Defying Death in Hagerstown

by John Paul Carinci

  When I gently directed the conversation to Lolita, Josephine said with a big smile, “She is the most amazing patient in the home. I think she is the smartest person I have ever known—Miss Lolita. Everyone calls her Miss Lolita.”

  “The Wise One?”

  “Absolutely! Miss Lolita is very wise, understanding, and compassionate. She has a philosophy she lives by, and she even has it printed and hanging on the wall above her bed at the home. And for the past twelve years or so that she has been there, I have seen it almost every day. It reads, ‘When it’s all over, all said and done, what impact will my life have had on this world?’”

  In my mind I quickly played back the words Josephine had said and responded, “What an amazing, deep statement that is,” I replied. “Such a great motivator to live one’s life to the fullest.” I quickly jotted it down.

  “Exactly! Miss Lolita has many more statements like that, and in the last twelve years, I must have heard them all.”

  “So, Lolita is doing well for one hundred and ten?”

  “Yes, she is doing fabulous!” Josephine smiled. “Oh, sure, she can’t get around without someone pushing her in her wheelchair. And, yes, she is considered legally blind. You have to get up real close to her before she can make out who you are. But, really, for one hundred and ten, she’s doing remarkably well.”

  “It is amazing,” I said. “I know no one even close to that age. It really is quite a special milestone. That’s why the newspaper sent me.”

  “The world will finally get to know Miss Lolita,” Josephine said with a happy sigh and a big smile. “They should do a movie on her.”

  “Speaking of stories that would make great movies, what do you know about the historic murders of Hagerstown in 1923?”

  “Oh, yes, the famous murders of 1923. What a sad time for Hagerstown and all of Maryland. It was many years before people finally gave up trying for a solution to the mystery. There were suspects, both in the minds of the authorities and in the minds of the citizens of Hagerstown. One was a local doctor, one was a pharmacist, and one was a retired police sergeant.”

  “A police sergeant?” I perked up and began writing again. “Tell me more about that suspect, Josephine.”

  “Well, the talk from many years ago—and that’s all I can recall is talk, because I was born ten years after the murders—but the talk was that the police sergeant committed suicide shortly after the second girl’s murder. It was thought for sure that the police sergeant was the killer. And it remained that way until the next girl was murdered in the same fashion as the other two.”

  “So why would he take his own life?”

  “Well, it came out that he had a terminal disease of some sort and was almost broke. So he spared his family the anguish of a long, drawn-out death and leaving them in poverty from spending the rest of his money on medical care. So he took his life. The family collected his pension and a sizable life insurance policy. And all these years later . . . . In fact, it’s the ninetieth anniversary this year, and they never caught the person or persons responsible for the murders of those poor young women.”

  “Do you know anything about the girls who were murdered?” I asked, my notebook at the ready.

  “It is so long ago, but because of the anniversary of the murders, the story has been getting a little attention lately. The girls were all high school students. Two of the young ladies went to the all-girls school, The Hagerstown High School for Girls. The other girl went to Hagerstown Coles High, a mixed boy-girl high school.

  “One girl’s father owned an automobile repair shop in town. She was the only one of the three who had her head cut off, God bless her!” She made the sign of the cross.

  “This killer was insane!” I replied.

  “Worse than insane: sadistic, heartless, and much like the coldblooded terrorists of today. But for 1923, this kind of butchering was unheard of. The entire state was in mourning for these young women.” She now had tears in her eyes.

  “Please try to remember, Josephine,” I said after waiting a minute. “I need to know more.”

  “Well, the first girl—she was only fifteen—her head was found on the side of the road that was usually traveled by students on their way to school each day, and her body was found a month later in a car at the town’s Chevrolet dealership. One of the killer’s trademarks was to cut the bodies up and leave a piece in a prominent spot to be found exactly one month after each girl was murdered.”

  “What a sick bastard!” I said. “And especially brutal for the Twenties. What could have possibly been the killer’s motive?”

  “Many law enforcement people worked on the case,” Josephine said, shaking her head. “The FBI was involved. The place was swarming with police. The few suspects were quickly discounted, and after a number of years, Hagerstown slowly recovered from that very depressing time.”

  “The three girls were killed over what time frame?” I asked.

  “The first one, Lori, was killed on February tenth. The second, Ingram, on June tenth, and the third, Amanda, on October tenth. The second girl was seventeen. Her body was floating in the pond at the same time they found her arm sticking out of the flowerpot at the entranceway to her school. The third girl was only fourteen. Her father had died the year before from a boating accident. Her mother had to clean the homes of rich people to care for her family. They found the girl’s remains one month later at the movie house, propped up in one of the seats. Her arm was found sticking straight out of the ground at the local park. No one would let their children walk to school alone or walk home alone. Keep in mind, this was in 1923, when everyone left their windows open wide and their doors unlocked. Family and friends would routinely just drop in on one another’s homes. No need for locks. No fear of strangers, as everyone basically knew one another. Suddenly all that changed.”

  “So, Josephine, any ideas how I can get the latest scoop on any new leads or anything recent that might be related to the murders?”

  “Well, I have some friends at the newspaper, the Hagerstown New News. I’ll make a few calls for you tonight. You know, the New News is the oldest paper in Maryland; it was started in 1890. It’s over on Summit Avenue. You can ask for Harriet Newman; she’s been there forever. She’ll help you. And I’ll fill her in about your story on Lolita and your interest in 1923.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Harriet Newman had deep blue eyes, a short haircut with bangs, and a plump, roundish frame. She looked to be in her late seventies. She had a warm, pleasant personality as she greeted me.

  “Josephine told me about you,” she said with a welcoming smile. “We have a boring and quiet town, so you are a welcome diversion for us here.”

  “It’s been far from boring so far.”

  “Well, the newspapers here don’t have much to write about. Hagerstown has the lowest crime rate in Maryland. You’d be surprised what we consider a story these days—at least compared to the big cities like DC and New York.”

  We spoke about the nursing home I was to visit the next day, and we spoke more about the town, the historic movie theater I wanted to visit, and Miss Lolita’s amazing longevity. Harriet introduced me to a girl of around nineteen, named Julie, in the newsroom, which was nothing more than a small office. In fact, the newspaper building was old and quite small overall. Julie was as slim as they come and had long, blonde hair and dark eyes.

  “Harriet told me you were looking for old news stories about the 1923 murders and Lolita’s press of late.”

  I took plenty of notes but didn’t uncover too much useful information that I didn’t already know from my own research and interviews. Julie, as with almost everyone I had met in Hagerstown, was extremely friendly and helpful.

  I did see some current pictures of Miss Lolita, in a story their paper had run on her nearing her 110th birthday. Miss Lolita did look old, as I had expected, but rather good for her age, although I had no one to compare her to. She wore glasses with thick Coke-bottle lenses, had all
of her hair, and a few extra pounds on her. The pictures depicted a smiling, happy-looking person. I’d venture to say that Miss Lolita could pass for a woman of eighty-five, and as for the few extra pounds, I had recently read that a few extra pounds can add to longevity. There must be some secrets there; I would try to find out from the wonder woman herself when I interviewed her for the first time.

  Julie was able to pull up pictures of the three young women from the 1923 murders. Lori Gellate, Ingram Stuart, and Amanda Harrison all looked so young, so innocent. And all I could think as I looked over the various pictures from the many news stories was that these girls could have been anyone’s sisters or daughters. How sad. How sick. What a waste of three young lives that never got the chance to shine; young women who never got the opportunity to forge a life or a career for themselves. Sad that these young women never got to be wives, mothers, grandmothers. I felt mad as well as sad, and drained of all energy as I sat there reading about the taking of their young lives in such a sadistic manner. And then to think that the killer or killers got away with it just sickened me.

  I could read no more. I could take no more notes. I had had my fill of sadness, but I had a newfound sense of responsibility to find at least some new clue yet uncovered. I felt too close to these girls now, and could only imagine the sense of grief that Hagerstown and the whole state of Maryland must have felt in 1923 and for many years after that.

  I wondered how some people could turn into human monsters. We are all born pure, loving, and without prejudice. At what point in a person’s life does his personality abruptly—or gradually—change, turning him into a vicious animal, willing to tear people to pieces? When does that once-pure creation from God decide he can take another life that was also given by God? What really disturbed me the most was that ruthless killers of this sort didn’t seem even a little scared about dying one day and having to answer to the highest judge of all. Don’t they believe in God?

  As I exited the news building, the day’s activity and stress finally hit me. I was exhausted, mentally more than physically. My legs felt like they had heavy weights attached, and my back felt like I had just played a full game of football against the Dallas Cowboys.

  The air was warm and breezy as I crossed the street to where my car was parked. My mind was working overtime in calculations and thoughts of the entire day, of murder victims, of Lolita, and my newfound acquaintances who had been so helpful in my investigation.

  As I crossed the empty and dead-quiet street, a dark car suddenly swerved toward me with a screech of tires that shocked me to attention. My eyes quickly focused on the vehicle, tires smoking as it raced right at me. The split second I had to think convinced me that I was a dead man. My first reaction was to run, but tired feet cannot outrun a car gunned full-out with a head of steam.

  Before I could move a muscle, I heard a loud slapping sound of hands, arms, body; I saw bright lights . . . and then total blackness.

  It’s amazing how fast a calculation the human brain can make in a life-or-death situation, convincing the person in that tenth of a second that their chances of surviving their current severe situation are almost zero percent. My situation was no different. My mind came up with me hitting a half-billion-dollar lottery faster than surviving that oncoming car.

  The darkness quickly turned bright, and I saw my mother and deceased father as they looked when they had just been married. They were smiling at me as they were illuminated in very bright light, as if a spotlight was shining on them. All I could do was stare. No words were spoken; there was just brightness, happiness, calmness, and peace—perfectly quiet peace. Heavenly, I thought, and then, Me? Heaven? Now? No way! But if this isn’t heaven, what is it?

  We all hear about tunnels of bright light, of relatives greeting the new arrivals, and some convincing the person who’s near death that it isn’t their time yet and they must go back. I waited, but there was no sign, no communication, no tunnel, and no movement. Just peace and quiet like I’d never experienced before.

  Then suddenly, the bright light grew brighter, blinding, as my parents disappeared and were replaced with just pure light. I wasn’t scared or worried about hell or heaven. I didn’t want to wake up, or go back home, or do anything but bask in the glorious bright light and perfect silence—a silence I had always yearned for but had never found, a silence that solved all the problems of the world. Maybe this is it! I thought, hoping that heaven was waiting for me.

  But suddenly I heard a noise that shattered the silence, though I couldn’t decipher the sounds or even where they were coming from. They grew louder, and the light grew intensely bright in my eyes. Louder still, a man’s voice spoke: “Okay . . . it’s okay . . . .”

  My eyes slowly opened and focused on a man with a beard—a doctor. I was groggy. I stared at him and at the bright light he was shining in my eyes. “Welcome back, Lou,” he said, as he shined the light into and away from one eye and then the other.

  “You’re doing fine now,” he said.

  Slowly, I looked around at the hospital bed and room I was in, and just then, pain shot from the back of my head, and I let out a groan.

  “Yes, you have a nice big bump on your head,” he said. “But you’ll be fine. My name is Dr. Frederickson.”

  He must have been at least seventy-five, tall, slim, with a full head of white hair and a beard. His glasses gave off a reflection from the overhead fluorescents.

  “You’ve been unconscious for a little over thirty minutes now. Do you remember anything, son?”

  “All I remember is a car, a fast car,” I said, and my voice cracked a bit out of weakness.

  “It was a hit-and-run.”

  “Oh, great,” I muttered in disbelief.

  Dr. Frederickson assured me that all my vitals were fine, that the X-rays all were negative, and that I had only a slight concussion. He suggested that I remain for the night as a precaution. I would be monitored closely and released in the morning.

  My head felt like it was split in two, and my hands and arms were scratched up a bit. The doctor put me on some pain medication for discomfort, and then he left the room.

  A few minutes later, the police captain dropped by to check on me. Just as I saw him approach, I felt the back of my head. I had a baseball-sized bump that hurt like hell. The doctor’s pain medication hadn’t had a chance to kick in yet. I knew I needed a tall, strong drink, but that wasn’t going to happen in this gown-infested happy-land, which was my prison for the night.

  As I looked up, Captain Joel Krolm towered over my bed. I studied his six-three, two-hundred-eighty-pound frame.

  Of course, the captain was way past football-playing age, but he would have been a force to be reckoned with. He came close to me and placed a hand on my shoulder. “You are one lucky young man; you know you could have easily been killed out there.”

  “Captain, it’s not like I was playing marbles in the middle of the street . . . .”

  “Funny. No, but someone wants you out of the way in the worst way. And you know, I want you out of my town, too.” He smiled a sarcastic smile.

  “I’m not having a good time in your little town, Captain. Why would anyone want to hurt me?”

  “You are snooping around, rustling up a hornets’ nest, but the sting will kill you for sure. Stop asking questions and go back to your own little world. We can’t protect you here, not with you asking all your questions about a very sore subject in our history. Someone is clearly disturbed by you.”

  “Captain Krolm, I’m just writing a story about a sweet old lady and . . . .”

  “You’re writing your own obituary, my man. You’re pissing someone off, and Billy Blaine is still on the loose with a gun, a rifle, and one of our police cruisers. He is extremely dangerous.”

  “You don’t think he . . . ?”

  “I don’t think anything. But he almost killed two men, in case you’ve already forgotten about that, and he won’t think twice about taking you out. Now, what do you
remember?”

  “I had the meatloaf and lumpy mashed potatoes. It wasn’t that bad.”

  “Right, smart ass! Anything stand out?”

  “Just a big, dark-colored car, very fast, screeching tires, smoking, swerving, aimed right at me. I blacked out, hit my head, and didn’t see anyone.”

  “Great help you are.” He smirked. “Feel better, but get out of my town.”

  “Or else?”

  The captain looked me in the eyes long and hard. “Or else we’ll send you back to your boss, Harold Glavin, in a body bag.”

  “You know Glavin?” I asked, stunned.

  “Yeah! He called to check up on you. I think he was disappointed you were still alive!” He laughed. “He’d have a great story: ‘Reporter Investigating Famous 1923 Hagerstown Murders Gets Knocked Off’.”

  “Captain, you’re in the wrong business.”

  “Just watch your ass, son. And remember, I’m watching your every move!” he snapped as he quickly turned to leave, and as he opened the door, he repeated in a trailing voice, “Watching your every move!”

  Evidently, the hospital was not busy because I had no one sharing my semi-private room. I was glad, because hospitals freak me out—all the germs and all. The food is probably equal to prison food, and unless you are severely ill, it’s good to run out of there as soon as possible.

  The limited-channel television bored me silly, so I walked the empty halls. I touched base with the newspaper and left a detailed message for my cold-hearted boss, letting him know that although I had experienced a hell of a day, I was still alive and well, or as well as could be. The secretary at the paper said she would type a full report for the boss and have it on his desk for the morning. He was a real hard-ass, but I wondered how he would react if I had been killed. The ones that talk the toughest are sometimes lambs deep down inside. But I knew one thing for sure: Unless I did die, I’d better write the story of my life and have something new and exciting about the murders of 1923. Glavin would get a real thrill out of firing my ass and watching me clean out my desk, jeering that I would be lucky to get a job at a movie theater making popcorn. I finally eased back into bed and had just dozed off when—speak of the devil!—the bedside phone rang.