Great American Crime Stories Read online

  Great

  American

  Crime

  Stories

  Lyons Press Classics

  Great

  American

  Crime

  Stories

  edited by

  Bill Bowers

  guilford

  connecticut

  An imprint of Globe Pequot

  Distributed by NATIONAL BOOK NETWORK

  Copyright © 2017 by Rowman & Littlefield

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

  ISBN 978-1-4930-2937-2 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-4930-2938-9 (e-book)

  The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Contents

  Introduction

  1. The Colt-Adams Affair (1841)

  2. Dr. Valorous P. Coolidge

  3. The Bloody Benders Family

  4. The Lamana Kidnapping and the New Orleans Black Hand

  5. The Murder of Grace Mae Brown

  6. The Mansfield Walworth Parricide

  7. Laura Bullion and the Wild Bunch

  8. Henrietta Robinson, the Veiled Murderess

  9. The Mountain Meadows Massacre

  10. Rachel Wall, Pirate and Robber (1789)

  11. Madame Delphine LaLaurie, New Orleans Monster

  12. The Beadle Family Murder-Suicide

  13. The Antoine Probst Ax Murders (1866)

  14. Slobbery Jim & the Daybreak Gang (1850s)

  15. Abraham Lincoln’s Remarkable Case (1841)

  16. Harry T. Hayward, the “Minneapolis Svengali” (1895)

  17. Belle Sorenson Gunness, Serial Killer (declared dead, 1908)

  18. Brothers Felipe Nerio Espinosa & José Vivian

  19. The Loomis Gang

  20. Jimmy Logue and Alphonso Cutaiar, Career Criminals (1850–1880s)

  Sources

  Acknowledgments

  About the Editor

  Introduction

  Why is true crime one of the most popular nonfiction genres? I suspect it comes down mainly to two things: fear, or rather the adrenaline rush that fear gives us; and our innate desire to understand the human mind, particularly the criminal human mind.

  Evolution has hard-wired into our psyches a fight-or-flight adrenaline reaction to fear, which goes hand in hand with tragedy or calamity, crime included. While the adrenaline rush improves our chances of surviving dangerous situations, it is also just plain exciting . . . whether or not we wish to admit this to ourselves. Reading (or viewing) stories of frightening events—fictional or true—provides this adrenaline rush without posing any actual physical danger.

  In addition to the excitement, stories of crime offer at least the possibility of understanding what might drive someone to commit terrible deeds in which most of us cannot even imagine ever being involved. Perhaps reading about terrible events might give us some inkling of an answer to the eternal question: “How could anyone do that?”

  While assembling the classic stories in this volume, I soon realized there’s nothing new under the sun. Though the crimes recounted here took place long ago, many of them (with the possible exception of the story of Rachel Wall, hanged for piracy—see Chapter 10) sound uncomfortably similar to stories you might see today in your online newsfeed.

  Some people still commit crimes out of blood lust or in the hope of material gain (see, for example, The Colt-Adams Affair, Chapter 1; The Bloody Benders Family, Chapter 3; Laura Bullion and the Wild Bunch, Chapter 7; The Antoine Probst Ax Murders, Chapter 13; or The Loomis Gang, Chapter 19). Some criminals are unimaginably cruel toward those over whom they have power (see Madame Delphine Lalaurie, New Orleans Monster, Chapter 11; or Harry T. Hayward, the “Minneapolis Svengali” in Chapter 16).

  Still others kill over family matters with which they feel otherwise unable to deal, or because of some possibly misplaced desire to defend their loved ones (see The Murder of Grace Mae Brown, Chapter 5; the Mansfield Walworth Parricide, Chapter 6; or The Beadle Family Murder-Suicide, Chapter 12).

  Brothers Felipe Nerio Espinosa and José Vivian (see Chapter 18) might be called terrorists if they operated today. And in some cases criminals’ motivations are unclear, the perpetrator is unknown, or it’s not certain whether a crime even occurred (see Henrietta Robinson, the Veiled Murderess, Chapter 8; or Abraham Lincoln’s Remarkable Case, Chapter 15).

  Some engage in a lifelong pursuit of criminal activity, as though almost unable to help themselves—or simply indulge their personal enjoyments of doing wrong and fooling others, including the lawmen who tirelessly pursue them—often starting this sort of life at a very young age (see The Loomis Gang, Chapter 19; or Jimmy Logue and Alphonso Cutaiar, Career Criminals, Chapter 20).

  Bizarre as they may be, all the stories in this modest volume are true. Whether you read them for the thrills they might provide, because they may offer insights into the minds of otherwise incomprehensible criminals, or because you love American history, I hope you enjoy perusing them as much as I have collecting them, and they provide many hours of pleasurable reading.

  —Bill Bowers, somewhere in New England

  Editor’s note: Because the stories in this volume were written long ago, some spellings, word choices, typographical errors, and punctuation may seem odd or even offensive to modern readers. Nonetheless, every effort has been made to preserve the “flavor” of the originals. This, after all, is what makes them classics.

  1

  The Colt-Adams Affair (1841)

  After John C. Colt (1810–1842) brutally murdered Samuel Adams—a printer who claimed Colt owed him $1.35—in New York City on September 17, 1841, the high-profile case created a tremendous national sensation. Colt was from a prominent and well-connected family. His brother, Samuel Colt (1814–1862) was a manufacturing magnate, founder of the famous Colt Firearms Company of Hartford, Connecticut. John Colt claimed he’d killed Adams in self-defense, but the trial jury did not believe him. Convicted of murder and sentenced to die by hanging, Colt married his mistress Caroline Henshaw in jail just before his scheduled execution, but then cheated the hangman by stabbing himself in the heart with a smuggled knife.

  The story did not die with John Colt, however. Conspiracy theories swirled about who brought him the knife in jail, with some maintaining he had somehow faked his death and substituted another man’s body.

  Colt’s Case.—The Murder Of Samuel Adams.—The Death Grapple In Colt’s Office.—Shipping The Body To New Orleans—Detection, Arrest, The Tombs.—The Wedding In The Cell.—Suicide Of Colt.

  The hand had shut upon it tight, with that rigidity of grasp with which no living man, in the full strength and energy of life, can clutch a prize he has won. They dragged him out into the dark street, but jury, judge and hangman could have done no more, and could do nothing now. Dead, dead, dead!

  —Charles Dickens, in Martin Chuzzlewit

  On the afternoon of Friday, the 17th day of September, 1841, Mr. John C. Colt, a
professional book-keeper, and teacher of ornamental penmanship, was sitting in his office, which was in the granite building at the corner of Chambers street and Broadway. The building still stands, and is occupied by Delmonico as a restaurant. Mr. Colt’s office was on the second floor, looking out upon Chambers street In an adjoining room a Mr. Wheeler, also a book-keeper, was sitting at work. With him was a young lad, a pupil of his.

  It was between three and four o’clock, and at that very moment there was walking to the building a man who was walking to his death. That man was Samuel Adams, a printer. Colt was engaged in writing a work on book-keeping and Adams was printing it. There was a balance of money due by the author to the latter, and Adams was coming to see Colt about the accounts.

  On he came—into the entrance, up the stairs, into the room. He sat down on the opposite side of the table to Colt, and the two began an argument about the amount of money due from one to the other. A small hammer, or axe, lay upon the table. The different opinions held by the two about the debt led to ill feeling. Argument became abuse.

  “You are a liar!” This from Adams, followed by a blow. They grappled; it was the struggle of death! Adams held Colt by the neck, and shoved him up against the wall.

  As quick as a flash Colt seized the hammer and rained blow after blow upon the head of his assailant There was a groan, a heavy fall, and the fiend Murder had added another name to his crimson catalogue of votaries.

  Mr. Wheeler, in the next room, looked up from his work, and said to his pupil, “Did you hear that? What was it?”

  Stealthily he crept to Colt’s door and peered through the key hole, displacing the cover, which was down, with the handle of his pen.

  What did he see? He saw a man, with his back to the door, stooping over something, and quietly raising it There was no noise—all was still as the charnel house.

  After the fatal blows Colt staggered into a chair, sick unto death, almost; but, although he looked out into the gay street, that form on the floor was always before him. Where the head rested there was a fearful, hideous stream, crawling out over the floor.

  Something must be done. It wouldn’t do to leave this dead man on the floor, with the blood soaking into the planks. But what?

  First out into the open air. His brain was on fire, and he wanted the cool evening breeze. Noiselessly he opened the door and peered out on the landing. It was all dark and still. He crept down, turning pale when the stairs creaked. The street once reached he took a walk in the City Hall Park. It was a beautiful night, and the stars never looked more lovely; but to him their soft light was a baleful blaze. The round moon rose on the metropolis, but to the red handed man walking among the trees it looked as if it had come dripping from a sea of blood. That fearful pool in his room, that crimson snake, crawling along in the dark, had flooded the universe, and everything was incarnadine.

  Colt walked down to the City Hotel, corner of Cedar street and Broadway, where a brother of his was stopping, with the intention of telling him about the deed he had done.

  He looked through the window into the reading room. His brother was talking to a gentleman, and Colt retired.

  He went back again to his room. On the way he thought of many things. First he determined to fire the building and burn the corpse up. This plan he gave up.

  Once more he was alone with his dead. It lay there—that hideous corpse—limp, lifeless. The tongue would never again utter a word; but how eloquent that dead clay was! It spoke with a thousand tongues.

  In a closet in that room was a box; in the box was a piece of cord and some canvas awning. He first tied the cord around the dead man’s neck, for the purpose of stopping the flow of blood; then he wrapped the body up in the awning, and proceeded to pack it in the box. It was merchandise now, and he had determined to ship it away to some distant port, and after cramming it in he salted it.

  Then he began to wash up the floor and the walls of the room. That done it was necessary to cleanse his shirt, which had certain fearful stains on it This was done at the Washington Bath House, in Pearl street. From that establishment he went to his home, where his mistress, Caroline Henshaw, awaited him. He struck a light, undressed and went to bed. As Tom Hood says, in his poem of “Eugene Aram,” did “Death, the grim chamberlain, light him to his couch?”

  The next morning he shipped the body of Adams to New Orleans, putting it on board a vessel lying at the foot of Maiden lane. Fate held that vessel back. It was delayed a week. A horrible stench came from the hold. “Break the cargo!” That was the order of the skipper. They came upon this mysterious box; it was opened, and there what remained of Adams was found.

  The Superintendent of Carts advertised for the carman who brought the box to the ship. In the meantime the strange disappearance of Adams was the town talk. The carman appeared, and told who gave him the box. Colt was immediately arrested and locked up in the Tombs.

  THE TRIAL.

  While in prison Colt lived like a prince. His respectable connections and the wealth of his relatives made him an immense sensation. The papers were full of the murder and the coming trial. The case was the town talk.

  The trial began, and lasted some ten days. Colt appeared un concerned and careless. He was always neatly dressed, and created a favorable impression by his appearance.

  District Attorney James R Whiting conducted the prosecution. Colt was defended by an array of the brightest legal talent of that day. The line of defence determined upon was that of man slaughter in self-defence. At last the jury retired, and, after being out several hours, brought in a verdict of “Murder in the first degree.”

  Unusually strenuous exertions were made to save the doomed man. The case was carried from court to court, but all in vain. Money was also lavishly used, but it could not buy this man’s life from the outraged law. Eventually he was sentenced to be hanged on the 18th day of November, 1842—over a year from the perpetration of the murder.

  COLT’S CONFESSION.

  Shortly after his arrest Colt wrote out the following confession:

  “Samuel Adams called on Friday at my office, as near as I can recollect, between the hours of three and four o’clock. Whether he had any especial object in view in coming at that time or not I cannot say. When he entered my office I was sitting at my table, as usual, and was at that time engaged in looking over a manuscript account book, as I had been engaged in this work for one or two days previous—that is, I was reading over the entries, and reconsidering the arithmetical calculations belonging to the entries, etc. Mr. Adams seated himself in a chair near the table, and within an arm’s length of myself—so near that had we both leaned our heads forward towards each other, I have no doubt but that they would have touched. I spoke of my account, which he had, at my request, handed to me ten or twelve days before. I stated to him that his account was wrong, and read to him at the same time the account, as I had made it out on another piece of paper, and requested him to alter his account as I had it He objected to it at first, saying that I did not understand printing. He however altered his figures as I read them from my account, as I made the remark that I would give $10, or some such sum, if I was not right; after he had altered his figures, and on looking it over, he said he was right at first He made the remark that I meant to cheat him. In the meantime we both had been figuring on separate papers parts of the account Word followed word until we came to blows. The words ‘you lie’ were passed, and several slight blows, until I received a blow across my mouth, and more, which caused my nose slightly to bleed. I do not know that I felt like exerting myself to strong defence. I believe I then struck him violently with my fist We grappled with each other at the time, and I was shoved against the wall, with my side next to the table. There was a hammer on the table, which I then immediately seized hold of, and instantly struck him over the head. At this time I think his hat was nearly in my face, and I think his face was downward. I do not think he s
aw me seize the hammer.

  The seizing of the hammer and the blow were instantaneous. I think this blow knocked his hat off, but will not be positive. At the time I only remember of his twisting my neck handkerchief so tight that it seemed to me as if I lost all power of reason, still I thought I was striking away with the hammer. Whether he attempted to get the hammer away from me or not I cannot say. I do not think he did. The first sense of thought was, it seems, as though his hand or something brushed from my neck downward. I cannot say that I had any sense or reflection until I beard a knock at the door, yet there is a faint idea remains that I shoved him off from me, so that he fell over, but of this I cannot say.

  When I heard the knock on the door I was instantly startled, and am fully conscious of going and turning the key so as to lock it I then sat down, for I felt very weak and sick. After sitting for a few minutes, and seeing so much blood, I think I went and looked at poor Adams, who breathed quite loud for several minutes, threw his arms out, and was silent I recollect at this time taking him by the hand, which seemed lifeless, and the horrid thrill came over me that I had killed him. About this time some noise startled me. I felt agitated and frightened, and I think I went to the door to see if I had fastened it, and took the key out and turned down the slide. I think I stood for a minute or two listening, to hear if the affray had caused any alarm. I believe I then took a seat near the window. It was a cold, damp day, and the window had been closed all day, except six or eight inches at the top, which I let down when I first went to the office, and which remained down all the time I occupied it I remained in the same seat for at least half an hour without moving, unless it was to draw close the curtains of the window, which were within reach. My custom had been to leave the curtains about one third drawn from the side of the window towards Broadway. The blood at this time was spreading all over the floor. There was a great quantity, and I felt alarmed lest it should leak through into the apothecary store. I tried to stop it by tying my handkerchief around his neck tight This appeared to do no good. I then looked about the room for a piece of twine and found in a box which stood in the room, after partially pulling out some awning which was in it, a piece of cord, which I tied tight around his neck, after taking his handkerchief off, and his stock, too, I think.