as always. The problem for anyone, however, was to identify Byrnes’ true motive in releasing the information. Perhaps the chief, in fact, already had the second “Frenchy” secretly in custody and was only trying to delay things for some unknown reason. Or perhaps he was trying to trick the real killer into a feeling of relief and security so that the police could catch the man off-guard.

  As Riis slowly made his way down the stairs, he felt that just about the only thing that was a near certainty was that something just didn’t fit.

  14

  The morning after McLaughlin’s statement to reporters, Falconer stepped up the front steps of the Oak Street station but stopped midway up when a couple of reporters hailed him and shared the news that the mysterious cousin of George “Frenchy” Francis was now the prime suspect in the murder case. He was surprised to hear this but nonetheless expressed his pleasure that the department now had at least an identifiable subject to capture. Walking inside the station house, he headed upstairs to Captain O’Connor’s office to get the latest information on this “Frenchy II.” The captain was out, but Falconer managed to find a sergeant who had the essential background story on the new suspect.

  “He’s supposedly a Moroccan,” the sergeant said, “a thug who works as a cattleman on ships coming from England. Our informants say he’s quite a son of a bitch—enjoys abusing the animals on his ships and bothers the women here on shore when he’s with Frenchy. The chief says he may answer to the description given for Old Shakespeare’s killer, but we don’t have a name for him yet—Frenchy’s not talking.”

  “Thanks,” Falconer said before moving off down the hallway. He walked back downstairs into the crowded front entrance of the station house and then moved past the people outside onto the street. Frenchy II, he thought. Now where are we going with this?

  15

  New York Tribune

  New-York, Monday, April 27, 1891

  THE SEARCH KEPT UP

  NO TRACE OF THE SUSPECTED MURDERER YET DISCOVERED

  INSPECTOR BYRNES IS RETICENT AGAIN, BUT ADMITS THAT THE MAN SUPPOSED TO BE “JACK THE RIPPER” HAS NOT BEEN CAPTURED

  All day yesterday and all through last night a veritable army of police patrolled the district in which old Carrie Brown was murdered on Thursday night. They peered into the face of each passer-by with a glance more piercing than is their usual habit. There is a theory that “Frenchy” number 2, who, according to the police theory, was the murderer, will be found sooner or later in the neighborhood, which, according to all report, was his accustomed haunt…

  …The belief was expressed by a number of people yesterday that “Frenchy” number 2 was a myth. From all that can be learned, the “Frenchy” in custody refused to say anything. Whether he really has anything to conceal is doubtful. His reticence in regard to his supposed cousin, the other “Frenchy,” may be caused through a fear of getting an innocent man into trouble, as might easily occur, owing to the poor description of the murderer given to the police and the great chance of another man being mistaken for him. If “Frenchy” Number 2 is a reality he will probably feel it to his interest to keep out of the way, whether he committed the murder or not…

  16

  Wednesday, April 29

  Falconer hopped up the front stairs and through the front entrance of the Mulberry Street headquarters. He had heard that the Jersey City Police had finally captured “Frenchy II” out at a cattle pen in their jurisdiction, but now there were rumors that he had been released shortly thereafter because he didn’t match Mary Miniter’s description at all, and his alibi checked out. Falconer flagged down Detective Sergeant McNaught upstairs near Byrnes’ office and asked him if this were true.

  “Correct,” McNaught replied. “The guy is named Arbie La Bruckman and he does go by “Frenchy,” but he looks nothing like the suspect seen at the hotel. He’s got dark hair and eyes, and he’s a built like a damned gorilla. Plus, he said he was at his rooming house when the murder occurred, and there are witnesses who back that up, so he’s not our man. The chief is going to give a statement in a minute. Come on in.”

  “Thanks,” Falconer said. “I will.”

  As McNaught headed down the hallway to Byrnes’ office, Falconer noticed a jumble of reporters coming up the stairs. They flitted by him in the hallway and scrambled down to the entrance to the chief inspector’s office. Falconer followed them and found a spot over against a wall. Byrnes was standing behind his big desk examining some papers. When the throng had fully entered and settled down, he then looked up and spoke.

  “Frenchy II is not suspected of this crime,” said. “The People that he was living with corroborated his story, and he himself gave information that showed, upon investigation, that he was four miles from the hotel at the time the murder was committed. So, he was let go.”

  The reporters all spoke up in unison. “What about what you said last week—that he was, in fact, the killer?” one scribe managed to yell above the tumult. “What about that, chief inspector?”

  Byrnes stood still in front of the confused group, appearing unperturbed. “I never said that I thought that this man—this ‘Frenchy II’—was the killer,” he stated simply. “He was a person of interest, as were others, and we investigated that angle and found that it wasn’t the right lead to follow. In fact, we are still looking into the activities of Frenchy I, and will, as able, provide more information to you.”

  He then walked out of the room, leaving behind more shouting from the inquiring newsmen. Falconer slowly made his way out into the hallway, amidst the agitated journalists. He thought of Frenchy, sitting inside of a cell in the Tombs, and of the quandary that Byrnes now found himself in.

  17

  On the second day of May, one week after the killing of Carrie Brown, Falconer stood again against the wall of Chief Inspector Byrnes’ office as a group of newsmen crowded in to hear the chief speak about the latest developments in the case. “Frenchy, in the stories he told,” the chief began, “explained how the blood got on him, and in every instance his stories were run down and found to be rank lies. He has lied about everything. He has hardly told a truth since he was arrested. Frenchy may be able to explain the presence of the blood on his shirt. He may be able to explain the presence of blood on his shoulder, but how can he explain the blood under his fingernails?”

  “You’ve asked to delay the coroner’s inquest,” one reporter spoke up. “Why is that?”

  “We cannot trace the knife to Frenchy or anyone else,” Byrnes explained. “It is a very common sort of knife and such as might be used on banana ships. It is so common and cheap that there is really no way of tracing it. It is such a knife as might have been used about a kitchen to peel potatoes with. No man who had premeditated murder would have taken that knife with him to commit the deed. We are now working to try and trace the knife to Frenchy. That is why the inquest was adjourned today to give us time.”

  “And what about Frenchy’s identity?” another reporter asked. “It appears he identif
ied himself yesterday by the name of Ameer Ben Ali. Any comment?”

  “Yes, well, I don’t have any information to contradict that,” Byrnes stated. “It appears that his name is, in fact, Ben Ali, and he is from French Algeria. Thank you for your time today, gentlemen—that will be all for now.”

  Byrnes’ men then escorted the newsmen out of the room, and Falconer followed them downstairs and exited the building. Walking down Mulberry Street, he heard a voice behind him: “Detective Falconer? Detective?”

  He turned and saw Jacob Riis approaching him on the sidewalk.

  Now what does Riis want with me?

  “Hello, detective,” the newsman said as he came to a halt on the sidewalk. “I thought I might have a brief word with you about the chief inspector’s statement. Would you mind?”

  Falconer looked at Riis and shrugged. “I’m not sure what I can say to you that would add anything, Mister Riis.”

  “Well,” Riis said, “it’s just this, detective: the chief inspector now theorizes that C. Kniclo left the woman sometime in the night, and then Frenchy, Mister Ben Ali, came down the hallway and committed the murder. He’s obviously basing this new theory on the so-called blood evidence that was purportedly found leading to Frenchy’s door and on his bedding and person.”

  “Is this off the record, Mister Riis?” Falconer asked.

  “Certainly, sir,” Riis replied.

  “Well, what you said about the chief’s theory—yes, that’s about it…I don’t have anything to add,” Falconer said.

  “But there’s just one thing, detective,” Riis said. “I and several other reporters were up there on the fifth floor of the hotel early that very morning when they discovered the body, and I can tell you that we never saw any blood on that man’s doorknob.”

 

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