THE BARREL MURDER - a Detective Joe Petrosino case (based on true events)

by MICHAEL ZAROCOSTAS

  Primrose was still crying when McCafferty and two patrolmen took him in a Black Maria to the Tombs. Schmittberger and Petrosino saw him off in the street, making sure their prey was carted off in one piece and in more chains than the Handcuff King himself, Harry Houdini. Like henpecking mothers, they reminded McCafferty a dozen times to have Primrose put in a strait waistcoat once he was in a cell at the Tombs. Then they winked at each other and headed down Mulberry Street. As they passed The Mabille, Schmittberger pointed at the young men and women in bright make-up and sheer gowns who beckoned them.

  “The fairies have come out early tonight. It’s a Midsummer Night’s Dream in April.”

  They laughed and kept walking to the Florence Saloon.

  “You think Primrose is some kind of escapologist?”

  Petrosino shook his head. “Only a lunatic.”

  “This is a big collar, Joe.” Schmittberger clapped Petrosino’s back. “You know, if I keep up this brilliant pace, I’ll be Commissioner soon. And I just might let you ride my coattails.”

  “Maybe the Italians are next? What do you say?”

  “Oh, sure, they’ll have an Italian mayor, too, and a Negro governor.”

  “They’d never let him in,” Petrosino said. “The only thing they think is worse than a Dago in New York is a Negro. He’ll become mud in the bricks of progress.”

  “Yeah, and so will we. Who are we fooling? Let’s get some suds.”

  They walked into a saloon through a wave of smoke and chatter and bellied up to a tin counter. They had two rounds of beer with rye chasers before they took a deep breath and looked at each other, basking in the day’s accomplishment.

  Petrosino was still doubtful about Primrose. He stared at the foam on Schmittberger’s moustache and the frown hiding beneath. “You don’t look pleased, Max.”

  “We always do this. Even though we know we ain’t going nowhere but eighty hours a week on the East Side and then straight to hell. Same difference, I guess.” Schmittberger ordered another round and skipped the beer to down the shot first. “We’re fooling ourselves. I get giddy at first like you, but then I think that T.R. is long gone to Washington, and Reform will be over and out soon. Tammany will be back. Then what do we get, Joe? We get the axe, that’s what. They’ll send me to Devil’s Island like that French Jew, Dreyfus.”

  “Why do you keep worrying? Mayor Low’s not going anywhere. He’ll win again this year, and Tammany will be done for.”

  “You think so?” Schmittberger took a sip of beer. “God, I hope so for our sake.”

  “Cheer up damn it. You’re starting to talk like Steffens.” Petrosino drank half his brown bucket of beer in one gulp and plunked it down on the counter.

  “What did that tenderfoot say to you?”

  “That Low’s Reform government was in danger. Corruption and Tammany. Same old thing. Why are you so sore about Steffens anyhow?”

  Schmittberger tilted his bucket, swallowed an entire beer, and burped. “All right, I’ll tell you about ole Lincoln Steffens. Then maybe you won’t be so impressed with that know-it-all muckrake. Sarah and I are friends with him and his wife.”

  “If that don’t beat all.” Petrosino laughed and lit a cigar. “You sure don’t act like it.”

  Schmittberger took a puff from Petrosino’s cigar and handed it back. “Back in ’94, when the Lexow Committee was investigating police corruption, Steffens was at The Post and he’d become good friends with Reverend Dr. Parkhurst and the Society for the Prevention of Crime. The Post never printed crime news or police gossip. Too good for it. They always printed stuff about Wall Street and high society. But then when we were under fire during Lexow, they had Steffens turn up everywhere to expose us and clean us out as rascals. This was before you made Sergeant. Steffens was the one who sang one damn song all day long, ‘Get Schmittberger!’ He went around telling the Reformers, the police, the public, that if I squealed, I would deliver everybody and everything.”

  “I would’ve throttled the son of a bitch.”

  “Oh believe me, I wanted to.” Schmittberger smiled cruelly. “After Lexow, I got sent out to the sticks, Riverside-on-Hudson. One day, I’m on mounted patrol, and I see Steffens and his wife on bicycles. He waved, and I ignored him. But then his wife invited us to dinner, and Steffens eventually saw what a swell fellow I was.”

  “So he got you back on the job?”

  “He did after a while. At the time, the good were against me for grafting, and the underworld was against me for squealing. Everyone wanted my head. But Steffens saw his chance to make a moral experiment of me. Could a dishonest man be reformed? He convinced them all, Parkhurst, Roosevelt, the papers.”

  “You don’t feel like you owe Steffens anything?”

  “Sure I owe him for getting me back on the job, but it was all to stroke his own ego. And I resent the hell out of him for it.”

  “He was playing puppetmaster.”

  “Exactly. Men like Steffens and Parkhurst, they like to sit back and pull wires just to see the puppets jump. You be careful with him, Joe, or he’ll make an example of you, too.”

  Petrosino sat back on a stool, seeing the anger dull the blue glint in his friend’s eyes.

  Schmittberger ordered another round. “He doesn’t know what I’ve been through. He’s never had his kids sit silent at dinner, nudging one another on, and then pass the buck to the oldest boy, the one I always wanted the respect of. And then my oldest swallows a big lump in his throat and blurts out, ‘I say, Pop, is it true this stuff they’re saying? That you’re a . . . crook and . . . a squealer, too? It’s all lies, ain’t it?’” Schmittberger stopped talking, his lip quivering.

  “Max, let’s talk about something else. Tonight we’re the two biggest dicks in New York, and we’ll be the talk of the town tomorrow: Handsome Dago And Dim-Witted Inspector Solve Barrel Murder. Let’s drink to that. Let’s have a snootful and talk about cunny or when cattle got loose from that ship and nearly trampled you. We can talk all night, damn it. We just pinched the devil who did the barrel murder!”

  Schmittberger handed Petrosino a beer and lifted another to clink buckets together. The twinkle was back in his eyes. “You’re a good friend, Joe. You’re right to make me talk of better things. We can say in all humility that we are the finest dicks this City of whores has ever known. Speaking of which, did I ever tell you about the prettiest young twins who ran a badger game in the Tenderloin? The only way I could tell those gals apart was a nice mole right here.” Schmittberger turned and pointed at the crack of his ass.

  They laughed and drank to Schmittberger’s toast, “To the milky white arses of Eileen and Eleanor Fischbein, may we dream of them tonight.”

  Chapter 9

  When Petrosino woke, his head throbbed, and his stomach was lurching up to his throat. He slowly rolled out of bed and opened the window curtain. He held his hand up to the frayed sunlight and cursed as the thirst hit him. He drank straight from the tap, almost choking on one long breathless gulp. Then he washed and shaved quickly over the wash stand. The face in the looking glass still seemed gloomy. He’d grown more anxious about the barrel murder case, and his queasy stomach growled over it as he dressed.

  Outside, Bimbo was waiting in ambush for him a block north at Prince Street with a group of smaller newsies swarming like gnats. Petrosino pretended not to see the kid coming.

  Bimbo rushed up and saluted, rigid as a flagpole.

  Petrosino saluted back. “At ease, kid. What are you all atwitter about?”

  “The best day of my life,” Bimbo exhaled, waving a stack of newspapers that looked small in his muscular arms. “You solved that barrel murder, Detective Sergeant, sir.”

  The other boys buzzed around them, hanging on their every word.

  Petrosino said, “Let me see the paper.”

  Bimbo held out a copy of The World with the headline: DERANGED DOCTOR ARRESTED IN BARREL MURDER TRAGEDY – Believed Victim In Tryst With His Wife. Petrosino quickly skimme
d the article. He and Schmittberger were mentioned as having made the arrest, and there were halftone photos of the victim’s face and of Primrose weeping in irons in the Marble Palace’s basement.

  Petrosino smiled and gave Bimbo a dollar.

  “That’s too much, Joe.” Bimbo held the money in his palm.

  “I’m gonna buy more copies, kid. What else you got?”

  Bimbo fanned out the papers, and Petrosino picked out The World, The Times, The Sun, and Il Progresso. He folded them into a bundle and hid it in his overcoat.

  “You still gave me too much,” Bimbo said.

  Petrosino started walking toward Headquarters. “You’ll pay me back soon enough.”

  Bimbo tagged along. “They said the killer put up a fight. Did you lick him?”

  “Inspector Schmittberger and I whipped him real good, kid.”

  “How’d you find him?”

  “Good sleuthing.” Petrosino waved him closer. “I’ll learn you something, come here.”

  Bimbo leaned his ear in, and the other boys tried to squeeze closer.

  Petrosino pointed to a shabby man across the street, loitering at a fruit peddler’s cart.

  “You see that fellow over there? A crook moves different than an innocent citizen. He’ll walk at a jerky pace, turn his head slyly, take quick sidelong glances, and he won’t look you in the eye. There’s nothing calm about a crook unless he’s very good. That’s for free, kid.”

  Bimbo and the other boys were staring at the shabby man, and the man saw what they were doing, put down an apple, and quickly walked off.

  “Why,” Bimbo mumbled, “you’re the Italian Sherlock Holmes, Joe. What else are youse gonna teach me now that I’m a bona fide bull.”

  “A bull?”

  Bimbo unfolded a wrinkled letter and held it up.

  Petrosino stopped in his tracks and read the first sentence: “Dear Sir: We have certified the results from the civil service examination, and we are pleased to inform you that you have made the list of candidates for patrolman in the Police Department for the City of New York.”

  “Well, kid, I guess you ain’t a shitbird after all.” Petrosino took out his billfold and gave him several bills. “You gotta pay for your uniform and equipment from the quartermaster. And get good socks. The old brogans will kill your feet if you don’t have good socks. I’ll speak to Schmittberger about getting you into the Red Light District.”

  Bimbo looked at the money, dumbfounded.

  “What the hell are you looking at, kid? When you get your sixty-five bucks a month, you can pay me back. Now scram before I kick your ass… patrolman.”

  Bimbo ran down the street with a cowboy yelp, “Hi yi yi!”

  The smile on Petrosino’s face disappeared when he walked up to the Marble Palace and checked his pocket watch. He needed to get down to the basement for roll call at the “Mulberry Street Morning Parade.” The prisoners who had been arrested the night before were paraded in front of the Central Bureau dicks. The detectives would wear black masks as the prisoners were displayed and identified, and the lawmen were supposed to commit each crook’s face and crime to memory, in case they crossed paths again in the future. Petrosino normally enjoyed the ritual, but all he could think about was the barrel murder. A voice shouting from above startled him.

  “Yeah you, Sergeant!” Chief Inspector McClusky’s rough voice rained down. Petrosino took two steps back and looked up at McClusky leaning out of his office window. “Get your ass up here, on the double!”

  The window slammed shut, and pigeon feathers fluttered down.

  Petrosino sighed and made his way up the three flights of stairs to the anteroom of McClusky’s office. Early morning was when the Chief Inspector received complaining citizens, department heads, reporting captains, and the press. Petrosino glanced at the suits, dresses, and uniforms in the anteroom waiting for instructions from the desk sergeant who regulated foot traffic. The door to McClusky’s inner office was shut.

  “Well, look who’s here.” Schmittberger peeked from a fedora so low on his head that Petrosino could barely see his eyes. “Bought yourself papers, too, to see your name in print.”

  “You look like something a tomcat dragged in,” Petrosino said.

  “Yeah? Well, I got here before you did, didn’t I. You can’t outdrink me on your best day, greenstick.”

  Petrosino sat down with his papers and hat next to Schmittberger.

  “He’s been in there a half hour with the press,” Schmittberger said.

  “How much credit will we get?”

  Schmittberger made a big O with his hand, closed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair.

  “You know that boy, Bimbo, playing stickball yesterday? He made the list.”

  “Bully for him. I suppose you want him to start on the East Side.”

  Petrosino nodded, then whispered, “I’ve been thinking on the case.”

  “Me, too, Joe. Don’t say it. Let me enjoy it for a little while, would you? My noggin’ hurts. I wish I could find an ice truck and just dunk my head in the back of the wagon for a couple of days. You got any headache powders?”

  “No. You thinking what I am about the case?”

  “I was, but I’m not gonna make waves. We close it, it’s good for all. Especially us.”

  Petrosino looked around the room at the innocent faces of the civilians, the greasy smiles on the politicos, and the worried cops scratching pencils on reports and erasing mistakes. The air was stale, and he thought of taking off his overcoat if it weren’t for the bundle of newspapers.

  “We ought to get Dr. Primrose’s wife to identify the barrel victim,” Petrosino whispered. “Make sure it’s their driver.”

  “She’s taking the ‘rest cure.’” Schmittberger smirked, eyes still closed. “At a sanitarium upstate. Exact location undisclosed.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “One step ahead of you. I sent Weiss to the Primrose household. No one would talk, and the wife is gone. She was distraught over her husband’s crack-up and went away. She’s committed no crime, so we can’t force her to talk or even stay in the city. So her lawyer says.”

  Petrosino shook his head. “Weston said there were two knives at least, maybe three.”

  “I know, Joe. I was at the post-mortem. But then I reasoned that Primrose is a doctor and probably drugged our victim like Dold said. Then Primrose tortured him with different dirks and stilettos. Just for kicks. He’s crazy enough, you saw him.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Joe, he confessed to Dold.” Schmittberger opened his eyes and hunched over, elbows on his knees. “And you saw how he sliced off that guard’s ear, with a shoehorn for shit’s sake.”

  “What about our victim’s fancy clothes? He kept himself in better stead than me.”

  Schmittberger grinned. “That’s not saying much. Besides, you’ve seen rich folks’ servants. They dress better than most of us. Maybe Primrose’s carriage driver dressed like a dandy and wore derby hats, to make himself look taller?”

  “Wise-ass,” Petrosino whispered, thumbing his own derby on his lap. “Where did Primrose kill him and why put him in a barrel on Avenue D? And do you think our lunatic doctor dragged him to the East Side that night?” Petrosino snorted. “Come on, Max, my gut’s in knots over this.”

  “You’ve got buyer’s remorse. Remember Othello.”

  “What?”

  “My Othello theory makes it fit. Primrose is already off his rocker, then add jealousy to the fire. The driver is new to the work, an Italian just off the boat, cheap and handsome, soft hands, too. He takes any job he can get, which is carriage driver for a rich doctor. Thereafter, Primrose’s wife fancies the new Italian and starts giving him the French on the side, but Primrose finds out somehow. So he goes to where this Italian lives, some shithole flophouse on Avenue D, and confronts the man, and that’s what the note and handkerchief were about.”

  “The note was in Italian.”

 
“Yeah, well maybe our victim wrote it as a love letter to Primrose’s wife. Or maybe Primrose’s wife knows Italian. One of those educated society gals, been to Europe on a steamship, studied Italian art history or somesuch.”

  “Yeah, but…” Petrosino saw the desk sergeant trying to get their attention, waving them to the Chief’s inner office door. “Why the barrel? Why out in the open?”

  “Why does he call himself the Czar of Russia?” Schmittberger stood, buttoned his suit, and smiled graciously at the desk sergeant. “Let’s go, the Chief awaits.”

  A slew of reporters exited McClusky’s inner office and pressed them for comments, but the pair shook their heads and went inside.

  Chief Inspector McClusky pretended to be writing at his desk, too busy to notice them. Petrosino and Schmittberger stood there silently. Schmittberger crossed his eyes, and Petrosino bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

  “Well, if it isn’t Shylock Holmes and the Dago in the Derby!” McClusky boomed, setting aside his paperwork. “What a fine pair. One’s six and half feet tall and built like a railroad tie, and the other’s five and half feet and squat as a fireplug. Don’t just stand there. Sit.”

  Petrosino and Schmittberger sat stiffly on the edge of two chairs in front of McClusky’s desk. McClusky leaned back in his chair, drummed his fingers on the desk.

  “What is it you like about being a cop, Broom?”

  “Taking care of the folks in my District and the East Side.”

  “Horseshit.” McClusky turned to Petrosino. “What about you, you little Dago mongrel?”

  “Respect, sir.” Petrosino squinted at McClusky’s face, scaly like a lizard’s, the cracked lips parting to smile. “They don’t have to like me, sir, but they damn well better respect me.”