Fingy in fact had quite liked McKinley personally and had eagerly supported him to the point of requiring his entire force of dockworkers, numbering thousands of men, to march in a political parade on Presidential candidate McKinley’s behalf, despite Conners and most of the workers being Democrats.
After their initial meeting in Chicago in 1893 Fingy wasn’t able get Hearst’s newspaper idea out of his mind. Conners was convinced that in order to get where he intended to go, he, like William Randolph Hearst, had to buy himself a newspaper.
So, in short order, he bought three.
Now here he was, ten years later, a guest of Hearst at his ranch in California. Hearst had recently decided to run himself for Congress from New York’s 11th District. He didn’t need a caucus or a convention or powerful friends to put his name in nomination because he owned the right newspapers. He simply declared himself a candidate in print. The people’s candidate; independent of any political machine, free from any party Boss the likes of Democrat McCarren or Republican Hannah, beholden to nobody, able to finance his own campaign with his own money, or rather, his mother’s, owing nothing to anybody else other than her.
His own New York newspaper glorified him, positioning him as a pro-labor, anti-corporation man, and began paving his way to attaining genuine Washington power.
This same path too was a longtime dream of Fingy’s—winning, or stealing, a powerful political office for himself, and William Randolph Hearst was his ticket, at least for now. The two powerful New York newspaper publishers from opposite ends of the state agreed to a mutually beneficial alliance.
“After you win your Congressional seat, Randy, I wanna boom yous fer Governor,” enthused Conners. “I got big plans of me own, and if you include me, I can promise you the governorship of New York. And after that, nothin’ can stop yous from ownin’ the key to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.”
Hearst chuckled at Conners’ hubris and at Fingy’s underestimating his wild ambition; the entitled Hearst’s plan was to run himself for President two years hence, in 1904.
“I’m way ahead of you, Conners,” Hearst said, ambiguously.
W.R. sized him up as they sat eye to eye, concluding that this odd little thug may yet indeed prove himself to be of good use somewhere along the way.
He raised his iced tea glass and Fingy clinked his beer schuper against it.
“Great minds think alike,” toasted the soon-to-be member of the United States House of Representatives.
“Better don’t yous ferget it,” replied the former saloon boss.
The Burdick Murder
Detective Sergeant Jim Sullivan looked around, memorizing the scene, taking in every detail.
Edwin L. Burdick, President of E.L. Burdick & Co. and the Buffalo Envelope Company and prominent member of the Elmwood Avenue social set lay dead on the sofa amid bits of skull.
The man was naked except for the solitary item of clothing that he wore, a blood-spattered undershirt, pulled up under his armpits. Multiple pillows had been placed under his crushed cranium. Others, blood-stained, were scattered about.
The wounds in his head, twelve in number, had been delivered with great force. A contusion at the front at the hairline seemed to be from the initial blow, with those at the side of the skull appearing to have been inflicted more seriously. The back of the head and the base of the skull contained a network of compound and multiple fractures, indicating that blow after blow must have been rained down upon the head in quick succession as he turned to flee from his attacker or to shield himself. The deadly flailing must have been applied with great strength and fury to have produced such onerous damage.
The pillows had absorbed a copious amount of the victim’s life’s blood; his dead body had been covered with pillows when the deed was complete. Over these was draped a beautiful Turkish rug.
The family physician, Dr. Marcy, the first to be summoned and the first to arrive on the scene, found Mr. Burdick’s head wrapped in a quilt. He removed it to attend to him and placed the quilt at Mr. Burdick’s feet, draping it over the arm of the couch. At the foot of the sofa on the floor in a heap lay Mr. Burdick’s stockings, garters and underdrawers. Nothing of value seemed to be missing. Two of Mr. Burdick’s fingers on his right hand were broken and bleeding, most likely the result of trying to shield himself from his attacker’s murderous blows.
The theories already being spouted by Chief of Detectives Cusak and Detective Wright ignored evidence clearly visible that anyone with two eyes could see for himself, but Jim held his tongue.
The den was fancifully decorated with a profusion of Turkish rugs laid down on the highly-polished floor. Figured burlap covered the walls. The ceiling was hung with gold-flecked cloth swagged from the chandelier and fanning out toward the four walls which were decorated with oriental swords and other relics collected on world cruises. There were also some pictures of ballet dancers in color and photographs of several women acquaintances. The den served as the victim’s smoking room.
Jim studied the remnants of a light repast that was arranged on the small table placed between two leather armchairs. A matching footrest lay overturned on its side. The top drawer in a table at the head of the couch where the body lay was left open. In the drawer were some letters, a few papers, and some odds and ends. More letters and papers were strewn about indicating they had been pulled from the drawer in haste and left where they landed. The detectives believed that certain papers or letters had been taken from the drawer.
Curtains had been ripped from the window. A small brown six ounce druggist bottle from a Washington Street liquor store was less than half filled with Manhattan cocktails. An emptied glass sat there as well, along with a platter of several partially-consumed pieces of Camembert cheese, a pile of tarts, and the new small square woven salty biscuits from the Niagara Falls shredded wheat company.
Hannah loves those, Jim noted to himself silently.
In the corner was propped a golf bag. Cusak examined it, asking Katie, the victim’s maid, about it. She scrutinized the bag and noted that one of the golf sticks was missing.
“I cleaned in here yesterday afternoon, detective, and the putter was right here in the golf bag at that time. Now it isn’t here.”
The door of the den was of the pocket style that disappears neatly away into the wall. It had been found closed that morning by Maggie, the other servant, after she discovered Mr. Burdick’s bed had not been slept in. The door of the den faced the front entry door of the fourteen-room house. The entry was discovered earlier by Maggie to be open to the winter cold. Blood was splattered on the inside portion of the den door. Maggie had also found a kitchen window opened as well.
Upstairs in Mr. Burdick’s bedroom the bed remained neatly made, but clothing, including trousers and a shirt, lay discarded on the floor, as if he had quickly disrobed there.
Stepping outside the house, Jim scanned the neighborhood of beautiful residences along Ashland Avenue, one of the city’s finer addresses, but the bucolic surroundings betrayed nothing hinting of the harrowing scene that was present inside No. 101, nor of the violence that preceded it.
In the house at the time of the murder were Mr. Burdick’s mother-in-law, his three young daughters and two servant girls. Despite the horrible violence that took place in the den, no one had heard anything unusual the previous evening after retiring, nor any time during the night. The mother-in-law’s name was Mrs. Marie Hull. Mrs. Hull insisted that Mr. Burdick hated Camembert cheese, and that it made no sense that it should be there at all. She also said that Mr. Burdick never drank liquor with food, that he always consumed his drink without accompaniment. He preferred martinis, and did not drink Manhattans, the cocktail contained in the bottle.
The den was a bit crowded. Detectives Cusak, Sullivan, Devine and Wright, Dr. Marcy, and Medical examiner Howland all had access to the body. Each examined the victim independently; the pillows, the clothing items, the papers, photographs. Things had been picked up and moved arou
nd from their original positions by each new examiner. Each detective independently went through Burdick’s desk. The victim’s coat was found draped over the back of a chair. Detective Wright went through the pockets, removing an envelope, papers, and a revolver—a 32 caliber, loaded.
Chief Patrick Cusak had retraced the scene independently of Jim Sullivan. When both had finished they compared notes. Cusak asked his detective, “So what’re we thinkin’ here, Sully?”
Jim Sullivan was a stickler for fine detail, which is why Cusak had grabbed him when the call came in. Dogged and determined, Jim was willing to invest whatever shoe leather it might require to track down clues.
“Pat, I’m inclined to consider that Mr. Burdick was upstairs undressin’ himself for bed when he was called downstairs by a knock soft enough so’s not to wake nobody else, if we’re to believe the story that nobody in the house heard nothin’. Considerin’ the deadly violence that went on here, I’m findin’ it difficult to believe that none of the six women in this house woke up. That in itself is pretty suspicious. He didn’t shout or cry out? How’s that possible, unless he was surprised from behind and disabled by the very first blow? I believe he must’ve been expectin’ this person’s visit, and it must‘ve been initially friendly, judgin’ by the food and drink here, and the fact his pistol was tucked away. Otherwise I don’t imagine he’d feel comfortable comin’ downstairs in his underclothing to admit an unexpected caller.”
“Sully, with his mother-in-law and three daughters in the house doesn’t it seem odd that he wouldn’t just at least put his trousers on? Or a robe? I mean, if he was in the middle of undressin’ anyways? Evidently he admitted the caller, who he most assuredly knew well enough to allow that individual to see him in his underwear. I know these folks are different from you and me, but...”
Jim picked up the Chief’s thought.
“...but who runs around the family home in their underwear, fixin’ food and drinks for a midnight visitor when all their female family members are just steps away? My kids ain’t never seen me in my underwear, Pat.”
“Me neither, Sully.”
The medical examiner, Dr. Howland, was still appraising the scene. He examined the quilt that Dr. Marcy had found wrapped thrice around the victim’s head.
“Why would the killer stop and take the time to wrap up Burdick’s head? Was he tryin’ to save him after the fact, tryin’ to bandage it?” wondered Cusak, appraising the bloody quilt.
“Only someone who cared about the man might do such a thing,” said Sully. “Burdick for sure knew his killer, intimately so it seems to me, judgin’ by this gesture. A robber woulda run right outa here lickety-split. This killer took the time to wrap Burdick’s damaged bloodied head and place pillows underneath. Maybe the killer had second thoughts and tried to stop the bleedin’.”
“You mean he was still alive after this wallopin’?”
“I’d say so,” replied Sully. “Why bandage a dead man?”
“Then, maybe it’s not a bandage after all, but just a way to muffle any sounds Burdick was makin’ as he died, to provide the killer more time to get away,” theorized Cusak.
Sullivan nodded his approval at that possibility.
“Oh. Looky here,” Dr. Howland said.
The medical examiner had lifted the bloody quilt. Underneath lay a pair of Mr. Burdick’s neatly folded trousers.
“Hmm. So maybe he wasn’t runnin’ around in his underwear after all. He might’ve undressed right here, Sully.”
“Unless someone undressed him after the fact,” countered the detective. Sully didn’t think that made sense, but kept it to himself.
They looked over the trousers carefully. There was blood spattered on the walls, the couch and the man’s undershirt, but none was apparent on the trousers. Not even after having been covered by the bloodied quilt.
“So,” said Jim, “Burdick may have not been in his underwear when he admitted the killer.”
“Can we be certain?” asked the Chief. “We can suppose that because his clothes have been removed that he was the one who removed them. That leads to a conclusion that a woman might be the killer. Or, what if the killer was a clever man who arranged things to appear as if a woman had been here? Burdick’s underwear could’ve been removed after he was dead rather than before.”
Cusak and Sullivan looked over the body once again to reassess.
“Look there,” said Sullivan, pointing. “Blood.”
“Sully, there’s blood everywhere, man.”
No, I mean there on his leg. On both legs. Looks like thumb prints to me.”
“Holy shit,” whispered Cusak, his mind churning. “It looks like the killer grabbed him there with bloody hands, then...pulled him away from the head of the sofa. See how much blood is pooled in this spot up here?” he said, indicating the arm of the sofa, “and how little is evident under where his head’s now restin’? Burdick was moved once he was disabled.”
Sullivan picked up the white underdrawers and inspected them inside and out. No blood. Not a speck.
“Since the bloody thumb markings are in a place that would have had to come in contact with his underwear as they were slipped off him,” Sullivan said, “and there’s no blood anywheres on the underdrawers, then that could only mean he was already naked when the thumb markings were left there.”
Cusak was becoming quite exasperated, sighing heavily with frustration as he reconsidered all the evidence gathered thus far, some of it in opposition and none of it adding up to anything conclusive. It was all very confounding, in fact.
“Beats me, Sully. All the evidence indicates to me that a woman was here. If this meal is some contrivance, as the old lady’s opinions about it might indicate, a diversion created after the killing took place, that tells us that the killer was not only intimately familiar with the floor plan of this house and where things were kept, but that they did not take their escape immediately after the crime, or felt they needed to, as would any usual killer. So maybe the killer is still right here in the house. Maybe Burdick attacked the maid and she let him have it.”
“Sorry Pat, I just don’t see any actual evidence at all here that supports a conclusion that a woman killed Burdick, or that a woman was even present. There’s evidence, and then there’s circumstance. The meal, the naked state of the man—these aren’t evidence, these are just circumstances, perhaps intentionally set up here to confuse things, to mislead us.”
“Hmm. Not so sure I agree, Sully,” countered Cusak a bit sullenly.
The Chief assessed the food arrangement again and recalled the doubts that Mrs. Hull had voiced about the items. “She stated her son-in-law hated this kind of cheese, and also that he never drank while eatin’ food, nor did he drink this kind of cocktail.”
Something didn’t look right to him about it, the way it was all arranged, but he couldn’t say exactly what.
Cusak summed up his thoughts thus far.
“Okay. This is what I got. The killer first caved in Burdick’s head, splatterin’ blood everywhere includin’ all over hisself, then afterwards he felt confident enough that no one had woke up to then go into the kitchen, wash off the blood and fix this meal, and bring it back here to the scene? That makes no sense. None o’ this makes no sense. What kind o’ killer would not wanna immediately take his escape after the deed—especially with so many people present in this house? How could the killer be so certain no one in the house heard nothin’ and that nobody’d be comin’ down them stairs to investigate?
“Maybe after the deed was done,” continued the Chief, ”he was ready to run right outa here, but paused first to listen at the doorway and make sure no one was about to come downstairs and investigate who might recognize him leavin’. But, findin’ no sign anybody’d heard nothin’, he calmed hisself and then set about coverin’ his tracks.”
“Or, as you already suggested, it was someone who was already livin’ in this here house,” chimed in Jim. “What about the old lady? She’s
actin’ mighty secretive and she’s not sayin’ much. And where’s the wife by the way?”
“And why is this man naked?” Cusak wondered again, obviously thinking that this detail held the key. “Did he take his own clothes off, or did somebody else? They say Burdick loved the ladies, so I don’t think he would disrobe for a male visitor, Sully. There are trousers and a coat here with no blood on them, as well as clean trousers and a shirt on his bedroom floor upstairs. So, which outfit was he last dressed in? And do we think a woman really could’ve done this much damage to him, especially an old lady? His skull is destroyed. That tells me there was an enormous amount of anger rained down upon this man. So we got to find out who in his life was so angry with him. Angry enough to inflict this degree of rage to his head.”
“With blood, brains and bone fragments splattered about the room here,” surmised Sullivan, “the killer would have had to be similarly covered. Yet no blood can be found elsewhere in the kitchen or anywheres else in the house. How did someone covered in blood and brains go into the kitchen and fix this meal without leaving a trace?”
They proceeded toward the kitchen again and examined the kitchen sink to see if there was evidence of blood that may have been washed off there. There was none.
Cusak just shook his head. It was all so very perplexing.
“Looks only one way to me, Sully. Sex. It has to be sex. What else could it be? Who takes off their stockings, garters, and trousers during a midnight luncheon with a casual visitor—and then folds them neatly? If Burdick had been in the heat of passion, then the clothes would be strewn about willy-nilly.”
“And if the killer took them off him after the fact, why would they fold them neatly, managing to get no blood on them?” countered Sullivan. “And what woman could overpower him, Pat? He looks to be an able-bodied man.”
Fingy Conners & The New Century Page 28