Cold Serial

By Brian Forschner

An “impressively well-crafted” true crime account of the murder of five girls in the early days of police investigations (Midwest Book Review).
 
Cold Serial tells the true stories of five girls who were raped and murdered in the Dayton, Ohio, area between 1900 and 1909. They were victims not only of grizzly crimes, but of the prevailing sexism, horrifying working conditions, and lack of rights and police protection that all women of their time were forced to endure.
 
As the tragic stories unfold, a common thread begins to link them together. The deaths of these five girls left a legacy of better protections for women and more acceptance and recognition of their rights. Their cases led to the annexation of large areas into what is now modern-day Dayton, which initiated restructuring of the Dayton Police department. They also led to the creation of the first chamber of commerce in the United States. Cold Serial not only chronicles these harrowing cases, but illuminates how they influence the issues we still face today—such as sexual assault, harassment, and discrimination—as well as the historical impact religion, politics, and the media have had on the lives of women.
 
“If you love true crime with a novelist’s flair, add Brian Forschner’s Cold Serial to your bookshelf.” —Northern Kentucky Tribune
 
“A compelling read.” —Midwest Book Review
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Oct 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781630475499

Book preview

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many individuals and associations helped in the development of this story: Curt Dalton, author, historian, and advocate of Dayton history, encouraged and pointed me in the right direction. The Dayton Metro Library staff, particularly Nancy Horlacher, local history specialist, Dayton Collection, were tireless in their research assistance and support. Dayton History generously allowed the staged reenactment of one of the cases at their annual Old Case Files. The University of Dayton Department of History, under Professor Janet Bednarek, PhD, and her student interns, Jordan Taylor, Kate Strittmatter, Stephen Kadesky, and Erin Quinn, helped with the digging into newspapers of the era. Karen D. Brame El Amin, MA, MA, artist, author, and cultural commentator, provided insight into black history and culture of the time. Fred Rothzeid, playwright, composer, and lyricist, gave valuable insight from an artist’s perspective. He was one of the first to tell me that the story was riveting and a good read. Steve Grismer, retired Dayton Police Sergeant, Dayton Police History Foundation Trustee, and author, gave significant historical insight into the Dayton Police Department and went out of his way to make sure that the historical police facts were correct. His excitement was a plus. Marshall Weis, editor and publisher of The Dayton Jewish Observer and president of the American Jewish Press Association, encouraged me to tell the story of these girls, helped me understand Jewish customs of the time, and provided valuable edits. Hamilton County Chief Deputy Coroner William Ralston, MD, gave a critical eye to the autopsies and death certificates.

A special thanks to my copy editor, Diana Schramer, owner of Write Way Copyediting LLC, whom I met through an online writing group. From the beginning of the research and writing of this book, which took over three years, Diana said it was good stuff and encouraged me to pursue it. She also introduced me to other authors who agreed to read the manuscript, such as Ed Abell, award-winning author of My Father’s Keep: A Journey of Forgiveness through the Himalaya, who provided valuable feedback and direction. My siblings, Bob Forschner and Debbie Luongo, pushed me along with their enthusiasm. Debbie in particular led the cheerleading and introduced me to contacts in the Dayton, Ohio, area. My children, Joy Parker and Brian Robert Forschner, their spouses, Steve and Lisa, and my grandchildren, Carissa, Sam, Mikey, and Emily, are constant inspirations. I bask in their love and support. There are numerous relatives, friends, and former staff members whom I may be missing here. Sorry for that, but I sincerely appreciate every time you expressed interest.

Finally, my lovely and talented wife and editor-in-chief, Joyce, deserves more credit than she knows for her love, encouragement, and presence in my life. She is a skilled editor and grammarian who provided always-honest feedback, slayed my pet words and phrases when necessary, and read and edited the manuscript numerous times. Her tireless work on this book and living with me during the research and writing of it will, I am certain, guarantee her sainthood. (Look for her tell-all memoirs! Coming soon!)

These stories are true and have been reconstructed based largely upon numerous local and national newspaper accounts, autopsies, death certificates, and trials as summarized by the press of that time. No trial documents exist. The characters are real and actual dialogue is used when available. Narrative has been added to weave the facts as known with a reasonable discernment and expansion of what was said or might have been said in a given circumstance. The life and death of these girls is unique because of the social and political controversy surrounding them and the injustices done at multiple levels.

These girls’ lives have been forgotten, hidden, or never told. No monuments exist. An attempt has been made to memorialize them by telling their stories, for telling their stories is doing the work of justice. My hope is that you will love them and not forget these women whose lives were so typical of their era.

PROLOGUE

On an overcast day in May, 1982, in the mausoleum of Woodland Cemetery in Dayton, Ohio, I stood before the somber, narrow, wooden drawers of the well-worn card catalogue files, unaware of who was waiting for me. Paternal relatives of mine were buried there, so I thumbed through the hand-typed cards and, under Forschner, found several names; one of them was Mary Forschner, age fifteen. Surely there must be another clan of Forschners, I thought, as I had never heard of her.

Subsequently, I discovered that she was my great-aunt, my grandfather’s sister. Much of my youth was spent at his home. He had never mentioned her. An old, inlaid-covered Bible always sat on a dining room armchair. The family history is in there. I’ll share it with you when you get older, he once told me. He died before sharing his secret. The Bible was lost. So, armed with a threeby-five reference card, I pursued Mary Forschner. I found her in the newspapers of that era and uncovered a trove of information and a link to at least four other girls: Ada Lantz, Dona Gilman, Anna Markowitz, and Elizabeth Fulhart, all of whom were forgotten.

Their lives compelled me to tell their stories. Here is what I found.

CHAPTER ONE

SURPRISE BIRTHDAY PARTY

Saturday, October 13, 1900

Fifteen couples expected an unforgettable evening at the home of Charles and Carrie Lantz. Their six children—Walter, age four, George, nine, Ada, eleven, Robert, fourteen, Charlotte, sixteen, and Fred, eighteen—had planned a surprise birthday party for their parents, who shared the same birth date.

Ada was overwhelmed with anticipation. Her siblings involved her in the planning, which made her feel very special, very adult. Her brothers and sisters saw her in a new light. She sensed it. After all, she thought, I am going on twelve.

Charles loved to tease Ada, his favorite. When he seized an opportunity to do so, her eyes widened like silver dollars, saying nothing, trying to figure out if he was telling the truth. When she discovered the tease, her smile illuminated the room. Few things delighted Charles more than his ability to flip this switch.

Ada had a stubborn streak and could be a rascal. She didn’t like to be told how to do something (like her mother, Charles often remarked). She learned by doing things, trial and error.

Ada eavesdropped on conversations at the dinner table, which were often full of local gossip. Charles and Carrie attempted to filter these mealtime exchanges lest Ada pass them on to her friends and classmates.

Ada also delighted her many friends, young and old, with her cheerfulness, talkativeness, and childlike candor. She shared her toys and books generously. Teachers at the Sixteenth School District of Dayton referred to her as a sweet tempered child, one of the brightest scholars in her class. They went on to comment that she was an interesting little talker. She was small for her age and didn’t look eleven.

Ada’s unexplained frailty perplexed the family. She stood shortest in her class and was plagued by colds and asthmatic-type attacks. Keeping her from exhausting herself at play constantly taxed her mother and her siblings. Recently, after playing kick the can in the alley with her friends, Ada, unable to catch her breath, plopped down on the ground. Her mother, who was hanging laundry in the backyard, noticed her and came running. She scooped her up and carried her to the house. But after a little rest, off Ada went. Often, they awakened to her spasmodic coughing, which recently had left spots of blood on her pillow. The family doctor was to pay her a visit the following week.

Most of the party guests lived nearby. At around 8:00 p.m., the neighbors huddled down the street, just beyond the comfortable Lantz residence. They then quietly crept up the street, marched up the porch steps, and rapped on the door. Carrie answered, flabbergasted. She nervously dried her hands on her dirty apron and commenced a stream of apologies. A raucous, kind-hearted laughter ensued, the kind shared only among close friends. Charles came downstairs, suspenders dangling around his knees. He howled with surprise, immediately grasped the situation, and joined in the laughter. The Lantz children had accomplished the impossible. They had surprised Dad.

We finally got him! Fred, their eldest son, chortled. He began to strum on his mandolin, which magically appeared. He and his band would provide the evening’s entertainment.

Ada, not to be outdone, stood on the steps and singsonged, We surprised you! We surprised you! catching her dad’s attention. He shook a playful finger at her.

I’ll get you for this. I’ll get even, you just wait!

Ada beamed, proud to have kept the surprise a secret, no small feat for her. See, I told you I could keep a secret, she announced to her brothers and sisters. Well … I did. Sort of. I only told Lillie, but I made her cross her heart and hope to die not to tell. So that doesn’t count.

The antics of Ada and her friend, twelve-year-old Lillie Brandon (daughter of Patrolman Charles Brandon, who was a neighbor), brought broad smiles and further merriment to this act of contrition, albeit imperfect. Ada and Lillie immediately paired up and congratulated each other on helping to orchestrate the evening and keeping the secret.

I have nothing prepared, Carrie said. Let me go fix something.

Just relax, Mom, Fred reassured her. We’ve already taken care of that.

Fred took Ada and Lillie by the hand and led them to the cellar to gather some of the prepared snacks that had been hidden there. They brought breads, preserves, pretzels and mustard, and everyone’s favorite (certainly Ada’s), an assortment of strudels. An ample supply of wine bottles and jugs of beer appeared on the table, punctuating the festivities, all supplemented by covered dishes brought by the neighbors. Ada and Lillie each took a plateful of food and disappeared upstairs to play board games.

At around 10:00 p.m. Carrie invited all to play a game of progressive euchre, where couples rotate from table to table, enabling everyone to mix and talk with one another. The neighborhood already had several erstwhile euchre aficionados whose expertise grew by the glass.

Lillie tugged on Carrie’s sleeve as her friend’s mother led another trump. Mrs. Lantz, do you know where Ada is? Lillie and Ada had both come down for some snacks just as the euchre game was starting, but when Lillie turned around, Ada was gone. It was now 10:40 p.m.

She probably went up to bed, honey. She gets tired early. Have you checked upstairs?

No, I haven’t, Mrs. Lantz, she replied politely. I’ll go see.

Five minutes later Lillie came running down the steps, out of breath. Mrs. Lantz, she panted, Ada isn’t up there.

Let’s go see if we can find her, Carrie suggested as she excused herself and got up from the table. She said she had a headache. I’ll bet she fell asleep upstairs in one of the bedrooms.

Together Carrie and Lillie checked all four bedrooms. Well, honey, she isn’t up here, Carrie said matter-of-factly. Maybe she went outside. The fresh air makes her feel better. Let’s go check. They slipped past the guests who were sipping beer, nibbling snacks, and dancing to music played by Fred and his band.

Carrie and Lillie looked around the yard, partially lit by a lantern and the light shining through the house windows. Ada did not appear to be in the back or side yard. A troubled furrow appeared on Carrie’s brow. She and Lillie came back into the house and bumped into Charles, who was standing in the kitchen with some of the men.

Charles, I’m worried, Carrie whispered as she pulled him aside. Ada isn’t upstairs, and she isn’t out back, either. Have you seen her? She hasn’t been feeling well. Carrie kept her voice down to avoid troubling the guests.

Fred, however, overheard the conversation. She likes to sit out back after dark and look at the stars, he chimed in. Let me see if she’s still wandering around the yard.

Sounds like a good idea, Charles agreed. Let me go with you. Carrie seemed satisfied.

Fred and Charles opened the back door and went down the steps into the side yard. They walked around the yard and circled the house. They checked the area around the pump. No Ada.

She must be in the outhouse, Charles said confidently. The door was shut, so he politely knocked. You in there, Ada? Receiving no answer, he opened the door and looked in, but saw no one.

A slight wind buffeted the lantern hanging from the grape arbor in the side yard directly across from the rear door. It lit the side yard reasonably well but cast an uneasy, teetering vision of the backyard. No sign of Ada.

A troubled-looking Fred and Charles came in the back door, Charles leading the way. In the interim, the evening had concluded. Folks had retrieved their coats and hats that had been thrown across the bed in the spare bedroom and milled around the front door exchanging final birthday wishes. They relit their lanterns to head home. Most of the guests, now aware that Ada was missing, appeared confident that she had wandered down the street and would return shortly.

Charles cornered Brandon, one of his closest friends. I can’t find Ada, he said, out of earshot of the other guests. Lillie said she hasn’t seen her either. She may have wandered down the street or somethin’. Can you gimme a hand? Maybe we can quickly look around the neighborhood?

Sure, my lantern’s on the porch, Brandon replied confidently. Let me get it. How about if I check the alley and the commons and you go out front?

Brandon slipped past the guests huddled around the front door and went out to retrieve his lantern left hanging among the others on the porch. He struck a match to light it, turned to his left, and circled around the west side of the house. He had to turn sideways to squeeze through the narrow space between the house and the fence and stepped over cluttered bricks and pieces of wood. He entered the backyard and stared directly at the outhouse, which flirted with the further reaches of the lantern’s glow.

Brandon approached the outhouse. He rechecked to see if there were any occupants. Finding none, he walked behind the outhouse and found the gate unlatched. Unusual, he thought to himself. He reentered the alley and walked a few yards to his right. Not seeing Ada, he turned left, walked a semicircular route through the commons, passed the Lantz house, turned left again, and returned to the alley, all the while calling Ada’s name.

The guests sensed something was wrong and paused on the front porch and lawn. Charles barged in the back door, the first to return from the search.

Have you found her? Carrie asked.

No, Charles replied with a long look into Carrie’s eyes. Not sure where else to look. Charles was hoping for some suggestions from the remaining guests.

Charles, let me get my lantern, and we’ll go look for her, one of the guests suggested. The other men standing nearby nodded in agreement. The men went out onto the front porch to retrieve and light their lanterns and ran into Brandon.

I looked around the commons and circled back around the house again, Brandon reported, out of breath. Charles, we need to be more thorough about this. If it’s all right with you, I’d like a few men to check with the neighbors. Dazed by anxiety, Charles merely nodded.

Brandon approached several men standing in the front yard. How about you guys knocking on doors? Check the front and side yards of all the neighbors for a couple of blocks in each direction. Maybe she passed out, got sick, or visited another one of her friends. He stepped back into the parlor to give directions to the remaining guests. Charles, Fred, the rest of you, go down the alley and the commons, check backyards, check every outbuilding. If you find her, give a yell. Otherwise, let’s meet back here in a few minutes and see what we’ve got.

Everyone nodded silently, not sure what to expect, but keeping their fears to themselves.

Ada’s name echoed throughout the neighborhood as several more neighbors joined in the search. Ada? You there? Sweetie, are you okay? Aaaa-daaa! Alarm raced through the by-and-large phoneless community as people were roused by knocks on their doors. News of Ada’s missing elicited an immediate response. Eye contact and troubled looks led to the donning of jackets. Neighbors hurried out their front doors, through fenced-in yards with chickens and barking dogs, and into the unlit streets with lanterns held high.

Where should we look? Do you need some extra lanterns? Should I wake my older son? new searchers asked. The mute response to these questions created an ever-increasing sense of alarm.

Everyone kept looking and shouting Ada’s name. Dozens of neighbors were now engaged in the search. Ada? Aaaa-daaa?

Squinting out the kitchen window while cleaning up after the party, Carrie had a monopoly on the only window with a view of the backyard.

They’ll find her, a neighbor woman said reassuringly. Don’t worry, she’s fine.

I just don’t know. Carrie went on, recycling her thoughts. She would never wander off. There’ve been some coyotes around … Patrolman Brandon warned us about letting the kids wander so far out in the commons, near the railroad tracks … hoboes and such, she muttered. I pray to God she’s okay. It’s just not like her to stay gone so long.

The men kept searching the neighborhood. Some went as far as the juncture of the Cincinnati-Hamilton-Dayton Railroad and city trolley tracks two squares (blocks) away, known as a hangout for hoboes. McCabe Park was within walking distance. The park had a reputation for harboring unsavory characters and was notorious for carousing, gun shots and crime. Tintown, one of two or three predominantly black suburban communities in Dayton, was adjacent to McCabe Park and often unfairly targeted as a source of crimes committed on the west side of Dayton. (Tintown got its name from the flattened tin cans used as roofing.) Ada would never have gone that far. She knew better. After about twenty-five minutes had passed, the men gathered in the Lantz’s backyard. It was now 11:05 p.m.

Any sign of her? Brandon asked, trying to keep his voice steady so as not to add to the growing sense of frustration, alarm and helplessness.

I’ve looked everywhere she might go, Fred said to no one in particular, expecting concurrence. I’ve relooked. No trace. Father and I stopped by a couple of neighbors’ houses. No one’s seen her, not even her friends. He wiped the perspiration from his face. "Not since they played this afternoon. Ada is too frail to wander very far. She had no reason to go far. She never went far."

The men craved some sense of direction. They needed a place to look or something to do or fix. Something. Anything.

We’ve looked everywhere, a guest said, reporting the obvious, not wanting a response, yet seeking some reassurance. Maybe they had overlooked something. The conversation strung out to a horrific silence.

The women in the kitchen had cleaned up everything but their fears. They huddled around the kitchen window, watching the men search the yard, alley, and commons. Carrie moved toward the back door, and all the women followed her out onto the porch and into the yard.

What about the outhouse? Fred suggested. Maybe she fell in.

She’s too big to fall in there, a neighbor asserted. The men nodded.

Brandon broke the awkward stalemate. It’s worth a look, he said.

Sure, let’s look, Charles echoed, while mentally dismissing it. The thought of finding Ada there was incomprehensible. Yet it was something to do, somewhere to look.

The neighborhood search party, now numbering over fifty, crowded into the Lantz backyard. The men moved toward the outhouse and blocked all but the roof. They propped open the door to the musty, malodorous, two-seated structure. A guest found some rope and rigged a lantern so it could be lowered into the septic tank, or vault, of the outhouse.

There, now you can see somethin’, the guest commented, lowering the lantern. The methane in the vault caused the lantern to flare.

It looks like there’s a shoe down there, Brandon said anxiously as he and a neighbor squinted at the murky, lumpy, greenish-brown surface of the excrement in the vault fifteen feet below.

Let me see, Charles insisted as he elbowed his way to the toilet-seat hole where the lantern was dangling. Omigod! he said, incredulous. That’s Ada’s shoe! At least it looks like it. Get something we can hook it with.

Brandon grabbed a clothes prop holding up a nearby clothesline and took a nail and hammer from a tool box lying next to the fence. He braced the pole against the fence and drove the nail through the end of the clothes prop with a couple of skewed blows. He kneaded his way through the huddled crowd, semi-circled around the front of the outhouse, entered, and poked the clothes prop through one hole while one of the guests suspended the lantern through the other. The holes were little more than a foot wide. With the clothes-prop hook and the lantern dangling from the rope, Charles, Brandon, and a guest attempted to explore the findings in the septic tank.

It won’t reach! Brandon yelled. I need something longer.

Here’s a longer clothes prop, one of the women cried out, attempting to hand it to him.

That won’t be long enough either! he hollered back. Does anyone have any more rope?

Fear had reached a

Reviews for Cold Serial

[meggyweg · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is a great example of historical true crime. The author brought a totally unknown case of serial murder out of the shadows (it's not very often that I find a serial murder case I've never heard of) and covered it in detail, day by day, explaining the events while taking into account the way things were in early 1900s Toledo. In the very last pages he identifies a suspect; I think he's probably right, and so did the police of the time. But lack of evidence meant the man was only convicted in a single rape case.I hope this isn't Mr. Forschner's last book; I'd love to see more of his writing, particularly in the historical true crime department.

[linda.marsheells · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The world needs more men like Brian Forschner, who know how to string words together in an amazing way, and who care enough for the voiceless to tell THEIR stories. The author meticulously researched the deaths of 5 girls in the prime of their lives, at the turn of the century, and made them 3 dimensional. Made you care. One of whom he discovered was a relative! I don't know how he did it, it's as if he time traveled back to that era and wrote of the ongoing crime spree. He tells their stories and brings them back to life for us to have a glimpse.And he does it with heart.