Introduction

SOMETHING WICKED

THIS WAY COMES

MURDER IN WAX, CIRCA 1899

Detroiters love a good murder mystery. They always have, long before Detroit became the Motor City and even longer before it earned the dubious nickname Murder Capital. This fascination with horrific homicides goes back to the gaslight era, when the most popular attraction in the city depicted grisly recreations of murder and mayhem in wax.

This captivation with crime was evident in the long lines leading out of the Wonderland, an amusement complex located at corner of Woodward and Jefferson. The most popular attraction was the first-floor Chamber of Horrors—a wax museum that re-created the late nineteenth century’s most heinous crimes with near photorealism. The blood-spattered exhibits contained around a dozen tableaus peopled by over one hundred wax villains. The flickering of dim gas lanterns added to the sinister aura.

As visitors strolled through the galleries, they could witness Kemmler strapped into the electric chair moments before the executioner turned on the juice; the room of Mrs. Mary Latimer, murdered by her son Robert, as it appeared the day after police found her body propped against a chair in the bedroom of her Jackson home; a Port Huron lynching victim dangling from a tree; and other ghastly scenes.

Museum manager M.S. Robinson, a former lawyer from Chicago, had a knack for staging scenes so revolting that the city’s more puritanical succeeded in shutting the wax museum down in 1890. After the mandated closure, Robinson reopened the Chamber with new and even bloodier scenes.

Detroiters loved it.

They spent hours studying the grim exhibits. It became so popular, particularly among women, that Robinson kept the Chamber open from 10:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m. and enlarged the accommodations for ladies.

While Detroit’s upstanding women watched their greatest nightmares materialize in wax, Michigan’s most dangerous women lived and worked in the city’s real Chamber of Horrors. The women’s wing of the Detroit House of Correction housed sadistic serial killers, wives who murdered their husbands for insurance money, con artists, madams, prostitutes, shoplifters and others.

THE WOMEN’S WING AT THE OLD DETROIT HOUSE OF CORRECTION, CIRCA 1899

On the eve of the twentieth century, the Detroit House of Correction—one of four state penitentiaries at the time and Michigan’s sole institution for long-term female inmates—contained sixty-five women serving sentences that varied from several weeks for violations of minor city ordinances to life for the big M. At any one time, the old House held about two to three women serving life sentences, and over its life span, from 1861 to 1926, it housed about three dozen women serving the maximum penalty allowed under Michigan law. Prison authorities did not segregate female inmates by crime, so these felons—the most dangerous women in Michigan—rubbed elbows with short-timers.

A Detroit Free Press article, written by a reporter who visited the Women’s Wing of the House of Correction in 1899, captured a scene of the city’s most wicked women paying their debts to society in one of the prison shops.

The women sat facing one another on long wooden benches, their flannel prison-issued dresses draping to the floor. An occasional whisper rose above the din, but this was a rarity since the prison matrons strictly enforced the silence rule. Their fingers jerked spasmodically as they sewed buttons onto cards—the partial penance they paid for prostitution, public drunkenness, theft and murder. Sunlight streamed in from a line of windows and fell onto the tables, and at least once during the shift, each one gazed through the bars at the world on the other side of the whitewashed brick wall.

A Detroit Free Press artist sketched this scene of women inmates hard at work inside the House of Correction’s prison shop in 1899.

The inmates all wore the same prison-issue garb, but they all took different paths into this room.

Although serious offenders once known in the papers as Pope, Echols, Roberts and Lawrence had swapped their surnames for inmate numbers and had disappeared from the public eye behind layers of brick and iron, they remained subjects of curiosity for years after the papers documenting their crimes had yellowed.

Nellie Pope, who conspired to murder her husband in 1895, frowned as a matron led a reporter into the factory. The matron thought it best to walk past the volatile Pope, known to use physical violence if she felt threatened. A head taller than the other inmates, the statuesque Pope was an intimidating and frightening figure best left alone.

Tucked into one corner of the room, Fanny Echols, whose murder of her husband fifteen years earlier led to a life sentence, toiled away at the buttons. The writer described Echols as a buxom good-natured looking colored woman.

Woman inmates of New York’s Sing Sing Prison pose for a photographer, preserving for posterity the prisoner’s couture, circa 1870. Their sisters inside the big house in Detroit wore nearly identical prison-issued outfits, while the matrons wore all black. This stereograph formed part of a series, Hudson River Scenery, by photographer Gustavus W. Pach. Author’s collection.

Next to Echols sat convicted thief Dora Roberts. Dora and her husband, Walter, robbed a Champlain Street saloon owner of $200. A constable in the right place at the right time caught Dora with her hand in the cookie jar when, as he chased her out of the saloon, she dropped a roll of stolen greenbacks into a spittoon.

Alice Lawrence, who received twenty years for conspiring to murder her husband in Holland, raised her head and watched as the reporter slowly passed her bench. When their eyes met, Lawrence felt a pang of shame and quickly dropped her head.

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.

Most of the Women’s Wing residents were serving brief sentences for any number of minor offenses, many of them leaving the House only to return later for identical convictions.

The matron led the reporter to a table where two gray heads bobbed in rhythm with their hands. Both women had done so many stints in the House for drunk and disorderly convictions that they considered it home.

The matron pointed to one of them: That’s Mary Scanlon at the end.

When she heard her name, Scanlon glanced at the writer just long enough to reveal a face crisscrossed with deeply etched furrows and skin the color and texture of an old paper bag. One side of her mouth curled up in a halfhearted attempt at a smile. She’s an old offender, the matron noted.

Who’s that? The writer pointed at the woman sitting next to Scanlon.

Oh, that’s Ellen Bushey—this is her home, poor Ellen.

Scanlon and Bushey had plenty of company. A majority of the House’s female residents served short-term sentences for public intoxication. Women such as Minerva Maxwell and Lizzie Lawson, who was once described as a colored maiden of 31 summers, earned thirty days each as tipplers.

Murderers like Nellie Pope fascinated the writer, but something about Scanlon and Bushey absolutely captivated her. In her article, she pointed out the double standard prevalent in turn-of-the-century law enforcement. In the gilded café, the man in the dress suit drinks something to drown his sorrows, she noted. He becomes violent and smashes a window, but nothing happens to him.

This list, which is a composite of three pages from the 1910 U.S. Census, contains the names of all House of Correction inmates serving sentences lengthy enough to consider them residents. Five of them are lifers: Sarah Quimby, Nellie Pope, Jennie Flood, Mabel (Koren) Larson and Mary McKnight. National Archives.

The morbid loiter in front of the Detroit House of Corrections, trying to catch a glimpse of an infamous resident or two. Robert N. Dennis Collection of Stereoscopic Views, New York Public Library.

But it isn’t so with the old gray-haired castaway. She has troubles, too, and tries to get rid of them. She begs a drink somewhere, and then crawls off into the alley. The policeman finds her, rings up the patrol wagon, and off she goes to jail.

The tone of the unnamed reporter’s article, and the mentioning of this she-pays, he-doesn’t-pay double standard, suggests the Free Press writer was a woman with an eye for social reform.

She had a point. Many of the women carding buttons in the prison factory that sunny afternoon in 1899 ended up inside the prison after convictions for public drunkenness. Other repeat offenders included shoplifters and liquor law violators: selling alcohol without a license, running a blind pig (an unlicensed saloon) or selling on a Sunday.

The residents of this House were the wicked women of Detroit.

The legal system that brought them to the House was much different than its twenty-first-century descendant. To fully understand their stories, it becomes necessary to examine law and order of yesteryear, particularly the role and treatment of women in the legal process.

FEMALE DETECTIVES, OPERATIVES AND MOLES

In the prim-and-proper world of the late nineteenth century, at a time when a man riding in a carriage with a married woman became a subject of scandal, female perpetrators had a leg up on male detectives. A gentleman didn’t search a lady, especially if it involved any bodily contact. And he certainly couldn’t go undercover without whispers that he was in bed with his suspect—an accusation not unknown to Detroit constables, particularly those who worked vice cases involving brothels. Sometimes, these investigators literally went under the covers with madams and their inmates as payment for looking the other way, which led to good copy for reporters but migraines for police chiefs (see chapter 8, The Great Bordello Scandal). Police brass attempted to avoid such scandals by hiring female operatives.

The stories of these operatives, who often shielded themselves with anonymity, are fragmentary and present an interesting challenge for the historian. They also represent some of the most interesting tales in the history of the Detroit underworld.

Sometimes, they worked in an official capacity, like Theresa Lewis (see Blood Feud); sometimes, like Annie Smith, they worked as unofficial informants with ulterior motives of their own. Smith wanted to rid old Delray of the competition, so she had no qualms about betraying her fellow madams for offenses like violating the city’s liquor laws (see The Great Bordello Scandal).

As suffrage neared reality, police departments began to hire more female operatives, such as Viola Lorenzen. The nineteen-year-old, who worked telephones at Chicago’s River Forest Police Station, expressed an interest in police work. In 1918, she became Sergeant Lorenzen. When interviewed about his female sergeant, Chief R.C. Goss said that he noticeda lot less profanity around the station, since the suspects brought into the station didn’t want to swear in front of a lady. Author’s collection.

Minnie McMurray, a crusading do-gooder who characterized herself as a high-class detective, played a key role when, in 1906, Detroit authorities decided to crack down on physicians practicing without licenses. McMurray slipped undercover as an ailing patient, purchased a bottle of Juniper Jelly from Dr. Eliza Landau for one dollar and subsequently trapped the elderly woman for practicing medicine without a license.

Female private detectives working in a quasi-official capacity, as well as full-time female officers hired as Prohibition agents, also played a key role in busting bootleggers during the Roaring Twenties. They succeeded in large part because they could put their hands where male agents couldn’t.

Because a male agent didn’t dare frisk a female suspect and therefore couldn’t find her hidden stash, perhaps tucked into a brassiere or a stocking, bootleggers were quick to exploit the loophole by employing female smugglers. These bottle smugglers effortlessly slipped through the grasp of agents until U.S. Customs officials wised up and hired female operatives to conduct searches on women suspected of violating Prohibition laws (see chapter 11, The Women of Wet Detroit).

FEMALE SUSPECTS, REPORTERS AND "JUNIOR G-MEN"

Sometimes a male suspect walked into a police station and, after a vigorous interrogation with a blackjack or rubber hose, limped back out of it. Because police didn’t want the prying eyes of the press to see evidence of this heavy-handedness, they kept reporters away from men in custody.

This desire to avoid accusations of impropriety had the opposite effect when it came to female suspects. Often, police allowed reporters to sit in on official interviews with women accused of crimes, and in this context, reporters became de facto detectives who even posed questions to the accused. Quick to point out an inaccuracy, discrepancy or downright lie, they helped police identify soft spots in a suspect’s story or holes in an alibi. This Junior G-man status is best illustrated by the story of Gertrude Schmidt, who had to face a hostile crowd of reporters that shadowed her every move (see chapter 10, Bluebeard’s Women).

The result of a reporter’s semi-official status is a historical legacy to true crime buffs. Entire impromptu conversations with female suspects, which would never appear in court records or police files, have survived in the historical record through newspaper articles, in which women accused of crimes are fleshed-out through dialogue, description and nuances such as facial expressions and hand gestures.

THIS IS A MAN’S, MAN’S, MAN’S WORLD…

The trials of high-profile, headline cases became popular forms of entertainment, particularly among women, who often overpopulated the single pew assigned to them in the courtroom. This overcrowding became such a problem, newspaper reporters regularly carped about straining their necks to see over the broad brims and massive floral decorations of the era’s Merry Widow hats. The drama that occurred behind courtroom doors, such as tearful admissions, verbal sparring, and vivid descriptions of sexual impropriety—especially interesting to spectators since these types of things did not appear in the expurgated print media of the day—doubled as reality entertainment in an era long before television came into existence.

There was one place in the courtroom, however, strictly off limits to women: the jury box. Except in a few western territories, juries consisted entirely of men until women achieved the right of suffrage.

While this male-centric jury system bothered many women on the right side of the law, it pleased many on the wrong side of it, particularly women accused of murder.

Illinois state attorney John E.W. Wayman of Chicago, who faced an epidemic of husband slayings in 1912, criticized the male juror as putty in the hands of a manipulative female murder defendant. After watching, helpless, as all male-juries acquitted one defendant after another despite overwhelming evidence of guilt, Wayman concluded it was nearly impossible to convict a woman of murder under the current system and so became an early advocate of judicial reform.

According to Wayman, the male juror’s inability to see a female defendant with any objectivity became particularly evident when the woman stood accused of murdering her spouse. The ordinary man such as a juror is finds it difficult to differentiate between an exceptional and abnormal woman, as most murderesses are, and the everyday woman he has known since he was a boy, Wayman argued during a 1912 interview. When a woman appears for trial before him, straightway in his own mind he manufactures some extenuating circumstances, some excuse, to account for her commission of the murder.

Cabinet card of a typical nineteenth-century jury. All-male juries persisted until women achieved suffrage in 1920. Author’s collection.

Wayman provided an interesting dissection of the male juror’s perceptions of female defendants:

He feels sure that this woman who looks so much like the women of his own family must have been abused and hounded and driven insane by the cruelty of the man she killed. So in almost all cases the juror, unsophisticated in the subtle psychology of the woman criminal, has made up his mind long before he retires to the jury room that the woman on trial committed her crime during some violent brain storm that rendered her irresponsible.

When asked if a female defendant needed to be good looking to beat the murder rap, Wayman responded, Not at all. All that is necessary is for her to be a woman. A jury of men will do the rest.

He then went on to explain how appearance swayed a jury:

It (was) a man’s, man’s, man’s world. Just before Christmas in 1918, Willard Guy walked out on his wife for another woman. Left high and dry, which meant nearly destitute without Willard’s income, Irene took her complaint to Highland Park top cop Charles Seymour, who issued this wanted notice in February 1919. Willard later returned to Irene, who more than likely gave him a black eye and then gave him a steak to put over it. The couple lived together for the rest of their lives, until Willard’s passing in August 1933. Just four months later, Irene died of a broken heart, literally, when she suffered