Murder by the Yard: A Nora Wolfe Walker Mystery

By Robert Lee Duncan II

In the turbulent Chicago of 1917, attorney Nora Wolfe Walker must defend a black man accused of the brutal murder of an Irish union leader in order to prevent a racial blood bath. In the midst of the heated and publicized trial, Nora finds more than just a friend in Sergeant Michael Francis Casey, a handsome Irish cop who believes as Nora that the truth may only lie in the murky corridors of city hall. Gang leader and future mayor, Richard J. Daley, is a prime suspect in the murder, and a young mobster, Alphonse Gabriel Capone, becomes an unexpected ally. In a city pressed into a world war and riddled with corruption, Nora and Michael put their lives in jeopardy to discover the real killer and stop a deadly race war that could destroy Chicago and delay precious supplies from reaching our doughboys in the trenches of Western Europe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 20, 2010
• ISBN: 9781462833313

Robert Lee Duncan II

zRobert Lee Duncan II traveled extensively as a musician, entertainer, director and producer as well as a conductor and mentor for several successful performing artists. He has written over twenty performed musical-comedies for theatre and now celebrates the beginning of his second novel series following the three book adventure-comedy The Unusual Predicaments of Rastaman and Rodney. Robert currently resides in northeastern Pennsylvania with his beautiful wife Karen Beth and their stupid [e-mail]

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PROLOGUE

IRENE NEVER KNEW her mother or father; the only family she had ever known was the Wolfe family who had owned her for sixteen years.

When Irene was about six years old, she began noticing a difference in the way the slaves talked and the white folks talked. She greatly admired and loved Mistress Wolfe, so she started imitating the manner in which she spoke. One afternoon, her mammy caught her practicing talking like Mistress Wolfe and she got a good spanking.

Irene cried, No, no Mammy, I ain’t funnin’ Mistress Wolfe, I’s jus’ tryin’ to talk like her.

Chil’, yo’ can’t be goin’ on like yo’s some uppity niggra. Yo’s just a house girl and yo’s got to live up to dat.

After Irene calmed down from crying, she asked, Mammy, why do I look so different than you and Uncle Charles?

Mammy sat down and put little Irene up on her knee, Dat’s ’cause, chil’, yo’s come from da seed of a white man and da womb of a niggra woman. Yo’s ain’t a niggra no is yo’ a white, yo’s a in-between. Yo’s a high-yeller, lambie.

Do that mean I get to choose what I want to be, Mammy?

No lambie. ’Cause yo’s half niggra, da whites don’t want yo’, and ’cause yo’s half white da niggras don’t want yo’.

Little Irene began to cry again, Do that mean I ain’t got nobody who wants me?

Mammy pulled Irene into her ample bosom, No, no chil’, yo’s got yo’ Mammy and yo’ Uncle Charles. And we loves yo’ most of all, lambie.

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When Irene turned ten years old, she began spending more time with Master Wolfe’s son, John. They both looked forward to the time they spent together; John would teach Irene how to read and write and then sneak books to her, and after school, John would tell Irene all he learned that day. The first time John told Irene he loved her, it was with a bag of little candy hearts. As they grew older, the love between them became stronger and when Irene was fifteen and John was sixteen they laid together and consummated their love for the first time. Before Irene turned sixteen, she was pregnant with John’s child.

During the same time, the War Between the States was into its second year and President Jefferson Davis was calling for all able bodied men loyal to the Confederacy to join in the battle against the tyranny of the North. Although only seventeen years old, and opposing his parent’s wishes, John ran away to join the rebellion. He did not know when he left that he was soon to be a father.

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In April of 1865, miraculously, John returned home after two years of war, unscathed. The first person he wanted to see and hold was his true love, Irene. On the first day of his return, he made his dutiful reunion with his family while painfully watching Irene stand in the back of the gathering smiling at him. His heart pounded mightily. He was home and back to his Irene.

John feigned wariness his first evening home, and excused himself to retire early. Once behind closed doors, he waited in anticipation for Irene to sneak into his room and into his bed. They made love that night with a passion beyond abandon. Before sunrise, Irene tip-toed back to her room in the servant’s quarters.

The next morning, John looked all over the mansion for Irene but could not find her. He finally went into the kitchen and saw Uncle Charles preparing tea for his mother.

Uncle Charles, have you seen Irene?

No sir, Massa John.

John looked around frustrated, You don’t suppose she went into Bristol shopping with Mammy?

No sir… . Now, she might be out back walking with William.

William? . . . Who in the hell is William? John stormed.

Uncle Charles lowered his head.

I’m sorry, Uncle Charles, I didn’t mean to yell… . I’ll just go out back and see if I can find her.

John barreled through the back door and headed for the tobacco barns. So while I’m away, she is making friends with other men. When I see this other man, I will knock his block off! . . . And she will get a piece of my mind, by Jiminy!

John tromped out into the field and then heard Irene behind an ancient oak saying in a giggling voice, Oh William, now do not do that. Stop now… . That tickles.

John was infuriated. He stomped over to the tree then saw Irene wrestling in the grass with a little boy that could not have been more than two years old. He stood dumbfounded.

Irene looked up and saw him, John. I did not hear you approach.

As John continued to stand speechless, the little boy waddled over, wrapped his little arms around John’s leg, looked up and said, Daddy.

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After a year of daily-routines getting back to normal with John back home safely from the rebellion, Irene started to think more about her and William’s future.

Mammy, since the late President Abraham Lincoln freed all of us slaves, I have been thinking about leaving the plantation.

"Chil’, sometimes I jus’ don’t know where yo’ get some of da things yo’ get in yo’ head.

But Mammy, I just want something better for William and me.

Lambie, yo’s seen dose poor niggras in town beggin’ and stealin’ just ta get by. Dat’s ’cause dey left deir massa jus’ ’cause dey free. Some dem poor soul’s be hanged up by da neck jus’ so’s some white trash can watch’em dance. No chil’, yo’ best be stayin’ where’s yo’ is. Yo’ Mammy and Uncle Charles be takin’ care of yo’ and little William.

But Mammy, they say that in Chicago, Illinois, they do not do those things to Negroes. In fact, I heard that Negroes and white men work together side by side.

Mammy shook her head, Mm. Mm. Mm. Chil’, yo’ best not be thinkin’ things like dat be true. White men workin’ side by side with niggras? Lordy, Lordy. Next yo’ be tellin’ me pigs fly.

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The following year, she made her decision to leave the Wolfe Plantation, and twenty year old Irene said her goodbyes and started the long trip from Washington County, Virginia to Chicago, Illinois with her four year old son, William.

Mammy, what’s our name goin’ ta be now dat we’s free?

We are going to be the Walker family because that is what we are doing, we are walking, William; walking into our new life and walking into the future. You will be William Wolfe Walker and I will be Irene Wolfe Walker. And… we are going to put a stop to that plantation talk your friends have taught you.

Yes, Mammy.

My dear son, William Wolfe Walker, I am not your mammy. I am your mother.

Yes, . . . Mother.

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With the money that Master Wolfe insisted on giving her for services rendered during servitude, Irene Wolfe Walker opened a shop in her small Chicago apartment on Rush Street as a seamstress. She managed to do well with the high-heeled whites from the North Side which enabled her and William to live quite comfortably.

William, you are going to be a great man. You are going to study hard and worship the gods of education and justice.

John Wolfe had literally begged and cried for Irene to stay with him as his wife. Although, he was the only man that Irene would ever love and the only man that she would ever let touch her, she had to see what was over the next horizon for her and her son.

John never loved another woman for the rest of his life. He pined for his beloved Irene and son, William, and Irene truly loved John Wolfe but knew that happiness with a white man in Virginia was a rocky road that she did not want to travel with their son.

Letters had been sent back and forth through the years and regular discreet visits from Irene to the plantation, and John to Chicago always arriving at her door with a big smile and a bag of little candy hearts.

Irene refused to accept support money from John Wolfe, but when he insisted on at least financially assisting Irene with the education of their son, William, she swallowed some of her pride and accepted money for William to attend Wilberforce University in Ohio.

For forty four years, Irene and John’s relationship was a spiritual marriage that transcended the six hundred and thirty miles that separated them. When Jonathan William Wolfe died in 1911, Irene was inconsolable.

1   

Wednesday, April 4, 1917 The Chicago DefenderPRESIDENT WILSON ASKS FOR WAR

SEVENTEEN YEAR OLD Helen Johnston worked at the Swift Company as a gut cleaner. She hated walking this late down South Halsted Street to home after work. You never knew when one of those crazy Irish would jump out and try to ravage you. Helen walked as purposely as she could and spied into every alleyway prepared to flee an attacker.

Almost home… . I can’t wait to get to my warm hearth and off these cold dark streets, Helen mumbled to herself. Mister big-shot foreman wanted me to stay after my shift so we could talk about a raise in my pay. I know what he really wants, and that he’s not going to get.

In 1917, Chicago was still struggling with civilizing itself and the most evidence of this was in the Yard area. The Union Stock Yards had been open since the end of the Civil War and the promise of good paying jobs had attracted people from not just the racially embattled southern states and further south, Mexico, but from all over the world as far as Eastern and Western Europe, Asia and the Middle East. With this came not just families and individuals striving for a better life but also the thieves, shysters and psychopaths.

The legendary winds off Lake Michigan continued to chill the April air, and most of the inhabitants surrounding the Yard were huddled up in their shanties trying to stay warm and repair for the next day’s grueling work.

Just ahead of Helen’s route home was a pack of stray dogs growling and fighting in an alley over what appeared to be a mound of rags.

Poor creatures, out in this weather. God have mercy on them.

As Helen got closer, one of the dogs ran out of the alleyway with a prize in his mouth followed by another dog who was challenging his ownership to it. Helen could then see better what the dogs were fighting over and stopped walking. Her eyes were fixed to the object; what looked like intestines entangled in the fabric of a man’s shirt.

As frightened as Helen was, she thought that maybe she was not seeing correctly, so she slowly ventured closer to the alley opening and squinted into the darkness. She could barely see what looked like a man literally frozen on his knees with his head dropped back. Then Helen realized that the dogs were feasting from the man’s stomach cavity.

The horrific sight was overwhelming. She backed away from the alleyway and screamed, . . . and screamed, . . . and screamed.

Men started to come cautiously out of their homes with their wives and children looking from behind them. With lanterns in one hand and large clubs in another, they approached the screaming young woman.

What’s the matter, lass? asked an older man named Aine.

All Helen could do was scream and point.

Aine looked into the alley and almost screamed himself, Holy Mother Mary!

As the men beat the dogs off, one of the women came out and took Helen into the warmth of her home. The men then ventured to light up the grisly scene.

Aine told two of the men standing there, Shane and Niall, go to Mike’s house and fetch him… . Hurry now!

Ten minutes later the two men came running back with Police Sergeant Michael Francis Casey.

Let me through, boys, said Sergeant Casey.

Sergeant Casey looked at the sight, Jesus, Mary and Joseph! . . . Someone run over to the precinct building and get some help. Tell them I said to send a detective. Casey looked again at the gutted torso kneeling in the alley, Merciful God!

As Casey cautiously stepped around the body he told the men gathered, You boys move back and away.

Who is it, Mike?

Casey took his lantern and looked closer at the face, Blessed Mary, it looks like Ian O’Neil!

Examining the nearly decapitated head, he noticed what looked like a gash in the back of the head caused by a heavy blow. Then he saw that something was stuffed into the mouth of the man.

God Almighty!

What is it Mike?! the men ask.

They cut the poor soul’s privates off and stuffed them in his mouth.

Michael Casey looked up as a Ford police car with three police officers and Detective Lieutenant Oscar Lutsky pulled up. Then seconds behind the police car, a taxi drew up filled to capacity with newspaper reporters.

Officer Casey walked out of the alley and said to the locals, You boys go back to your beds; the law will take it from here.

As the men dispersed, Lieutenant Lutsky swaggered over to Sergeant Casey, What you got, Casey?

I got a body, sir.

What’s the matter, Sergeant Casey, you never saw a dead body before? Lutsky smirked then looked into the alley, What the hell!

Casey grinned briefly, It appears to be a murder, Lieutenant… . Would you think the same, sir?

Lieutenant Lutsky turned a vivid shade of green and the uniformed officers grinned at each other.

Cameras started popping and flashing, and Casey yelled to the other police officers, Get those reporters back!

Lutsky turned around long enough to strike a pose for the reporters, Do you know who it is?

We think it’s Ian O’Neil.

Am I supposed to know who that is, Casey?

He’s the Irish union leader that’s been trying to barter for the cutters at the Yard, sir.

Boy, you micks never know when you got it good. You always got to be irritating someone and starting trouble… . Looks like it finally caught up with this one. Lutsky looked in the alley again and turned away grimacing. Get this mess cleaned up and write me a report for the morning.

Would you like to investigate the crime scene first, Lieutenant Lutsky?

Why? It’s just a filthy Irish. Get this garbage off the street and into the meat wagon, Casey. Then Detective Lieutenant Oscar Lutsky stomped out into the night back to the warmth of precinct headquarters.

Yes sir, Lieutenant, then mumbled under his breath,  . . . Kiss me filthy Irish arse.

Minutes after Lutsky left, two coroner’s assistants arrived driving a Cook County Coroner’s wagon pulled by an old gray that looked as if it was ready for the glue factory.

The reporters converge on Casey, Hey Sergeant Casey, can you give us a scoop here? What happened? Who do you think did it? You got a suspect yet? Why did they do it?

Come on boys, you know as much as I do right now. Now if you are good lads and let us do our job here, I’ll let you take pictures before we clean up, . . . but I want a copy of every picture you take.

Sure Sergeant Casey, we can do that for you.

Sergeant Casey looked over the scene, Okay officers, let’s get some more lanterns over here… and swing that motor car around and shine its lights in the alley. Place them lanterns around then stand back so’s I can make me observations for the darlin’ lieutenant.

The officers chuckled then somberly placed lanterns in the alley around the body. Sergeant Casey first made a note of the location of the body and the position it was in by sketching a diagram in his note book, then he moved in closer to look at the cuts made at the neck and chest cavity.

Patrick, you worked the Yard before you joined the force, didn’t you?

Aye Mike, left that hellhole for this darlin’ job.

Casey grinned, Aye, we’re all happy in our work… . What do you think of these cuts? . . . Look like a professional cutter?

Patrick got closer with a lantern, Aye Mike; that was done by someone who knows their job.

More to himself, Casey asked, Who would kill a man like this… and why?

Sergeant Casey turned to the reporters, Okay boys, take your pictures but no closer than the police car.

Sergeant Michael Casey told the coroner’s assistants to bring the canvas stretcher. Then they began gently loading the body of Ian O’Neil. Casey personally covered the body with a white cotton sheet. After Ian O’Neil’s body was put in the wagon, one of the coroner’s assistants took a coal shovel and broom and swept up the contents of Ian O’Neil’s body cavity and put it in a large metal bucket.

Casey took a final look around to see if they had missed anything. Amongst some debris in the alley, he saw something reflect the light from his lantern. He bent down and found a cutter’s knife smeared with blood and the initials A.D. carved into the wooden handle. He picked up the knife gingerly with just two fingers and took it over to the police car and placed it into an evidence box.

One of the reporters noticed this and rushed over, What did you find, Sergeant? Is that the murder weapon?

Just hold your horses there. It’s just a knife. It’s not sure yet if that is the weapon.

"Can I take a picture of it,