Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins

by Richard Sullivan

  Jimmie Murphy began to cry uncontrollably at the sight. He had envisioned that the boy would sink outright, saving them all the anguish of his plight, of having to witness the cruel and agonizing convulsions of a young man with everything to live for drowned by their own hand.

  Finally, Peter Conners surrendered to his fate. He sank out of sight. Before long the rippled surface of the water stilled and all was calm once more. The deed done, Paddy Murphy braced himself against the dray as he vomited and vomited, seemingly without end.

  ◆◆◆

  Detectives Jim Sullivan and John Geary, working the midnight-to-eight shift, took the call. It was barely dawn.

  What appeared to be a body was reported to be floating in the middle of the Ohio Basin. They drew up in their patrol wagon on the Louisiana Street side and spied the suspected cadaver in the faint light. They commandeered a clinker and rowed out. Only one or two observers bothered to scrutinize, as a body floating in any one of Buffalo’s miles of waterways was an almost daily sight that all had long become accustomed to.

  They pulled the bound and gagged cadaver into the clinker and in the gray gloom of the acrid dawn returned to the patrol wagon. Jim Sullivan noticed the ring first.

  “Oh God,” he said. “Look.”

  The two studied the ring, then examined the boy’s face. The ring was the senior class ring of the Orchard Lake Military Academy in Michigan.

  “Who can it be?” gasped Geary. “I know that Dr. Banta’s kid goes there, and…Jesus Christ! It can’t be Fingy’s kid, can it?”

  The detectives scrutinized the grey, contorted, ghostly face.

  “Don’t it look more like Banta’s kid to you, Sully?” asked Geary hopefully.

  Jim Sullivan’s face drained white. He said not a word for a full minute. Tortuous memories of his seven-year-old son Johnny who drowned in the river back in ’94 filled his throat with lumpy upchuck. He swallowed it back down hard, then looked around to make sure none of the curious were lingering nearby.

  “I think it might…I think it’s Fingy’s kid. Yeah, it is. Don’t you recognize that cleft in his chin? He’s the spittin’ image! Fuck, Geary. We better run ‘n’ get Mike.”

  They secured the bound body in the back of the patrol wagon and bolted the door, then raced up Louisiana Street to Police Captain Mike Regan’s house at No. 85.

  Out front, Mike Regan in his nightshirt entered the wagon and examined the body.

  “Holy shit. It’s Fingy’s kid for sure. We better head right over to your brother’s house Sully,” exclaimed Regan. “Gimme a minute to put me trousers on.”

  Groggily, Alderman John P. Sullivan peeked out from behind the lace curtain upon hearing the gentle knock. Seeing the patrol wagon parked in front, he limped quietly down the stairs trying not to wake anyone. Scrutinizing the three standing there together, he knew something serious must have happened. He opened the door.

  “JP! Hurry! Get yourself dressed quick and come with us! It’s an emergency!”

  The men waited by the curb, safeguarding the wagon. JP emerged a few minutes later.

  They opened the rear door of the closed vehicle and all entered, shutting the door behind them. A narrow transom arrangement along the top provided eerie illumination.

  John Geary uncovered the body of the bound and drowned boy. JP gasped. All looked at each other as they tried to grapple with the extreme gravity of the situation. They shook their heads and those that wore them nervously fiddled with their mustaches.

  “What the fuck should we do?” Jim yawped.

  “Shhh!” commanded JP. “We can’t let anyone know! What’s he doing here anyway? Isn’t he supposed to be away at school in Michigan?”

  “From what I gather nobody probably knows he’s in town,” said Captain Regan. “We would’ve surely heard about it if he was and obviously Fingy would have some of his men guarding over him if he was aware. Fingy must still think he’s yet safe at school.”

  JP asked, “Who else knows about this, Jim?”

  “Me and Geary drug him out, then we went and fetched Mike directly. So, only just us four.”

  “No,” corrected Regan, “yer fergettin’ them killers what done this!”

  “Any witnesses?” continued JP.

  “Uh...no. We didn’t let nobody get close while we fished him out,” said Jim.

  “Let’s take him to the Crowleys’ and figure out somethin’ there, before we draw attention.”

  JP and Mike Regan sat in the enclosed back with the body. Jim drove and Detective Geary sat alongside him. The Crowley Bros. Undertakers was located on Franklin Street, a bit too close for comfort to Buffalo Police Headquarters. Rather than take the Franklin route, they took Main Street instead, turning left onto Court Street, then making a right onto Franklin.

  Paranoid, they glanced up at the wall of windows in the Central High School to ascertain whether they were being watched. Shockingly just then Fingy’s automobile came racing down Franklin from the opposite direction toward them. David Nugent was chauffeuring.

  “Oh Jesus Christ!” gulped Jim. “Here comes Fingy! What foolish luck! Uh—okay, I’m gonna wave him over. Everybody stay quiet.”

  “Wave him over?” shouted Geary. “Are you nuts? Just drive on past him! Go! Go!”

  “Stay calm,” answered Jim.

  Jim waved them down. His brother-in-law idled the auto. Regan and JP held their breath in the dark of the enclosed rear of the wagon afraid to move. Jim addressed Fingy jauntily.

  “Hey, how you holdin’ up after that nasty riot, Contractor? Yer not lookin’ none the worse fer wear, if ye ask me.”

  “Hear me Sully, them bastards is gonna pay. See?” barked Fingy, rubbing his blackened eye.

  “Sure will, no doubt! Well, your Peter will be home from school for the summer soon enough, won’t he? You can put him to work helpin’ to rebuild your saloon.”

  What the hell’s wrong with yous, Sullivan? Me son ain’t no laborer! When he comes home he’ll have a whole slate waitin’ fer ‘im, but poundin’ nails ain’t on it! Come on Davey, let’s get the hell outa here.”

  Fingy and Nugent drove away without another word.

  All those aboard the patrol wagon still breathing were relieved.

  “Well, that answers that question, doesn’t it?” presumed Jim.

  The patrol wagon slowed at Crowleys’ Undertakers, pulled into the driveway and went around back of the establishment. There the detectives removed Peter’s shrouded body and carried it inside and down into the basement. Peter was carefully placed on a steel embalming table and unwrapped. Dan Crowley nearly had a heart attack upon recognizing him.

  “What the hell! Jesus Christ Almighty! What happened to him? Who did this? Where’s...does Fingy know?” Crowley asked, unbelieving.

  “No, he don’t know. We fished him out the Basin less than an hour ago,” said Jim.”

  The men were beside themselves with alarm as they inspected.

  “Jesus Christ!” gasped Crowley. “This is explosive! I can’t even begin to imagine what’ll happen out there when Fingy finds out about this. There’ll be war in the streets!”

  “Let’s not panic quite yet,” soothed Jim Sullivan. “I got an idea. First things first. I’ll call his school to find out what they might know. Where’s the telephone?”

  Dan Crowley pointed. “Over there.”

  Jim crossed the room, sat down at the small desk, and repeatedly clicked the hook trying to summon the operator.

  “Uh, yes, long distance please.” He awaited the connection. “Operator, please connect me to General Wheeler at the Orchard Lake Military Academy in Michigan.”

  “Orchard Lake? Yes sir,” she replied. “I’ll ring you back when I have your party on the line.”

  Jim hung up to await the connection. John Geary whistled. “If Fingy has no compunctions about importing Bowery thugs to crack open the skulls of unionizers, imagine what he’ll do when he finds out they murdered his boy!”

  �
�We don’t know who murdered him Geary, so hold your tongue there for the time being. Fingy’s not gonna find out if there’s any way we can help it,” countered Captain Regan.

  “How’s that possible, Captain?” winced Geary. “Ain’t no way he won’t find out about this!”

  The men conferred over the body, trying to discern what might have led up to the drowning. Captain Regan slowly undid the ropes as Detective Geary carefully recorded his boss’ observations in a pocket notebook.

  The phone rang. Jim picked up.

  “I have your party on the line sir. Go ahead.”

  “Good morning. This is General Wheeler speaking.’’

  “General, hello. This is Detective Sergeant James Sullivan of the Buffalo Police Department. Are you alone, sir? Is this a party line we’re speaking on?”

  The General tried his best to disguise his panic. He gulped.

  Curious as to how Jim intended to handle this, the men gathered round.

  “No, Detective. This is a private line. You may speak freely. How…how may I help you?”

  The General was filled with anxiety, discombobulated by Peter Conners’ disappearance and now, the police. He tried not to stutter.

  “General, can you tell me the present whereabouts of Peter Newell Conners, one of your students?”

  “Uh, I’m sorry Detective, with all due respect. We do not divulge personal information about our cadets to anyone other than the family.”

  “General,” Jim disclosed, “I know for a fact that Peter Conners is not there with you because he’s here with me right now as we speak.”

  Mike Regan erupted. He whisper-shouted, “Sully, what are you doin’?” Jim ignored him.

  “Goddamn! Does his father know? He’ll have me skinned alive for not keeping a close watch over him.”

  “No General, his father does not know. Can you tell me when Peter was last seen at your academy?”

  “Is Cadet Conners all right, Detective? Are we speaking privily here?”

  “Yes, General, we most assuredly are.”

  “Well, the Conners boy disappeared from our infirmary sometime on Thursday night or Friday morning and Dr. Huxley and I have been frantic ever since. I placed a call to his father on Saturday to tell him, but then thought better of it, and I disconnected before the call went through. I knew he would be extremely upset, so I felt it was best to await Peter’s return, and afterward decide how to handle the situation.”

  As he spoke, Wheeler’s voice became increasingly panicked.

  “His father’s violent temper is well known to us, Detective. He warned only last week about keeping a close eye on his son. I fear that the elder Mr. Conners might have the power to permanently shutter our academy if he so chose, and considering his reputation that he would not hesitate to do so. I’ve put my entire savings into this school and dedicated my life to…”

  “General, please, there’s no time,” Jim interrupted. “Remain calm. You cannot breathe a word of what I am about to tell you to anyone, understand? Not a single soul!”

  “Uh, yes. Yes, of course. Tell me.”

  All present were by now in near convulsions trying to stop Jim; he waved them off and signaled them to shut up.

  Jim paused, and almost whispering said, “I’m afraid to inform you General that Peter Newell Conners has been murdered.”

  The General gasped and nearly passed out.

  “Oh my God! His father will send someone here to shoot me instantly! He’ll shoot my entire family! Everyone has heard those terrible stories about him! I don’t…”

  “General, please. We need you to remain calm! You’re in a peck of trouble! We have to figure out what we can do to help you out of this terrible predicament that you’re in!”

  “Yes, yes, please! Dear God! What do you suggest, Detective?”

  “Now I want you to think, General. Exactly what transpired before the boy disappeared?”

  “Uh…well…he was injured, uh, only just slightly, uh, in a football accident, and Dr. Huxley thought it best to confine him to the infirmary for a few days—you know, considering how overbearing the boy’s father can be. Just to play it safe. The boy was absolutely fine. He could walk without any pain, but we thought it wise to proceed with caution. Then Friday morning when the Doctor went to check on him he was missing. It wasn’t until that afternoon after Dr. Huxley and I completed a thorough search that we realized he must have left the campus. We’ve been quietly searching for him ever since. No one else knows he’s gone.”

  “Nobody? Are you sure? What about his classmates?”

  “No, I, we, uh...” The General broke down in panicked sobs.

  “General! Buck up! This is critical! Pull yourself together! Otherwise your worst fears may indeed come true!”

  “ Yes, yes! S-sorry! Uh, I mean, the Academy has a strict, no-exceptions protocol forbidding unauthorized visitors in the infirmary. It has been Academy procedure ever since our typhoid outbreak here back in ‘96 when the epidemic spread like wildfire. Since that time our policy is that a cadet will be automatically suspended for a month if he enters the infirmary without permission for any reason whatsoever. Peter’s friends and his stepbrother were summarily banned. So they would believe he’s still recuperating there.”

  “Can you be certain of that?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “All right, that’s good. However, I regret to say that I am in full agreement with you in that Mr. Conners may indeed hold you entirely responsible for the death of his son. He will undoubtedly try and close down your academy, and knowing him as I do, he will initiate a criminal case against you at the very least. He’ll most likely want to see you in prison.”

  “Fucking Christ!” he shouted, panic overwhelming him. “Every penny I’ve got is in this school! This place is my entire life now! My wife is ill and…”

  “General, please! Remain calm sir! There might just be a way out of this for you, if you’re open to accepting my solution. I do have a proposal.”

  “Yes, Detective! Anything! What can I do?”

  ◆◆◆

  The campus of the Orchard Lake Military Academy, as its name implies, is situated on the shore of beautiful Orchard Lake, twenty-six miles northwest of Detroit. The campus and all its perimeters are heavily wooded with mostly mature pine. There are nineteen freestanding buildings on the campus, including the main classroom building that somewhat resembles a fortress. One of the most isolated buildings, located at the very fringes, is the school’s tool house. Before dawn, General Wheeler and Dr. Huxley carefully locked themselves inside that structure and set to work as rain poured down outside. They placed sandbags clandestinely into a long wooden crate as Huxley periodically checked his pocket watch.

  “We can’t afford to be late, General,” Huxley said. “You still have to send the telegram.”

  “Yes, we’ll pass by the Western Union office on our way. Let’s pray this plan works, for both our sakes,” replied the General over the din of rain pelting the roof.

  Into the crate atop the sandbags went Peter Conners’ Springfield .45 cadet rifle, bayonet, scabbard, cartridge box for full dress, waist belt, plate, and West Point cadet sword. Atop these, Peter’s neatly folded gray wool uniform and cap were lain in along with his pajamas and a change of street clothing. Ascertaining that their shipment was complete, they nailed the crude pine coffin shut. Huxley poked his head out the door to see if the coast was clear. There was yet no let up in the rain. It was barely dawn. There was thundering in the distance.

  “Hurry General, or we’ll miss the train!”

  The two struggled mightily to load the coffin onto a dray in the downpour. They secured a double layer of oilcloths over it to keep the contents dry.

  Tom Banta groggily rose from his warm bed to take a piss. The rain falling heavily on the roof above his head had awakened him. The horizon showed but the faintest sign of light. He stubbed his toe on a leg of his telescope’s tripod making his way to the door.
<
br />   “Damn it!” he cursed.

  Glancing out his dormitory window he noticed lantern light and activity at the far side of campus where the tool house stood. The tool house had been burglarized the previous month and essential implements had been stolen. He assumed the burglars had returned. He retrained the telescope which had been aimed at the night sky onto the shed, shocked to see there what appeared to be General Wheeler and Dr. Huxley loading a long pineboard shipping box onto a wagon.

  “What in hell?” he softly said to himself. “Why would...?”

  After the crate was secured, Wheeler and Huxley mounted the driver’s seat and slowly, quietly made their way up the perimeter road to Orchard Lake Rd. for the long drive to the Detroit depot. The sky barely brightened along the way. They would stop at the Western Union Office. General Wheeler needed to send a wire to Fingy Conners.

  Banta woke Jordan in a panic. “Jordy! Jordy, wake up!”

  Two black umbrellas could be seen flying across campus toward the Infirmary. Forbidden territory be damned, the boys went inside and rushed into Peter’s room. The bed was empty and neatly made up. None of Peter Conners’ belongings remained there.

  ◆◆◆

  Inside Fingy Conners’ office at the Buffalo Courier he fiercely berated his staff. It was just past 9:00 a.m.

  “Yer job is to tell a different story than the one the strikers is tellin’ and what Butler’s newspaper’s printin’ about me! Why do I even hafta explain yous that?”

  A Western Union messenger rushed into Fingy’s office.

  “An urgent telegram for you. Mr. Conners!”

  “Yeah, yeah, they’re all urgent these days! Just put it down there on the pile wit’ the others, boyo. I’ll get to it!”

  “Sorry, Mr. Conners, sir,” continued Editor Schuster. “How’s about we say something to the effect of, ‘it was a vicious crime committed by a few ungrateful anarchists against labor contractor Conners, who provides gainful employment for more than six thousand family men.’ We’ll again restate that the entire economy of the First Ward depends on you employing these men, and how shameful this riot was. We’ll have set history right and proper by the afternoon’s edition, you’ll see!”