One shot had cut a furrow through the man’s scalp without doing any serious injury. Evidently the remaining three were fired at a closer range. One of these entered the right ear and took a downward course. It lodged in his neck. Patrolman Denny made a close examination of the man’s skull as they awaited the ambulance. The man’s face was powder-marked in the vicinity of the ear.
“I believe that after shooting the woman and then himself twice each, he paused to reload the revolver and then fired another two into his own head,” the brilliant Sherlock Holmes’ doppelganger declared.
Although the man seemed to be in a dying condition when he arrived at the Emergency Hospital he was nonetheless operated on. The second bullet to the ear, the surgeons determined, took an upward course, splintered the bones of the skull and drove them into the brain. The pieces of bone were removed and two bullets were found there. One had split and the two pieces were taken from different parts of the head. Afterward the surgeons stated there was a slight chance that he might recover.
The woman’s body was lying partially on the left side with a bullet wound through the right cheek and another in the head above the ear. Her face was powder-marked as well, showing that the revolver had been exploded at close range. The man, according to Patrolman Dugan, then turned the revolver upon himself and began firing multiple rounds into his own head.
“In all he used four shots and did not make a clean job of it,” derided Dugan.
Mrs. Elizabeth Morton had been a woman with a career. She had been a concert hall singer, a snake charmer, a ticket-seller at the Pan American Exposition and most recently the leading lady in a stranded Uncle Tom show. She has been known as Lizzie Miles, Mrs. James Gormerly, Mrs. Charles Morton, and a few others. Her maiden name was Elizabeth Hunkin. She was born in Galt, Ontario and it was claimed by her that she came from an upstanding family.
During the Pan-American Exposition the woman was in the ballyhoo in front of a show on Exchange Street, opposite the New York Central Depot. She performed there as a so-called snake charmer, suggestively draping thick thirty-pound boa constrictors around her body decadently whilst her face manifested various expressions of sexual pleasure. She created something akin to a sensation, at least there among those who had not as yet gotten as far as the Fair’s naughty Midway.
The police were called.
Two weeks previous to her death she got stranded at Dundas, Ontario with an Uncle Tom’s Cabin show and came back to Buffalo. A telegram addressed to Mr. Willing, the attempted suicide suspect, was found on the parlor table of the flat they shared. It read “Send $8. Show is stranded. Florence.” Since returning to Buffalo she was at Fenton’s Theater on Broadway where she appeared in something called “A Circle of Beauty, Mirth and Music” under the name of Edna Burch. She was almost pretty, once. It was claimed by one or two that Mrs. Morton had in fact been a prepossessing-looking woman back in her day. But now at the age of 40 she could not be counted among the beautiful.
She lived with Mr. Willing who by all accounts was in love with her. His affections were only briefly reciprocated. The capricious Mrs. Morton was lately enjoying sexual relations with a new man. She referred to him only as John, or “the bartender.” She never uttered his last name nor the name of the saloon in which he was employed, not even to her daughter Dora. Mrs. Morton was infatuated with the white-aproned knight. She cared not a whit for Willing as of recent.
Detective Jim Sullivan arrived at the hospital. There Patrolman Dugan filled him in on all the particulars.
“In the revolver found by his side were four cartridges and one empty shell, showing that only one shot had been fired from that round. I’m thinkin’ he emptied all the five chambers, reloaded the revolver and fired just one shot after the weapon was reloaded. If this be the case, he took two shots to dispose of the woman.”
Sullivan calculated for a second, then said, “I’m figurin’ right about now you failed arithmetic in school. So, how many empty cartridges were found alongside the body, Dugan?”
‘Two.’
“And how many holes were in these people?”
“Two in her and four in him.”
“So six bullets were fired. You recovered two empty casings. Where are the rest?”
“One was in the chamber. Two on the floor.”
“Equals three. Three are missing.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, maybe he got rid of ‘em.”
“He got rid of them? A man who shot himself in the head four times decides to take a breather sometime in the middle of it all so’s to clean up some of the cartridges—and perhaps makes himself a nice sandwich? That’s what you’re tryin’ to argue’?”
Dugan just shrugged. “Didn’t say nothin’ about no sandwich, Detective.”
To the great surprise of all, the man, Mr. Willing, was able to speak after the operation. Detective Jim Sullivan questioned him cautiously and received for his trouble a stout denial from Willing of any connection whatsoever with a murder.
“Who killed the woman?” asked Sullivan.
“What! Is she dead?” gasped Willing. He was incredulous at first, then he began to cry.
The question went unanswered.
“What did you shoot her with?”
“I didn’t shoot her at all! I was sittin’ there at the table with my back to the door when there came a knock. She got up to open it, and then somethin’ hit me real hard in the ear.”
“You own a revolver don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Where is it?”
“I loaned it to Mrs. Morton. She said a man was bothering her on the street.”
“What was this man’s name?”
“She never said.”
“When did you give her the gun?”
“Two, three days ago.”
He was then asked questions about himself. It was learned that he was a molder employed at the Eagle Iron Works. During the past week he had been out of work. He said he came here from Detroit and that his parents lived there. He belonged to a local union of molders and his card of membership was found in the room.
The most peculiar feature of the tragedy is the fact that although at least six shots were fired not one of them was heard on the street or by the Rauttenbergs on the floor below. The Rauttenbergs were in the kitchen in the rear of the house and this fact may account for their not hearing the shots. The time of the murder and attempted suicide though is fixed by them to a certainty. They heard something fall, and following that there was another dull noise, such as that made by a collapsing body. This was at 3:30 in the afternoon, as near as they could remember. Rauttenberg and his wife paid no great amount of attention to the noise, believing that the couple was having yet another argument.
Mrs. Morton had met Mr. Willing only five weeks previous. He was immediately smitten and asked her to move in with him. As an inducement he used almost his entire savings to purchase furniture for the flat. She then took up residence with him. Soon, she stated to the neighbors, she tired of him. Her tiring of him coincided exactly with her meeting the bartender, John. Mrs. Morton invited John to come visit her at Willing’s flat even during those times when Willing was present. Willing blew up at this provocation. John, who worked evenings, afterward timed most of his visits for when Willing was at work. But the previous week Willing was out of work and thus home much of the time. The bartender was not at all happy about that, so Mrs. Morton abruptly demanded that Willing move out. Unfortunately he had no savings left with which to do so. He was paying off the remainder of the furniture weekly. As an accommodation, Mrs. Morton offered Willing that she would accept responsibility for the remaining furniture payments if he would only leave. All the while, bartender John was unhappy that his paramour was yet living with this other man. To add fuel to the fire,Willing was not making efforts to find another place to live. They all fought about it.
Detective Sullivan called on Mr. and Mrs. Rauttenberg at their flat.
“Mrs. Morton came t
o visit after every argument in order to provide us with the latest particulars,” said Mrs. Rauttenberg. “Mrs. Morton claimed that Willing hit her and strangled her on a number of occasions. We warned her that he might kill her in that case. She said no, that he was too much of a coward to kill her or anyone else.”
“Did you witness the results of those attacks?”
“Results? What do...?”
“Yes, marks on her face. Bruises. If he strangled her there would be bruising visible on her neck. Did she display any such injuries? Did she limp or rub her arms or give you the impression that she was in pain or had indeed been hurt?”
“No, but I am absolutely certain he did. The noise!”
“Have you ever seen the other man, the bartender, when he came to call?”
“Yes,” Mr. Rauttenberger said,”he was a big burley chap.”
“Do you know his last name, or where he works?”
“No, but Mrs. Morton was boasting that he was quite adept at tossing troublemakers from his saloon out onto the street. She was very much taken by him.”
“And Willing? Did he strike you as a violent man?”
“That’s what is so surprising about all this,” said Mr. Rauttenberger. “We could not imagine him ever doing such a thing. He was polite, handsome. He helped me bring a large chair inside once. He helped my wife carry her groceries.”
“Did you ever see or hear any fights that Mrs. Morton had with the bartender? This fellow ‘John’?” asked Jim.
“Well... there was one day right before the murder, when the bartender demanded she kick Willing out of the flat. He accused that she might be playing both of them against each other to her own benefit. She screamed ‘How dare you!’ and ran upstairs crying. He followed, apologizing. There was some loud arguing after. Some things, furniture I’m guessing, being toppled, pushed around. And then it was very quiet again after that, until he left.”
As the days went by it appeared that Willing might indeed recover. A warrant was issued. He was charged with the murder of Mrs. Morton. Jim was troubled by the whole thing. He shared his doubts with Mike Regan over beers at the boathouse.
“There are too many holes in this thing, Mike. And I mean that literally. Willing says he lent his pistol to Mrs. Morton. Maybe she passed it on to the bartender for the purpose of having Mr. Willing killed. Willing said he was hit hard in the ear as he sat with his back to the door after she opened it to someone knocking. What if the bartender had walked in and shot them both? It didn’t strike me that Willing was lying. He seemed genuine in his disbelief when I told him that he had been shot and the Morton woman was dead. Who can possibly shoot himself four times in the head? I’ve never heard of such a thing. Then there’s the missing bullet cases. We’re supposed to accept that a man who has shot himself a number of times in the head pauses to reload his gun and dispose of some of the casings? I’m thinkin’ it was the bartender who was jealous and shot them both. We have to find that bartender.”
Regan did not look at Jim even once as he spoke. He just sat there in the clubhouse parlor, wiping the sweat from his schuper with his giant thumb.
“Sully, I don’t know. We got a cut’n’dried case here. It’s likely Willing done it. Maybe somebody kicked the shells away. The ambulance men. Or they were cleaned up without anybody thinkin’. Count them up: Marian Murphy. Burdick. Austin Crowe, Dr. Westhause, Joe Rust, old Mrs. Jasper. We’ve just had too many murders and too little solvings goin’ on. The whole country is laughin’ at us. We can’t afford to look no worse than we already do. We gotta leave this one alone, I think. Everybody seems to agree that Willing done it. Why upset the apple cart?”
George J. Willing hung on for another two months. Police tried to question him further, but he slipped in and out of dementia. His family came from Detroit to see him. They insisted to police, to the doctors and nurses, that he was too mild mannered a soul to have committed such a terrible crime.
There was worry that if Willing recovered things might get complicated for the police department. Patrolman Dugan had failed to perform in his duties. A good attorney might get Willing off the hook merely on that fact alone. A search was carried out three days after the murder at the Morton flat for the missing bullet cases, but by then the place had been fully cleaned up.
Six weeks and two surgeries after the shooting, doctors operated on Willing a third time for the removal of pus from his brain. Like the previous, that operation was successful as well, but soon afterward Willing began to waste away. A little more than two months after the shooting, he died. It was just two days before Christmas.
“There you go,”smiled Chief Regan. “Case solved.”
1909
John L. Sullivan, W.C. Fields, and The Calico Ball
◆◆◆
As he carefully conducted Alderman Sullivan’s brand-new Pierce Arrow automobile, JP’s fourth, down treacherously icy Main Street, Police Chief Michael Regan cursed out loud. The auto was supposedly on “loan” to the alderman in reciprocation for various favors received by the local automaker. No schedule pertaining to its return to the company had yet been put in place.
“Jesus Christ! How do you control this stupid thing?” Regan fumed.
Thankfully the Alderman had snow chains installed on the vehicle’s tires, despite the fact that in the city’s Common Council chambers JP himself was calling for their ban due to heavy damage they inflicted upon the pavement. The chains’ grip was not sufficient to ease Regan’s anxiety.
Regan was freer than usual with his swearing this particular night. Police Commissioner Zeller had asked the city council earlier in the day to approve $6000 for the purchase of automobiles for the use of the Chief and his detectives. In addition he wanted an automobile patrol wagon. The request was denied. Not just denied, but ridiculed. Blustering Common Council member “Colonel” Haffa huffed that it was a frivolous expense, that horses were more than adequate for the department’s needs, and that anyway, buying cars for the police department was crazy since that would surely lead to joy riding just as it had with the New York City police department.
Regan was bundled up tight in his long winter wool police uniform coat and muffler but underneath he wore farmer’s garb, including denim bib overalls and a calico shirt. A straw hat lay on the passenger seat. The Chief pulled up to the entrance of the Hotel Iroquois and parked right in front. He noted that the customary doorman was not on duty there. He opened the door himself and went inside.
A welcome blast of warmth caressed his frozen cheeks as the door closed behind him. The lobby was bright and lively, with a large Christmas tree still in place from the holidays, colorfully lit with electric bulbs. A group of people gathered excitedly around a very large older man broad of shoulder and generous of moustaches. He was very well dressed and busied himself laughing and signing autograph books.
The big man spotted the Chief and boomed, “There you are, you old bastard!”
Women tittered at the boxing icon’s irreverent and profane remark. They were excited by his boldness and his fame. Few others could get away with such a thing in mixed company, much less elicit smiles on the face of the intended target, but Michael Regan was flattered and proud that the great legend of the boxing ring John L. Sullivan was his very good friend.
John L. had been informed that the theme of the evening’s social event was that of a calico ball, but even if he had been in possession of the desired attire he would never have worn it. He didn’t have to. He made his own rules. He was an international celebrity. No one would dare challenge John L. Sullivan, even at his advanced age.
The Champ’s excited fans parted like the Red Sea to Moses’ raised staff once they recognized the approaching Police Chief. The two men shook hands vigorously. Chief Regan could smell whiskey on John L.’s breath, despite the fighting legend’s oft-renewed public oath and promises to his wife Kate that he would forego drink. He was an admitted alcoholic who took too much comfort in drink to give it up entirely despite
the lifetime of grief it had caused him. John L. smiled and waved goodbye to the gathered group as he accompanied Chief Regan out the door. At the portal the previously absent doorman awaited. John L. summoned him over.
“I’ve a present for you, Mike. I hope you like him!”
From under his coat the doorman produced an adorable sleepy Boston Terrier puppy. “His name’s Six O’Clock!” boomed John L. “You can name him something else if you want, but he was born at six o’clock and so I thought the name fit him. What do you say?”
The Chief was as excited as a little kid on Christmas morning. Six O’Clock squeaked out a couple of puppy yelps. Regan brushed his cheek gently against the puppy’s muzzle, who then licked him wildly in return.
“I don’t know what to say, Champ, except thank you! He’s beautiful! He’s perfect!”
“Great!” replied John L. “Let’s hope there’s meat at this shindig because he’s got to eat every four hours. I’ll tuck him into my pocket while you drive so’s he stays warm.” The Champ spotted the handsome Pierce Arrow. Regan bounded ahead and opened the door for him.
“Bully!” John L. cried in his best Teddy Roosevelt impersonation as he admired the new auto. He got into the car and settled his hefty bulk into the passenger’s seat and made sure his muffler was good and snug against the chill wind. His overcoat’s big side pockets provided plenty of comfort for “Six,” as Regan instantly began calling him. Six settled in with his head poked out and his little paws curled over the edge of the satin pocket trim, excitement filling his eyes.
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