“They even gave us chicken!” exclaimed one grateful firefighter. “That kind of treatment makes our life bearable,” he declared as he paused to take a breath in his work of digging away debris.
With electric lights blazing, rescue work continued into the night so that no moment of opportunity would be lost. Finally, at 2:45 in the morning, rescuers came across a crushed helmet with the numeral 8 affixed to its shield, the name Stephen Meegan written on the interior band, only 30 feet from the Seneca Street entrance and its presumed safety. After more work, a piece of tattered rubber coat appeared. Spurred on by the finds the firemen redoubled their labors. Debris flew for twenty minutes more until the lower portion of the body of a man was exposed, a heavy joist wedged between his mangled legs. The mutilated body of Stephen Meegan from Engine 8 lay encased, solidified amidst an occluding tangle of iron, wood, ice and bricks. It took two hours to free Meegan from the glaciated morass. Soon after, Engine 8’s Lieutenant Naughton, brother of Rev. Father Naughton of Hornell, was uncovered. Finally at 10 am, the third fatality, John J. Henky of Engine 4 who lived with his elderly widowed mother on Michigan street, was chipped out of his icebound resting place.
Placed on canvas tarps and carried out by their stumbling comrades, tears were shed and human spirits deflated by the sight of the slipping, flailing, falling procession of rescuers, their heavy breathing forming clouds of steam hovering in the air around their helmeted heads as they brought out their dead brothers to those awaiting.
A suffocating shroud of mourning lay over the city, the bleak light of a gray winter morning unable to penetrate it.
◆◆◆
On the morning of February 2, Pastor of Our Lady Of Perpetual Help parish Fr. Richard O’Connell stood at the curb in front of his church as a squad of firefighters headed by Meegan’s commander, Captain Thomas Sullivan, preceded the hearse transporting Stephen Meegan’s body. They formed an honor guard up to the entrance between which Meegan was solemnly carried. Fathers O’Connell, Crowley and McDonnell celebrated a Requiem High Mass. In the course of his sermon O’Connell paid eloquent tribute to the high character and sterling worth of the hero as his widow and three small children watched. It was not lost on Capt. Sullivan that his own three small children too were now parentless.
After the funeral mass Meegan’s body was taken to Holy Cross Cemetery for burial. Immediately upon the ceremony’s conclusion Captain Sullivan and his men attended the funeral of Lt. Naughton at the house of his aged mother on Michigan street. Mrs. Naughton, inconsolable, was consumed with grief. Old and infirm, she was now completely alone in the world. She cried that she had nothing left to live for. It was almost too much for Capt. Sullivan, losing his wife along with two of his own men. Life could seem no bleaker, or so he thought. As he departed the Naughton home, hundreds awaited outside for an opportunity to pay their respects. Detective Jim Sullivan stood among these, solemnly, fearfully waiting for him. As the Captain moved toward his cousin the look on Jim’s face told Thomas Sullivan all he needed to know.
“You found her, Jim?” he asked, voice breaking.
Jim nodded in the affirmative.
◆◆◆
Disgraced former Alderman John Sheehan claimed the discovery. The owner of several boats and scows, two distinctly differing accounts of the very same event were provided by him to two local newspapers.
In the Buffalo Courier account, Sheehan is quoted alleging he was pumping water from the hold of one of his craft when he spotted something curious. The basin was full of floating ice. At the center of the ice pack Sheehan noticed an object which appeared to be a human body. With the aid of a pike pole, he pulled the ice in the vicinity of the object toward the scow and broke it up, freeing Nora Sullivan’s body, it being completely devoid of clothing. He summoned police.
In the Express newspaper’s account, Sheehan was quoted as claiming to have been standing idly on the Lackawanna Railroad Bridge whereupon looking down he happened to see something under the ice that looked to him like a body. In this account he claimed he made his way down through the lumberyard there to have a closer look, then ran to police station No. 7. Returning to the spot with three officers, Police Captain Laughlin borrowed a crowbar from the bridge tender and crawled down onto the ice. A hole was punched in the ice and the body was procured by thrusting a plank under it. The clothing Nora wore was torn and there was a huge gash on her abdomen, which the police, certainly to the relief of John Sheehan, attributed to the propeller on the fire tug Grattan, which had been grappling for her in the area.
The police, after an investigation, ordered the body, which was hardly to be recognized, turned over to Captain Sullivan. Despite its diminished condition, Capt. Sullivan was sure that it was that of his wife. Nora was taken to the Driscoll Bros. undertaking rooms on Seneca street for embalming.
She was eulogized in print thusly:
“From the time of the birth of her youngest child, Mrs. Sullivan had suffered much. She went into a decline, and her physical condition temporarily unbalanced her mind. After she was sent to the State hospital for treatment, she was shortly able to return to her home, but she brooded over her impaired health because it rendered her unable to give her baby girl the care which she thought should be given her. The children were all well provided for despite Mrs. Sullivan’s condition, but her mother love and her physical incapacity would not allow her peace of mind. All the encouragement which friends and a devoted husband could give her did not cure her of her brooding and it is believed that in the early hours of January 1st she had become worried to such a point that, losing her mind temporarily, she wandered aimlessly from her home and fell into the basin.”
Alderman John P. Sullivan, as was his custom, read all seven daily Buffalo newspapers every morning in his office at the city hall. John Sheehan’s queerly opposing accounts of the circumstance by which he discovered Nora’s corpse was no surprise to him, knowing the Sheehans as he did.
The day of the fire that killed the three firemen, Fingy Conners recognized in the tragedy yet another opportunity for self-aggrandizement. The front page of his Courier newspaper ran photographs of firemen silhouetted against the bright flames, training their fire hoses on the conflagration. Another pictured a barely discernible form of a fire engine encased in many inches of ice. Above the fold right under the photos in a large box two columns wide and set in much larger type than all the stories surrounding it, was the announcement:
“William J. Conners, proprietor of the Courier and the Enquirer, heads a fund for the benefit of the families of the three brave firemen and invites other citizens to send their names with the amount they want to contribute to the Courier-Enquirer office at No. 250 Main Street. Stephen Meegan left a wife and three small children, the youngest of whom is only three weeks old. The other two men (also) left near relatives dependent on them.”
The most telling feature of the appeal was the following statement emphasizing the immediate needs of the families left without a breadwinner:
“Bear in mind that prompt help in such cases is the best help. Amounts great and small will be received. The first contribution to the fund is:
WILLIAM J. CONNERS…………………….$200.00”
◆◆◆
As the principal dignitary present at the funeral of fireman Stephen Meegan held at Our Lady of Perpetual Help church, Fr. Richard O’Connell probably never imagined that he would be right back there again the following week, the principal dignitary at his own.
Barely 42 years old, he was laid out on a catafalque on the altar of the church he’d built. Two hundred priests attended the funeral, and over a thousand parishioners. He had died suddenly, in the rectory. He was discovered in his bed by his sister Katherine who lived and worked there as housekeeper when she went into his room to wake him for morning Mass. Police Chief Michael Regan and Alderman John P. Sullivan were the chief honorary pallbearers. Young priests did the actual lifting.
The streets nearby were packed wit
h men and women deeply in mourning. Hundreds of children formed a lane down which the coffin was transported from the rectory to the church, escorted by suppliced altar boys. The ward’s public schools No. 30 and No. 34 were closed so that the children could attend the ceremonies. All day long a constant stream of people passed in and out of the church which was heavily draped in mourning. Father McDonald, who was the assistant pastor under O’Connell, preached a beautiful tribute to the dead priest that brought tears to all eyes. Reverend Michael Fallon of Holy Angels parish came next. He went on and on emotionally for a good hour and more, in the end trying the patience of even Father O’Connell’s most ardent admirers. 200 priests in attendance chanted the Office For The Dead. The funeral had began at 9:30 a.m. and lasted until well after 2 p.m. The coffin was borne out of the church along an honor guard of a double row of the parish children who flanked the center aisle. Bishop Colton said the funeral mass. The body was transported to Holy Cross cemetery where O’Connell was laid to rest in the priests’ lot.
The Secret
◆◆◆
“If Fingy Conners ever…” he said menacingly.
Bullen’s warning was interrupted by a couple of loud hiccups.
“If that bastard ever gets wind of this here, there’s gonna be war in the sh… in the shree… in the shtreets..”
Harry Bullen was dead drunk.
“Shut your mouth then, Bullen, because your spreadin’ this lie around is puttin’ your life on the line,” Detective Jim Sullivan cautioned. “Your family’s too. So meanwhile I’m puttin’ you in the freezer until you sober up and come to your rightful senses.”
Jim turned the key on the cell door of the solitary unit, then slid shut the pass-through. He tried not to panic. He climbed the stairs from the basement to the Superintendent’s desk. Chief Regan was on the telephone. Jim looked around for John Geary but couldn’t find him. Detective Lynch walked by.
“Say Jerry, you seen Geary anywheres?”
“Yep. He’s interviewin’ someone over at the Guaranty Building. Should be back soon.”
It was almost noon.
Jim stood there until Regan finished, then addressed his old friend.
“Come outside with me a minute, Mike, will ye? I wanna show you somethin’.”
Outside on Franklin Street they walked, then turned the corner. Jim halted. He looked around to make sure no one could hear.
“We got trouble,” Jim said, wide eyed.
“What kind of trouble?”
“I got yer Louisiana Street neighbor Harry Bullen locked in the freezer sobering up. He’s been shooting his mouth off about…”
Jim looked around again.
“..about Fingy’s dead son Peter.”
A look of alarm momentarily petrified Mike Regan’s face.
“What did he say?”
“He knows. He knows, Mike! I think he may even have been in on it. He says stuff only one who was there would know about.”
“Holy Jesus Christ. How drunk is he?
“Plenty drunk.”
“Okay. We’d better go tell your brother. Where’s Geary?
“Lynch said he was at the Guaranty Building.”
“Damn.”
The Chief looked around wondering whether to proceed without him.
“Okay, let’s just go.”
It was just a short walk up Franklin to the city hall. The two coppers entered and went right to Alderman Sullivan’s office. Emma Honan greeted them.
“He’s in a conference with Mr. Conners, gentlemen. He told me not to interrupt under any circumstances. However, seeing as it’s you…”
”No, that’s all right, Miss Honan,” smiled Regan. “We’ll catch him later. We just dropped by to bid him hello.”
Regan and Sullivan turned and walked out into the corridor.
“Speak of the devil,” said Jim.
“Yep,” replied Mike. “Wonder what them two are cookin’ up now?”
Mrs. Stephen Meegan
◆◆◆
“You must tell people about this abomination, JP! One moment you’re ready to cut Fingy’s throat and the next you’re partners with him on one shady scheme or another. You can’t have it both ways. Take a stand once and for all against that little shite, by God!”
“Annie, damn it. That’s not how things work! You know that as well as I do! I do know exactly what I’m doing, after all.”
“If time and tide has taught me anything, JP Sullivan, it is this: no you do not,” she challenged.
Sophie was tending to the baby in the back bedroom. She had only a few minutes before managed to settle him down. Now with his parents shouting he was on the verge of wailing again.
“We will not bicker about this, Annie. As it is, I have to argue ten hours or more a day with people in the Common Council! I refuse to arrive exhausted to my own home and my welcoming parlor chair only to be attacked by my own wife!”
Daughter Anne Virginia had been trying to do her homework at the desk by the parlor windows, but it was clear to her from experience what was coming. She quietly, glumly gathered her books and left mumbling under her breath, firmly closing over the door to make her point.
“Attacked? Well now, aren’t we put-upon! Poor little thing! I’m the one who’s got to answer the door whenever your constituents show up here on the front porch at all hours of the day and night with their terrible problems. Don’t you complain to me about your charmed life down there at the city hall with your fancy lunches and Emma Honan there to smooth things over for you! Today it was that suffering Mrs. Meegan who came by here knocking on the glass. It’s been over two months since Fingy Conners praised himself on the front pages of his newspapers for his charitable fund for that poor family. That widow and her children have not yet received a single cent! Them babies need to eat, JP, and Fingy Conners sits on all that money that people have donated to her and her children. Just sits on it, as if it’s his own to do with what he will! You and I donated money to this fund as well, and now he’s withholding what we and all the other citizens have given to help her in her terrible situation—and you pretend it’s not happening? Open your mouth JP! Stand up in your City Council chamber, clear your throat and say something about this shameless swindle and that miserable crook to all the rest! Shout it to the rooftops!”
She flicked imaginary lint from her right breast and stormed out.
The flick was her reminder to JP of one of the numerous wellsprings of her hatred for Fingy Conners. The mannerism’s meaning was not lost upon him.
Twenty years previous, on the night of JP’s initial election as alderman, as he lay in his bed at the brink of death from pneumonia, Fingy showed up at the door. Holding his son Peter’s hand he stalked in officiously and uninvited to announce JP’s victory to the semi-conscious candidate as he lay burning with fever. Doctor Burwell had only just left, having dictated complete rest and quiet for the critically ill patient. Annie was thoroughly exhausted from the ordeal of JP’s illness and her crying babies. She attempted to block Fingy’s progress in the narrow hallway as she cradled one colicky infant in her arms and tried to calm a screaming toddler clutching at her skirts. Fingy bulldozed past all three with impunity. As he brushed passed he aggressively cupped Annie’s breast, and squeezed. The evil putrid sneer on his face presumed his claim just as forcefully as it demonstrated his misogyny. He squeezed so hard that Annie had expelled mother’s milk, humiliating her, staining her dress, making her cry, and implanting a seed of hatred that flourished in anticipation of the beautiful event that would be Fingy Conners’ violent death. She was determined to outlive him so that she might experience the joy of dancing on his grave.
She would get her wish.
1907: Dynamite
◆◆◆
Annie Sullivan was still nursing.
Paul O’Connell Sullivan had been born May 20th last. Today was his first birthday. Annie Sullivan had come alive again after his healthy entry into the world, once she was assured tha
t he would survive. The depression after losing baby Francis the year before had been overwhelming. She became pregnant again six months thereafter. She had successfully kept the Alderman off her for months. He was not happy about “the drought.” He petitioned the late Father O’Connell to speak with her. O’Connell told her it was her duty as a loving wife to satisfy both her husband and the Church’s intransigent policy of Go Forth and Multiply. Humiliated that JP had aired their private business to the pastor, she coldly went through the motions. A part of her was relieved when O’Connell died, taking her confidences to the grave with him, hopefully. The sex act had come to sicken her in recent times, attached as it now was to losing her precious infants. She’d panicked upon first learning she was with child. She did not want any more. Eight was enough. She suffered anxiety the entire nine months. She had nightmares and frightening daydreams. She decided to give birth in the General Hospital considering her previous close call with hemorrhaging after Francis was born. She wanted her mother there in the birthing room with her to comfort her. Hospital rules would not allow it. Jane Saulter threw a monumental fit. “How dare you tell me I cannot be with my daughter in such a fearsome circumstance!” Annie felt alone and distressed surrounded by complete strangers. She never expected t0 be separated from familiar faces. The Alderman was away in Albany. She had been glad at first he wouldn’t be around. Now she wasn’t so sure.
“Push!” urged the doctor.
“Mother! I want my mother here with me! Please!” she screamed and howled.
“Push!”
Terrified, she saw cold steely forceps at the ready in his hand. She never expected such barbaric methods might be used.
Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins Page 27