Mike McDonald: Chicago’s King Schemer

crimecapsule
-
0
Mike McDonald: Chicago’s King Schemer

Every great gangster has an origin story. In the age of classic mobsters, tales of the rascally kid from the Bronx or the self-made thief from the Boardwalk give us a hero we can all root for, someone whose rags-to-riches story we simply have to follow.

But what about the runaway Irish kid from Niagara? You ever heard about that one?

While most folks know Chicago for a certain Capone capo, perhaps less known in the annals of organized crime is one Michael Cassius McDonald, a plucky youngster who fled a restrictive childhood in upstate New York and hopped the first train he could to the Windy City.

“Mike,” as author Kelly Pucci details in Chicago’s First Crime King: Michael Cassius McDonald, would end up one of Chicago’s more infamous citizens, for good reasons and bad. Crime boss though he was, political fixer and gambling hall king extraordinaire, he was also an advocate for major public works, such as the Lake Street El that connected two ends of the Loop. In fact, Pucci writes, so shrewd was Mike that he bribed city alderman thousands of dollars to buy their votes—ensuring, naturally, that one of the train stops was near one of his illegal racetracks on the West Side.  

Michael McDonald built the El line that connected the mass transit system known as the Loop. Chicago History Museum, DN-0004591.
Michael McDonald built the El line that connected the mass transit system known as the Loop. Chicago History Museum, DN-0004591.

Love him, hate him, you gotta admire him. But such talent for scheming came early in life, as the runaway kid was for many years in the mid-1800s on his own. Forced to survive by his wits, he invited the “prize package scam” as a young boy, wherein he would stuff dollar bills of varying denominations into boxes of soap, then sell tickets to gullible marks to try to pick the largest one. Unbeknownst to the gumps, Mike would have an accomplice pick out the most lucrative prize to show it existed, then return it to him later once he had collected all the cash from the other attempts.

Later, during the Civil War, he engaged in a lucrative position as a “bounty broker”: when the Union government and the city of Chicago offered signing bonuses to men who enlisted, McDonald quickly devised a plan to round up area drunks and lunatics. Were they able to serve? Come now. They were hardly able to sign the papers—but that didn’t stop wily Mike. Not only would he pocket part of the signing bonus as his ‘fee’, but he and his cronies would often find the same men again and again, milking the federal cow for all it was worth.  

“There’s a sucker born every minute,” PT Barnum is often quoted as saying. But according to Pucci, Mike McDonald actually coined the phrase. Need more proof? Take a look at his system for election rigging, using a similar system to that which we’ve explored before over in Pittsburgh. Pucci:

“On election day 1873, McDonald set up in his gambling parlor a one-stop naturalization/voter registration/polling place where men received their newly minted citizenship papers and instructions on how to vote for Mike’s candidates. If they were hungry, Mike supplied a meal and a beer. Feeling lucky? Mike gave the voters chips to redeem at the gaming tables in the back of the saloon, where games were rigged in favor of the house. Have a little extra time on voting day? Cast another ballot at Mike’s place and get more chips or hitch a complimentary ride on a beer wagon to any of the other hundreds of saloons owned by members of McDonald’s syndicate.”

Mike McDonald (left), believing his wife’s innocence, paid for her attorneys but died before the murder trial commenced. Chicago History Museum, ICHi-21714.
Mike McDonald (left), believing his wife’s innocence, paid for her attorneys but died before the murder trial commenced. Chicago History Museum, ICHi-21714.

For fans of Chicago history, or admirers of misfits and miscreants, or even just for folks who love a good old-fashioned scam, you can read about all these and more in Pucci’s book. And we didn’t even tell you about his messy marriages, his other war profiteering, or what boyhood Mike did with candy boxes—oh, my stars. Kids, right? You know what they say—gotta start ‘em early!

Making Men Purr: Cathouses in Silver Valley, Idaho

crimecapsule
-
0
Making Men Purr: Cathouses in Silver Valley, Idaho

Here on Crime Capsule, we don’t beat around the bush. Empires come and empires go, but if there’s one timeless truth throughout the ages, it’s this: sex sells. And in the lurid Idaho brothels of the small town of Wallace, this was especially true.

We’ve spent lot of time with murderers and bootleggers lately, but today, we wanted to bring you a taste of something a little more saucy. Today, we’re going to let you eavesdrop in on a conversation about the oldest profession in the world, which had one of its unique heydays in Wallace, Idaho, home to one of the richest silver mines ever found.

Idaho Brothels and Barkeeps

Famed for its “cathouses,” towns in the Silver Valley—just like one of the other regional capitals of vice, Butte, Montana—adopted a largely tolerant attitude towards prostitution, with brothels operating on a legal or quasi-legal basis throughout much of the twentieth century. Given Wallace’s lax approach to enforcement—and in some cases, downright endorsement of “relief” for the restive single-male miner demographic—it’s no surprise that the area has some stories to tell. Luckily for us, author Dr. Heather Branstetter collected oral histories of men and women involved in the trade in those years, in her book Selling Sex in the Silver Valley: A Business Doing Pleasure.

At 611 Cedar Street in the 1890s, the Western Bar featured beer brewed locally at Sunset Brewery. Pictured to the right is the U&I Saloon. The U&I brothel operated continuously from this time until 1991. Historic Wallace Preservation Society.

Without any further ado, then, listen in on one of her conversations with one John Posnick, who was the bartender and owner of the Silver Corner Bar and no stranger to the goings-on of Idaho brothels. (Many of her informants preferred anonymity during her research, for obvious reasons, but apparently Posnick had nothing to lose.) Posnick:

When the bars closed, everyone would say, let’s go up to the whorehouses, window-shop. Half the time you didn’t want to, you weren’t going to do anything, you just wanted to look. Look around. … They’d always try and hustle you up, “You guys got any money, wanna go into a room?” And you know, we’d say, “Oh we’re shopping. We’re looking.” You’d go up and bullshit them, you’d laugh and giggle, and your buddies would laugh and joke around, maybe, you know, one guy would have enough money so you’d go…. We’d close the bar and say, hey, let’s go up, we’re going to go up to the whorehouses. You’d go up there two to three hours, bullshit, have a drink, you know. For a while there, you couldn’t drink unless you were going to go into the rooms.

Then Mama Lee started the drinking, so there was nights she sold a lot of booze up there. Awful lot, probably more than some of the bars. I remember when they were doing some carpentry work up there [at the U&I, a brothel], couple three months job. And at the end of the job, they [the carpenters] owed them [the women] money.

Oasis price list, 1988. Oasis Bordello Museum display; photo by Heather Branstetter.

They did, they owed them money…. I had a buddy one time, and we were playing golf, and I got a hole in one at the golf course, and it was Tuesday night men’s night, so we had dinner and drank a bunch, we come back here, and he wanted to go to the whorehouses, but I said, “I’m going home. I’m going home.” I’d already put the money away. And they didn’t take checks, you know. There weren’t any debit cards back then. But since I paid rent to the place, I just gave him a check from here and signed it. So he went up there and the next day he says, “Don’t you ever leave me in a whorehouse again with a blank check.” He goes, “Because that’s like letting Colonel Sanders baby-sit your chicken.

Funny, isn’t it, how stories from the world’s oldest profession never get old? There’s more—far more, hundreds of pages more—where that came from, but for the rest, you’ll have to read Dr. Branstetter’s book. Mad? Frustrated? Oh, honey, don’t be—after all, you know us too well.

Crime Capsule: we aim to tease.

Forging His Future: Texas’ Infamous Monroe Edwards

crimecapsule
-
0
Forging His Future: Texas’ Infamous Monroe Edwards

When we talk about identity theft today, almost certainly the conversation turns to technology. Stolen PIN numbers, and credit card skimmers. Hacked passwords and digital bank fraud. All the ways that crooks get access to our electronic lives, plumb them for their gleanings, and disappear without a trace.

But what did identity theft look like in the nineteenth century? Decades before the world had even heard of a bit or a byte?

Thankfully, one of Texas’ most famous criminals gives us a glimpse. Monroe Edwards, a man known far and wide as “the gentleman forger,” lived many lives during his forty years on earth, perhaps most notoriously as a slave trader between Cuba, Mexico, and the Republic of Texas (prior to its joining the United States). But one of his greatest skills was counterfeiting—which would be his ticket both to ill-gotten wealth, and ultimately, to his downfall.

In her book The Counterfeit Prince of Old Texas: Swindling Slaver Monroe Edwards, Bernard charts Edwards’ rambunctious upbringing in the early 1800s, including the wild schemes concocted by his brothers Amos and uncle Haden, and his role in the armed Anahuac uprising against the ruling government of Mexico at the time, for which he was briefly imprisoned. Remarkably, she notes, Edwards was raised for a time by one of old Texas’ great folk heroes, James Morgan, raising the question as to just why that apple fell so far from the tree.

That, however, is a question for a different time. To better understand early identity theft, we should instead take a look at Edwards’ methods. At the time, the key to someone’s identity was their mark: their seal or their signature, affixed to the end of a deed, or a will, or a legal transfer of assets. As a physical artifact, a seal could be stolen, but a signature, a person’s handwriting, couldn’t. Or could it?

The trick, Edwards learned, was not to steal the signature, but to steal the words above it—in other words, to erase them. On one of his visits to Mississippi, he paid a man to teach him how to ‘wash’ letters using the magic combination of benzene (created through heating benzoic acid and lime) and bleach. Bernard:

“Monroe learned how to create the chemical, douse the top part of a letter in it, save the signature and then dry the paper. The result was an empty sheet with the legitimate signature of the original writer. From there, he was taught to write whatever he wanted on the dry paper and pass the letter off as the original writer’s.

Since people knew one another by their signatures and seals, a forger could write what he wished, and the reader would believe it was written by the writer. Only a trained eye would be able to tell if a paper had been washed, and only a chemist would know how to bring the washed writing to the surface. For the most part, the crime was undetectable. By 1838, Monroe had perfected the technique.”

Edwards didn’t learn this for no reason: he was already scheming how to fabricate new terms for a slave run gone south, and to steal plantation property out from underneath his old business partner Christopher Dart. What, then, transpired when he produced those forged documents in court the following year? And how, then, did Dart determine that those letters he had ‘signed’ transferring all of his property over to Edwards were in fact fake? And what, months later, would lead Edwards to flee to Britain to attempt to restore his lost fortunes?

Here’s a hint: it’s the same thing that led to Edwards ending his life a few years later as a guest of the United States federal government in Sing Sing Prison. But for that, dear reader, you’ll have to read Bernard’s book, and learn the full story yourself. It’s a remarkable tale, and thanks to her extensive research, we can promise one thing for sure—on those carefully crafted pages, not a single drop of ink will run.

Monroe in his cell at Sing Sing.

The Magnificent Moonshine Stills of North Carolina

crimecapsule
-
0
The Magnificent Moonshine Stills of North Carolina

One of North Carolina’s many claims to fame is that NASCAR racing, one of its gifts to the world, had its origins in bootleggers and moonshiners building cars fast enough to outrun the cops. While it’s often said with a laugh today, the story is no joke—not only was former racecar driver Junior Johnson indeed first a rumrunner, but the Tar Heel State proudly boasts one of the longest and most active distilling industries in all of the United States.

But you can’t have the juice without the juicer, and authors Frank Stephenson Jr. and Barbara Nichols Mulder have done us all a great service by tracking down the sources of the famed swamp juice, in their book North Carolina Moonshine: An Illicit History. To celebrate their achievement, we here at Crime Capsule wanted to show off a few of the more wild and wacky moonshine stills that once graced the forests, swamps, and mountain hollers of the twelfth state of the union.

To learn the stories behind these stills, to meet their ingenious architects (bearing names like Bo Weevil and Hog Bear), and to hear the daring stories of the federal raiders that pursued their prey across the state, you’ll have to read the book for yourself. We assure you, there’s plenty more where this came from. But to slake your thirst for the good stuff, we proudly present these to you now.

Bottoms up!

Whiskey stills found in North Carolina came in all sizes, including this Lilliputian-size working still that was seized in Gaston in 1960 by Northampton County deputy Ed Ingram. Photograph by Frank Stephenson Jr.

This motor oil can still was captured on a July 30, 1957 raid in Harrellsville by Hertford County deputies Leon Perry and Fred Liverman. Courtesy of Frank Stephenson Jr.

ATF agents used 110 sticks of dynamite to destroy a jumbo still near Murfreeboro in October 1960. Mash and muck were dripping from the trees following the blast, which, for some reason, left one barrel of mash standing. Courtesy of Fred Liverman.

Alvin Sawyer, a master welder and Marine Corps veteran of World War II, spent most of his life making moonshine in the northeastern part of North Carolina. He became known as the “King of Moonshine in the Great Dismal Swamp. Courtesy of Frank Stephenson Jr.

Jumbo stills—such as this one, which was raided near Cofield in Hertford County on February 17, 1956, by ATF and local moonshine raiders—were found all across North Carolina. Courtesy of Fred Liverman.

Improvisation was the keyword for this bootlegger; he used an old wash tub, a garbage can and other odd pieces to cobble together this junk still. Northampton County moonshine raider Earl Outland hit this still on April 24, 1971, near Henrico. Courtesy of Earl Outland.

In Hamlet, a one-hundred-gallon whiskey still was captured by Sheriff Hinson and deputies on May 25, 1909. Courtesy of State Archives of North Carolina.

This thirty-two-thousand-gallon jumbo still was raided in July 1951 near Windsor by Bertie County sheriff Thomas Joyner and deputies. Courtesy of Peggy J. Frisbie.

In July 1965, James Saunders and other ATF agents hit this masonry still in Bertie County. The rig was fired by propane gas and was of a design not often found in eastern North Carolina. Courtesy of James Saunders.

Seattle’s Lost Serial Killer Gary Gene Grant

crimecapsule
-
0
Seattle’s Lost Serial Killer Gary Gene Grant

In 1969, the body of a young woman was discovered in the woods of Renton, Washington rocking the communities along Puget Sound. Three more brutal murders followed, drawing the attention of multiple police agencies as they tried to piece together the meager clues left behind by a true Seattle Serial Killer. The seemingly unrelated cases challenged detectives, who struggled to realize they were all connected to one man: Gary Gene Grant. Before the term “serial killer” was even coined, Grant stalked his prey, destroying lives and families while walking unseen among the masses. Decades later, his crimes have all but been forgotten.

It was the late 1960s in Renton, Washington, a suburb of Seattle. A long, tumultuous decade was ending, a decade that had seen both the culmination of the civil rights movement and the beginning of the Vietnam War. Across the country, Americans were transfixed that a man had finally walked on the moon, but back in Renton, locals were obsessed with something else entirely: the alarming fact that bodies kept turning up in local woods.

First, Carol Erickson, nineteen, a recent high-school graduate, found in December 1969. Then Joanne Zulauf, seventeen, reported missing by her family, found in September 1970. Both murders were shocking enough, but then came a new level of horror: two six-year-old boys, Bradley Lyons and Scott Andrews, found stabbed and strangled in local woods in April 1971.

For Renton, a small town unaccustomed to murder, these crimes left the community reeling. With a number of similarities between the slayings, such as manner and location of death, residents grew increasingly terrified that more murders were en route. But as if that concern wasn’t enough, how did they respond when not one—but two—men independently confessed to the crimes?

Renton police at Carol Erickson’s murder scene. State of Washington v. Gary Gene Grant.

In his book Seattle’s Forgotten Serial Killer: Gary Gene Grant, author and longtime homicide detective Cloyd Steiger tells the remarkable story of how law enforcement in King County responded to the bizarre circumstance of one suspect attempting to claim the murders, only for further investigation to turn up yet another weeks later. With competing confessions, how would detectives sift through the haze of lies, the morass of facts, and the fog of memory to arrive at the truth of the identity of the original Seattle Serial Killer?

The most hardened detectives were devastated to find Bradley Lyons’s and Scott Andrews’s murdered bodies. Courtesy of Renton Record Chronicle/Renton Historical Society.
John Chance confessed to killing Bradley Lyons and Scott Andrews. But the story didn’t end there. Courtesy of Renton Record Chronicle/Renton Historical Society.

After all, it was almost too good to be true when John Chance, a mentally unstable Army veteran wandered into a local hospital, seeking self-admission for psychiatric trouble. Following a full examination, it wasn’t long before paranoiac schizophrenic tendencies began to appear, such as Chance claiming to be a son of the planet Saturn and having met none other than Jesus Christ outside nearby Tillicum, WA.

And yet—despite his strange claims, Chance also had detailed knowledge of the murders of the two boys, knowledge that immediately placed him on detectives’ radar. Within days of his appearing on the scene, he was arraigned.

If detectives know anything, it’s that confessions that seem too good to be true probably are. Patiently following the facts, chasing other leads—most promising among them a hunting knife believed to be one of the murder weapons—Renton PD soon tracked down yet another suspect, a young man named Gary Gene Grant who also exhibited occasional dissociative tendencies.

Gary Gene Grant was only twenty years old when he was charged with the four murders. Courtesy of Renton Record Chronicle.”

Bringing Grant in for questioning, police found that he, too, despite his evasive responses and selective recall, also had uncommon knowledge of the crimes—how, then, could they choose between the two?

We here at Crime Capsule love a good whodunit, so we wouldn’t dream of spoiling the answer for you here. For that, you’ll have to read Steiger’s book: after all, Steiger, whose thirty-six years at the Seattle PD gives him a unique window of insight onto the case, takes his readers through a master class of police procedurals.

Carefully reviewing each piece of evidence that arose, from crime-scene forensics to psychological evaluation to suspect testimony, Steiger charts the systematic means by which detectives worked through the competing accounts of the crimes.

It’s an extraordinary story, made all the more so by the fact that this Seattle Serial killer very nearly walked free. Don’t believe us? See for yourself. Happy reading—and sweet dreams!

1896 Unsolved Murder in California and the lone suspect’s surprising escape

crimecapsule
-
0
1896 Unsolved Murder in California and the lone suspect’s surprising escape

When we think of getaway cars, certain famous images spring to mind: Bonnie and Clyde’s rickety jalopy, for instance. Or a sleek 1977 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am, which Burt Reynolds used to evade the law in spectacular fashion in Smokey and the Bandit. But prior to the invention of the automobile, what other options did crooks have? The still unsolved murder in California of the McGlincy family in 1896 provides an interesting and tragic view of how one man decided to go on the lam.

Author Tobin Gilman, a longtime resident and historian of the San Jose area, tells the story of one of the worst crimes in California history. In May 1896, six people were found dead on their farm in Campbell, California, slain in gruesome fashion with both axe and gun. In his book The McGlincy Killings in Campbell California: An 1896 Unsolved Mystery, Gilman recounts the story of thirty-one year-old James Dunham, who murdered nearly his entire family, including his father-in-law, mother-in-law, wife, brother-in-law, and two household employees. The only survivors were a ranch hand and Dunham’s own infant son. This wasn’t the first unsolved murder in California and wouldn’t be the last, but few were as gruesome or tragic, and hardly any had a chase as exciting as Dunham’s.

The crime took place on May 26th, 1896, and by the early hours of the 27th, Dunham had long fled the scene. Based on brief encounters he had with area residents along the way (who knew nothing of the crime), law enforcement was able to track him little by little as he wound through Santa Clara County. We say wound, because as the manhunt intensified, law enforcement had to consider an unusual possibility: that rather than riding a horse, Dunham was riding a set of wheels.

The McGlincy ranch in 1896. The house where most of the murders were committed is on the left. A horse and carriage wait outside the house. The house was demolished in 1955. Courtesy History San Jose.

For Dunham wasn’t just a murderer. He was a skilled long-distance cyclist.

The day before the murders, Dunham had been seen working on a bike in downtown Campbell, and other witnesses testified that they had seen him riding a tandem bike that same night. Then, a few days into the manhunt, investigators found a key clue. Gilman:

“By late Wednesday morning, officers found Dunham’s bicycle hidden in some brush along Dry Creek, which ran near the McGlincy ranch. … Authorities suspected that Dunham may have concealed the wheel before the murders with plans to recover it as a getaway vehicle if he had been unable to secure a horse. Dunham was an expert wheelman who was used to riding long distances.”

Bicycles, also called ‘wheels,’ had become very popular in California by the turn of the century. Shops such as Osgood & Smith, where Dunham was seen the day of the murder, and Racycle (seen here), were common in Santa Clara County. Courtesy History San Jose

According to Gilman, routes out of the area differed sharply based on local topography. Had Dunham taken his bike, he likely would have ridden down the valley roads to escape Santa Clara County, possibly cycling all the way to Mexico. But the fact that the bike was abandoned—regardless of who had planted it, Dunham or an accomplice—suggested another option, that Dunham had kept the horse he had stolen from the McGlincy farm and fled instead into the mountains.

Into the mountains the officers went, then, recruiting a small army of local vigilantes and bounty hunters to aid in their hunt. But despite weeks of searching, and even more tantalizing clues—scraps of clothing, recent campfires, and other indications of hasty flight—Dunham was, remarkably, never found. Like other great escapes we’ve profiled, in this one, he actually got away. By 1897 the only clues that were still appearing proved to be false leads, often by attention-seekers who wanted to participate in the ‘crime of the century.’ Unreliable evidence and mistaken identifications continued to plague the case as late as ten years later, and ultimately, it was left unresolved.

How did the Campbell detectives pursue the case? How did Dunham in fact get away in those first critical hours? And why would he kill his entire family, but spare his infant son? Did this tragic, unsolved murder in California forebode for the Golden State’s reputation as a haven for killers? The answers to those questions are all found in Gilman’s book—but for now, we can only wonder how history would have been different had the horses all bolted from the farm, and murder would have been served—on wheels.

Capturing Alma Kellner’s Killer

crimecapsule
-
0
Capturing Alma Kellner’s Killer

On a bitterly cold day in December 1909, eight-year-old Alma Kellner simply disappeared from the altar of St. John’s Church in Louisville. Her body was found months later near the site of the church, and news of the murder rocked the city. The manhunt for the suspect took Louisville police Captain John Carney eleven thousand miles across the country, and even to South America, to return the killer to justice. The article below draws on Louisville’s Alma Kellner Mystery by Shawn M. Herron, who details the fascinating story of a tragedy that still remains under a cloud of suspicion.

“My Dear Chief: I wish to tender you my heartiest congratulations in running down Wendling. I consider that it was one of the greatest pieces of detective work I have ever known in years, and I am glad of the fact that you are indebted to nothing but your own ability and skill in tracing this clever fugitive to his lair and effecting his capture.

I have watched the papers with deep interest, not only on account of the brutality of the crime, but on account of the skill you displayed in following up Wendling. None of your friends wish you more hearty congratulations than I do. The successful termination of this hard-won, splendid achievement is one that any detective in the world might be proud of. … Starting out on such a trail without much of a clew you certainly are entitled to be congratulated on your success.

With kindest personal regards, I am, sincerely yours, W.A. Pinkerton.”

On August 4th, 1910, Captain John P. Carney of Louisville, Kentucky received this letter from one of the most famous private eyes in the world. Pinkerton’s agency, which we’ve written about in connection with murders in Chisago County, Minnesota and elsewhere, had sent this note alongside plaudits from dozens of other law enforcement bureaus across the country, after a months-long manhunt that crisscrossed the entire United States.

“Photo of Joseph Wendling in a French military uniform. The photo was located in his belongings and used during the manhunt.”

Just who was Joseph Wendling, whom Carney had finally caught all the way west in San Francisco, where Wendling had both adopted a false identity and gone into hiding? Was he guilty of the grisly crime that left eight-year-old Alma Kellner dismembered, burned, and decomposed underneath a Louisville schoolhouse? A native of France, how had Wendling come to live in the United States, and why, in the days following Kellner’s murder, did he suddenly disappear from his Louisville home?

In her book Louisville’s Alma Kellner Mystery, author Shawn M. Herron digs deep into the story of the crime that captivated a city, and that—in the years before television, radio, and the internet—resulted in an international manhunt for a ruthless murderer. After all, Kellner had been abducted from her morning prayers at her local parish, almost out from underneath the eyes of the priest and the congregation. The brazenness of the crime, and the gruesome discovery of her mutilated body months later, not only galvanized her immediate community but spurred a deep desire for justice that ultimately ended in his capture and conviction.

Sketch of the basement area of St. John’s Church, as published in True Detective Mysteries.

But how did Carney do it? Herron, a seasoned attorney who is no stranger to the courtroom herself, tells the full story in her book, which reads like a thriller as the dragnet closes around Wendling. A crack forensic team, scouring the site for clues. Early chemical analysis, revealing bloodstains on key pieces of evidence. A veteran team of investigators, sifting through thousands of tips, some legitimate, some bogus, to track his movements. And did we mention the decoy letters Carney sent through Wendling’s mistresses, as Wendling wound westward more and more?

Arrested underneath a sink in a San Francisco boardinghouse, Wendling could scarcely have imagined a less dignified coda to his long flight. But to learn how he ended up there in the first place—and what happened once Carney brought him back across the country to Louisville, you’ll have to read Herron’s account. After all, despite his eventual conviction, Wendling maintained his innocence until the end. Suffice to say—for Carney to have received a note from the Pinkertons on their return, well, that’s like earning praise from Sherlock himself!

Who killed beer magnate Adolph Coors?

crimecapsule
-
0
Who killed beer magnate Adolph Coors?

Take a wildly successful businessman, a patriarch of an extensive family, a beloved city leader. Add one beautiful seaside setting, a pinch of elite vacationers, and throw in a curious lack of witnesses: for Adolph Coors Sr., founder of the Coors brewing empire, was this a perfect recipe for murder?

June 1929. Though Prohibition has been in effect for nearly a decade, a few months before the Great Depression business in America is still booming – even, surprisingly, for one of the country’s largest breweries. Headed by German immigrant Adolph Coors (born Kuhrs), who had risen from humble beginnings as an immigrant stowaway to become one of the most accomplished entrepreneurs in the American West, the Coors Brewery in Colorado had successfully retooled itself after the Volstead Act to diversify its pursuits beyond beer and to keep the cash flowing.

Coors, a shrewd, if stern, tycoon – dinners at the family mansion in Golden were conducted in strict silence – is nearing eighty, and recovering from a bout of influenza. On the advice of his physician, he and his wife relocate to the newly-constructed Cavalier Hotel in Princess Anne County, Virginia, a luxurious, salubrious seaside resort that overlooks both the Chesapeake Bay and the Atlantic Ocean.

Arriving shortly after its grand opening to enjoy a beautiful suite high up on the sixth story, Coors and his wife Louisa find the climate, the activities, and the people eminently agreeable. The man is on the mend.

Cavalier Hotel, circa 2018. Nancy E. Sheppard.”

But not all was in fact well, as Nancy E. Sheppard records. In her book Hampton Roads Murder and Mayhem, she tells the story of a grisly discovery that hotel staff found on June 5, 1929. After only a few weeks at the resort, Coors’ recuperation was mysteriously cut short.

According to Sheppard, “The silence of the morning was interrupted by a loud thunk, followed by a scream from one of the Cavalier’s caretakers. Lying sprawled on the hotel’s concrete patio was the crushed body of Adolph Coors, Sr.”

How, Sheppard notes, one of the most accomplished men of his time could have met an untimely end immediately became the most pressing question of all. Was it an accident? Did Coors take his own life, for reasons unknown, or did someone – his wife, one of his children, a ‘friend’ he might have made at the hotel – take it for him?

Almost immediately the trail of clues went cold. Louisa, the only person with any knowledge of Coors’ movements, testified that all she had witnessed was that Adolph “woke early, made his way to the window and, without saying a word, either fell or jumped.” But without anyone to corroborate her account, and no other material witnesses at hand, her testimony held little water.

While she certainly stood to gain from his death, her own temperament (well-known as loving and generous) and her documented aid in Adolph’s recovery didn’t fit the profile of an aggrieved, resentful spouse, as difficult a person as her husband had sometimes been.

One of Adolph Coors Sr.’s original 1873 copper brewing kettles. Library of Congress.

Closer scrutiny might have queried her more deeply, unearthing key details about his final days and hours, but the county coroner issued only a perfunctory report, and never conducted an autopsy. Almost as swiftly as Adolph had died, his cause of death was swept under the rug, and no formal investigation ever followed. And sadly, as Sheppard notes, that was it: back in Colorado, flags at the Coors brewery flew at half-mast until after his burial, and an entire community mourned the man who had put it on the map.

It’s hard to imagine now, as closely examined as most crimes are – that one of America’s most eminent businessmen could die in such a mysterious manner – but incredibly, that is exactly what happened. Accident? Suicide? Murder? Cover-up? At this point, no one will ever know. We’ll let Sheppard have the last word:

“The Cavalier Hotel has watched the years take their toll on the remote beauty that once invited celebrities and tycoons to escape to Virginia Beach’s shore. … In the process of the hotel’s current restoration, the new owners hope to resurrect the Cavalier’s long-lost elegance from the neglect it endured in the most recent decades of its life.

“The memories and specters of a forgotten moment of time that saw the hotel’s inception are still roaming the halls. Hiding in the aura of the sixth floor, the truth of what happened to Adolph Coors that morning so many years ago remains one of the Cavalier’s deepest, darkest mysteries, never to be revealed.”

While fortune followed the Coors name, misfortune plagued the Coors family. Forty years later, Adolph Coors III was kidnapped and murdered by a man named James Corbett Junior.

This March 19, 1951 mug shot was taken upon Joseph Corbett, Jr.’s incarceration at the California Institution for Men, in Chino, California, where he was sentenced to five years after pleading guilty to second-degree murder. He escaped from prison and committed the kidnapping and murder of Adolph Coors, III while a fugitive.
Mugshot, from the FBI files of the kidnapping.

The Femmes Fatales of Detroit

crimecapsule
-
0
The Femmes Fatales of Detroit

As you know, we here at Crime Capsule love a good, solid crook. The more flagrant, the better: in recent weeks we’ve been pleased to showcase Sacramento’s most salacious citizens, and more recently, we took a look at the malicious men of Alabama (and their moustaches). But having first tipped our hats to the gents, we couldn’t help but ask: what about all the ladies?

Thankfully, as author Tobin T. Buhk has unearthed in his book Wicked Women of Detroit, the Great Lakes State has given us a catwalk of canny criminals. Ambitious, daring, cunning, silver-tongued and sticky-fingered: these women deserve their place right alongside Ma Barker and Bonnie Parker. Speak for yourself, but we wouldn’t cross these ladies for anything!

A fierce forger

San Francisco Police mug shot of a notorious check forger from Detroit who went by several aliases. A repeat offender, she went to San Quentin in 1908 following her second California arrest. Before the advent of protective features on fiscal paper, check forgery became a popular endeavor among early twentieth-century women offenders, and such petty criminals made up the majority of female inmates inside the old Detroit House of Correction. Author’s collection.

Con Artist Carrie Perlberg

Mug shot of Carrie Perlberg, circa 1903, a confidence artist and thief who once rented a baby to score sympathy points with the all-male jury at her trial—a gambit also used by Isma Martin. Author’s collection.

Morphine Eater Sophie Lyons

Sophie Lyons, sophisticated society lady and dreamy-eyed scammer with bedroom eyes. When she first came to Detroit, Sophie was known as a heavy user of morphine, a habit that earned her the epithet “the notorious Detroit morphine eater.” On a few occasions, she used her sex appeal to entice respectable men to her hotel room and then blackmailed them with exposure if they didn’t pay up. Unidentified artist circa 1887. Albumen silver print. National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian Institution; gift of Pinkerton’s Inc.

Diamond Thief Isma Martin

In her 1897 mug shot, Isma Martin—pickpocket, check forger, and skilled diamond thief—clowned for a frustrated police photographer. George Grantham Bain Collection, Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division.

Criminal Chameleon Mother Elinor

The criminal chameleon known in Detroit as “Mother Elinor,” the scion of a religious group known as Flying Rollers, poses for a photograph, sure to show the cameraman, and the viewer, the sizable ring on her finger. She once told a reporter that material wealth did not matter to her. George Grantham Bain Collection, Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division.

Husband-Killer Mary Ford

Hand-signed wedding announcement that May Ford handed to “Kansas City Ed” when they discussed the plot murder her husband, Ney Ford. Newspapers across the nation reprinted this wedding photograph in coverage of the case. 1922 Underwood and Underwood news photograph in the author’s collection.

As ever, there’s more where that came from in Buhk’s book — just remember, next time you visit Motor City, be sure to watch your back!

Who Kidnapped Buffalo Mafia Man Joe Bonanno?

crimecapsule
-
0
Who Kidnapped Buffalo Mafia Man Joe Bonanno?

When we think of New York gangsters, certain names always come to mind—Jimmy Hoffa, ‘Lucky’ Luciano, Jon Gotti. Immortalized in films, storied in urban legends, awed by cops and criminals alike—these founding godfathers of the city have earned their reputation throughout time.

But they’re not the only ones to have lied, cheated, stolen, and murdered their way to the top—what about all the other families out there, as we’ve looked at before. In New York, what happens when ‘business’ extends past the five boroughs and into the rest of the state?

In his book Gangsters and Organized Crime in Buffalo: History, Hits and Headquarters, author Michael F. Rizzo chronicles in-depth the shadowy stories of mobsters in the City of Light. One of the best-known in the area was the Sicilian-born Magaddino clan, who engaged in racketeering, rum-running, jewelry store and bank heists, the works—all headed by local boss Stefano Magaddino, who presided over the family from 1922 until his death in 1974.

There are few photos of Stefano Magaddino available, and this is a rare one of the smiling Mafia leader. He looks like he could be anyone’s grandpa. Courtesy New York Daily News.”

You don’t run a criminal enterprise for over fifty years without getting into a few scrapes—not least of which with your own famiglia. So when Rizzo learned that Brooklyn mob boss Joseph Bonanno, Magaddino’s cousin, disappeared in October 1964 on the eve of testifying before a grand jury, the question naturally arose: what happened?

According to Rizzo, Magaddino had always suffered from a little healthy paranoia in his role as capo, but by the early 1960s it had grown to significant levels. Magaddino was convinced that his cousin Joe, now a powerful boss in his own right, was working with allied families in Montreal to undermine him—or worse, serving as a spy for the police. Regardless of whether this was the case, one thing is true: Bonanno was scheduled to testify before a grand jury on October 21, 1964. One other thing is true, too: that after having dinner with his lawyer the night before, he never showed up for his testimony.

This is a great surveillance photo of Magaddino (left). It is unknown where the photo was taken. Courtesy Buffalo State College Archives, Courier-Express Collection

So what happened? Il dipende, amico mio: Bonanno himself said that later that night two men forced him into a taxi at gunpoint, then drove for hours deep into the countryside until they reached a farmhouse. There he was held captive by Magaddino and his men, released only after several weeks. Another story says that can’t be true, given that the Magaddinos were under FBI surveillance the whole time, and they couldn’t have moved an inch without the feds knowing. A third story from Bonanno’s son says the rendezvous was more of a ‘respite,’ with Bonanno simply taking a little time off to enjoy the hospitality of his cousin.

Yeah, right.

And Rizzo? Based on his research, he came to a different conclusion altogether. Most historians, he writes, “seem to agree that Bonanno staged the whole kidnapping to avoid testifying before the grand jury and appearing before the Mafia Commission, and blamed his cousin.”

We’ll never know for sure, as Bonanno died in 2002 at the ripe old age of 97, having outlived nearly all of his fratelli e sorelle, and Magaddino himself by nearly four decades. But while Crime Capsule in no way endorses his methods, you still gotta hand it to him—facing hot water no matter which way he turned, Bonanno decided to kidnap himself and solve the problem his own way. Bravo!

“In 1963, the government and Mafia informant Joe Valachi put together a chart of the Magaddino Crime Family. This chart shows what the FBI felt was the family hierarchy, which was somewhat accurate. Author’s collection.

1...789...11Page 8 of 11