5.

JILL THE RIPPER

ONE READER ALREADY KNEW who the culprit was: Hearst.

The body was the work, a Journal reader wrote in, of “some enterprising newspaper or group of men who wish to test the efficiency of the local detective force, which has been called in question quite often under its present management.”

As letters piled into the Journal offices on Tuesday morning, other reader guesses included tramps killing a peddler (conveniently “using rope and oilcloth from the peddler’s pack”); bickering butchers (“probably employed in one of the slaughter houses on the East Side or in Harlem”); a nefarious cabal (“I think the man was tattooed or branded with the marks of some secret society”); and, of course, “fiendish” Spaniards who “hacked him to pieces with their machetes.” Some suspected a woman of the deed, since only “jealousy could have terminated with such terrible results.” Still others invoked Sherlock Holmes, who seemed the best guide to such a baffling case. Alas, Arthur Conan Doyle had recently killed off his great detective. “If he were still alive,” one reader mourned, “Sherlock Holmes would surely earn your thousand-dollar reward through deduction.”

Still, the suggestion of Hearst himself topped them all. “It would be a comparatively simple matter,” the reader insisted, “for a newspaper to secure through a physician a suitable cadaver and to dispose of the portions effectively, yet theatrically, so as to secure the widest possible publicity.”

The Journal had a good laugh and ran the letter; if only they’d thought of it themselves! Hearst loved promotion; he’d already run bandwagon signs and sandwich-board men around the city and advertised his paper’s one-cent price by mailing out sackfuls of pennies to New Yorkers. He’d invaded the city, as one editor put it, as quietly “as a wooden-legged burglar having a fit on a tin roof.”

And the roof he most loved to dance on was the World’s. When he’d rolled into New York, Hearst stole his old paper’s crown jewel by grabbing Sunday World editor Morrill Goddard, a daredevil journalist who’d made his name as a London correspondent covering Jack the Ripper. “Take all or any part of that,” he’d told Goddard, tossing him a crumpled Wells Fargo bank draft for $35,000. Then, for good measure, Hearst immediately bought the rest of the Sunday World staff as well. An outraged Pulitzer purchased them back, only to find his repatriated World men emptying their desks yet again and walking back to the Journal. Hearst had stolen them twice. The Park Row sidewalk between the two papers, newsmen joked, was wearing thin.

Now, rallying his pirated staff from his barber’s chair as he took his morning shave, the young millionaire was ebullient. “We must beat every paper in town,” he declared.

His first blow for the Journal would beat them all—maybe even top the sensation created by the reward. It would be something nobody had ever seen before. He had his pressroom chief working up a special color illustration. Not for the Sunday comics supplement, mind you—but for that day, Tuesday.

And if that didn’t knock the competition sideways, his next idea would: an elite band of Wreckers dedicated to homicide coverage. Backed by veteran crime reporter George Waugh Arnold, they’d be even better than the NYPD’s rudderless Detective Bureau, which had been adrift ever since Inspector Byrnes was forced out. Not so George and his men. They’d carry their own badges, pack licensed pistols. They’d make arrests, they’d get things done. Hearst even had a dandy name for them, one that might have sent that suspicious letter writer into a tizzy: the Murder Squad.

——

CROWDS POURED into the morgue that morning, ready to identify the city’s most famous body, but they were made to wait; the coroner had scheduled yet another autopsy. Three days had now passed since the body’s first discovery, and reporters were growing jaded about the odds for any more would-be identifiers. “One might as well have tried to identify a particular Texas steer by the sirloin hanging in a butcher’s shop,” a Hearst man dryly observed.

Some guesses had certainly been less helpful than others. Occultists plied their way into the city morgue, including at least one phrenologist apparently undeterred by the absence of a head; that morning’s World ran a palmist’s not particularly edifying judgment: “Did love or jealousy have aught to do with the tragedy? Perhaps.” Not to be outdone, the Journal hired the country’s most famous palm reader, Niblo, who swanned into the morgue and performed a reading on the dead man’s hands. Among his pronouncements: the victim had been murdered for love rather than money, and the killer might be a “female Jack the Ripper.”

Oddly enough, it looked like Niblo might be on to something. Inside the Bellevue morgue, five men gathered around the dissecting table: Deputy Coroner O’Hanlon, three consulting physicians, and pathologist Frank Ferguson of New York Hospital. Dr. Ferguson had seen this kind of case before; three years earlier he’d been in this very same room, at this same table, examining the headless and limbless body of Susie Martin, an eleven-year-old girl who vanished from her Hell’s Kitchen tenement. Twelve days later her remains were found in a cellar just blocks away, identifiable only by the clothes the killer had used to bundle her body into. The crime had gone unsolved; and now, reading the details of this new case in the papers, Ferguson sensed a chilling familiarity.

Look, he pointed to two stab wounds: one to the left lung, the other from a downward thrust to the collarbone. Both made with a long, narrow blade.

The same had been done to Martin.

The sawing along the neck and atop the legs?

The same.

Dr. Ferguson directed their gaze to a previously ignored wound—a faint cut into a rib, where the saw had glanced off the body. It was a crucial clue, for unlike the stumps, it was here that you could determine the width of the saw.

“The same kind of saw was used,” he surmised after measuring the cut. “The blade of the saw is only a millimeter in thickness. A butcher’s meat saw is about that thickness. A carpenter’s saw is thicker.” In fact, the angling of the cuts told a story of their own. “By examining the marks made by the saw and the knife,” he said, “I can tell about how the murderer went at it to carve up the body.” The body, disassembled under the terrible light of the dissecting room, bore mute witness as Ferguson envisioned its fate.

“I can almost see him in the room with his dead victim,” he told his transfixed audience. “I can see him tearing off the clothing, if he had any on when he was slain. I can see him turn the body belly-down, so that the wild eyes should not stare at him. I can see him sever the flesh of the neck and then use the saw on the vertebrae. The murderer stood on the right-hand side. The marks of the teeth of the saw on the shoulder prove that there must have been a twisting motion as the sawing was finished.”

The backbone had also been sawed from the right-hand side, and with the body still facedown; the left leg had been severed from the left side. The head had been sawn off not in one downward cut but rather around in a circle. These were the same actions the Martin killer had made. And there was an even more troubling similarity: the boiling of this body’s legs. The body of Susie Martin had also been boiled, and a sliced-off bone fragment showed signs of at least some of its flesh having been consumed.

This, Ferguson announced, was the work of the same killer—a cannibal.

ALERTED BY FERGUSON’S FINDINGS about the saw, detectives coursed uptown to inspect the cellars of local butchers. But a lone cub reporter could be seen walking determinedly to Forty-Second Street, notebook in hand, his blond hair pompaded high under his hat. Ferguson hadn’t been the only one with an unnerving feeling that there was something familiar about that body in the morgue.

Those well-muscled arms and soft fingers: they were something Ned Brown had seen before—felt, even. It was a combination found in just one place, among the muscled masseurs of Turkish baths. The baths were where revelers would go after a night of hard drinking in Midtown; with rooms heated to 120 degrees, they were thought to evaporate the alcohol—and even to cure bites by mad dogs. Ned Brown had been known to work off a few shots in Murray Hill Baths, a long and narrow Times Square establishment on Forty-Second Street. A Romanesque space with white marble floors and a delightfully long swimming pool, it advertised itself as “the Most Handsome and Perfect Baths in the World.” The locals had another name for it: “The House of a Thousand Hangovers.” After signing up for a steam bath and massage there, Ned idly let a question drop. Had anyone slacked off from showing up for work that week?

That would be Bill, snapped an attendant.

“He took Friday off because he was going to look at a house in the country with his girl—or so he said … Guldensuppe is his name.” He hadn’t been back in since then, the attendant added, though someone had called him in sick on Sunday. “Drunk someplace, of course.”

“I must have seen him around here,” Ned ventured, “but I can’t place him in my mind.”

“He’s just built like a big Dutchman. He has the upper half of a woman tattooed all over his chest—used to be a sailor on one of them Heinie windjammers when he was a kid.”

If you see him, the baths’ cashier warned as he rang up the $1 ticket, tell him he’s fired.

Bill lived somewhere around Thirty-Third and Ninth Avenue, it was thought—a German and Irish neighborhood of low brick tenements. Ned joshed his way through the nearest bar there, knocking back a couple of beers and posing as a long-lost pal of Willie’s. Had anyone seen his old buddy?

Not lately, the saloon’s cook said, but try the apartment over Werner’s drugstore, where he’d shacked up with his landlady.

“She got plenty of cash.” He winked from behind the bar. “She treats him good.”

“He’s a hot sketch!” Ned quickly agreed. “Always after the dames.”

“You bet!” The cook laughed. Strangely enough, though, he hadn’t seen Willie around in the last few days.

Ned Brown knew he had to think fast.

How would he get inside the apartment? Pleading ten bucks from the World, he bought a suitcase of expensive twenty-five-cent soaps and made his way through the tenements around Werner’s building, posing as a salesman with a five-cent trial offer. The air stung with the smell of cooking sauerkraut and the clatter of tin washtubs; hausfraus inside leaned out windows to gossip as they strung laundry over the fire escapes. They knew good sandalwood and verbena soap when they saw it, and at a nickel a bar, they didn’t care if it was a trial offer or just plain stolen. Word was passed around quickly, and by the time Brown reached the apartment over Werner’s, he was down to his last bars.

In the center of the apartment door was a brass nameplate:

That was rich: New York didn’t license midwives.

He knocked and heard a faint commotion inside; the door opened to reveal the midwife herself, a dark-haired woman in her late thirties with a curiously sensual presence and the glow of an afternoon of exertions. Ned went into his spiel—wondrously soft, satisfaction guaranteed!—but she didn’t wait to hear out his sales pitch.

“Give me the soap now,” she demanded.

Well, it’s a funny thing, Brown said—turned out he had used up all his cakes. But for her he did have two left, because he did need a testimonial for their next ad … “If you could give the soap a trial now, while I wait,” he added, “I’d be glad to let you have one.”

She regarded the bars; their fragrance brought release from the disorder of the apartment around her, which appeared to be halfway packed for a move; rugs lay rolled up on the floor.

“All right.” She motioned him over to a black leather chair. “Give me the soap.”

As Ned heard the water running in the next room, he continued his sales patter—“Let your hands soak in it! You will feel each finger separately caressed …”—and looked hungrily around the room. An object, any incriminating object, anything to set up as a chalk engraving and run in the next edition of the World. On a small side table, he spotted it: a portrait of a muscular beau, blond with a turned-up mustache. He quickly snatched the photo and thrust it into his jacket just before she reentered the room.

She liked the soap, she said, but she didn’t want to be quoted for his ad.

Quite all right, quite all—

“Now you give me the other soap also,” she demanded. “Here is a dime.”

She hadn’t noticed anything missing.

It was, perhaps, the sweetest single coin he had ever earned. He pocketed the dime, passed an angry-looking fellow on his way back downstairs—not the man in the picture—and noted the address: 439 Ninth Avenue.

“IT WAS A GOOD DAY’S WORK, kiddo,” Roeder admitted when young Ned returned to the World Building. “Thanks.”

He’d gotten his first big scoop.

As he made his way to the El station that Tuesday evening, bound for home in Flatbush and a well-earned rest, the streets around Ned were strangely dotted with blotches of red—hundreds of them, thousands of them. It was the new issue of the Evening Journal. THE REAL CLEW TO THE MURDER MYSTERY, the front page proclaimed. “Facsimile in Colors of the Oilcloth Which Will Aid in Getting the $1,000 REWARD.”

It was stunning—not the clue, but the printing. Hearst had outdone himself again: For the first time ever, color was being used on a breaking news story.

And yet everything else about the competition revealed them as safely clueless. Papers still fixated on Max Weineke, noting that his wife had insurance on him, and that she was a bad mother to boot: “I learned from some neighbors,” a Telegram reporter huffed, “that Mrs. Weineke had gone out and left her babies alone many times.” Rather inconveniently, though, a slender Times reporter attempted to try on one of Max’s suits and couldn’t struggle into it, so it certainly wouldn’t fit the body in the morgue.

Ah, the Times theorized, that’s because the secret of the crime was that two escapees from the state lunatic asylum had turned on each other—that “Mutilation Maniac” Olaf Weir had murdered his fellow maniac William O’Neill. Weir had been a carpenter with a suspicious talent for sawing. It was a fine theory, save for one problem: O’Neill’s family didn’t recall him having any markings on his chest or fingers.

As for the police, an afternoon’s rummaging uptown in butchers’ basements and along roadsides had netted but a single find. An abandoned bag—without, alas, a head inside—was scooped up, emptied out for clues, and proclaimed THE DEAD MAN’S VALISE in the newspapers. The Evening Journal lavished a dozen illustrations on its mysterious contents: writing slates, clothes, a thimbleful of tacks, a rolled-up newspaper. All terribly interesting, but none of it was Guldensuppe. The closest anyone had gotten was a chance comment to the Journal by William Pinkerton, musing that the use of dismemberment hinted at the killer’s nationality: “The German seems to regard that as the best means of disposing of a body.” If that was the best they could do, then Ned felt reassured; his find on Ninth Avenue belonged to just him and tomorrow’s World.

THE COMPETITION’S COLOR PAGE was no gimmick at all.

Like Detective Carey, the head of Hearst’s Murder Squad thought the oilcloth really was the clue to the mystery. “The solution of the whole matter hangs upon the oilcloth,” the paper declared. Innumerable New Yorkers might lay claim to the body—and without a head, who was to disprove them?—but only one or two could claim that oilcloth. The body was one of two million New Yorkers, part of a constant and fluid population; the oilcloth was tangible, unequivocal, traceable: two sheets from just 6,000 yards manufactured upstate by A. F. Buchanan & Sons between June and December 1896. George Arnold knew Detective Carey had covered Manhattan and Brooklyn but hadn’t made it to Queens or Long Island yet. So Journal men had swamped Newspaper Row saloons, hiring unemployed reporters on the spot as day labor, throwing thirty men into tracking the oilcloth. Thirty reporters—now armed with three hundred thousand color copies of the oilcloth.

They flooded across the boroughs as Ned Brown took his train home in innocent contentment. And before the sun set, a Journal team at the dry-goods store of one Max Riger had found an oilcloth purchase of Diamond B-3220. The name in the customer-accounts book pointed to just one address.

439 Ninth Avenue.