River Traffic

By Ben Schulz

Who murdered Nancy Guterman in Cincinnati over a century ago? Travel back in time and join firefighter William Foss on a hunt for a killer and experience the grittiness of urban life in Cincinnati in 1898, from its soulful music, technology, steamboats, river culture and the African American experience along the underdeveloped shore, to the rise

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Mar 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885903455

Book preview

Part 1: River Traffic

LANDSCAPE WORKERS WERE planting spring flowers along the brick walks that meandered through the east side of the University of Cincinnati. Students were walking by, and some were pedaling new bicycles—these fabulous new inventions. The trees were beginning to show some life, but still it was chilly in the early mornings—fifty or fifty-five degrees. Horses nearby would trot up and down the avenues, keeping a safe distance from the loud, squeaky trolley cars that ran north/south, up to campus and down to the city on the banks of the Ohio. Men in municipal uniforms shoveled manure off the streets. The campus was not beautiful, but orderly—several brick buildings with clear signage posted proudly in a four-block radius. The university was old, going back to when Beethoven was writing his Ninth Symphony and old James Monroe was in the White House. In fact, it was hard to find any Cincinnatian who was still alive when they first opened the school’s doors. It was nine o’clock.

Come in, sit down, the handsome middle-aged lady said.

Thank you.

Ms. Graham, she said, reading her sheet and then looking up.

Yes, ma’am.

The woman straightened up a tad and spoke clearly—It’s my job here to ensure the cafeteria operations run smoothly every day, every hour, and that we play by the rules. We do a great service for these students.

Yes, ma’am, said Lara Graham.

Anytime there is a violation, or complaint, brought to my attention, we need to address it swiftly. That’s my job here at the Department of Food Services. Am I clear?

Yes, ma’am.

The lady quickly glanced at other administrators in the stuffy room. On Tuesday it was reported that you stole three sacks of potatoes from the walk-in, at the end of your shift, and took them home?

Lara piped—I told Mr. Haskins I was sorry! I have a baby boy and he’s hungry. I don’t got much money or food, you understand. I did it for my baby!

Yes. That is too bad. Yes. You have committed an offense, though …

I said I was sorry. It won’t happen again. Mr. Haskins said he forgives me, and don’t do it again! I won’t do it again. It was a mistake, Ms. Guterman!

Mrs. Nancy Guterman with nary a blink of the eye, said, Because you committed this offense, I need to terminate your employment here at Food Services.

Lara stood. No! Please. I need the work; I have no money. My baby! And I need to pay my landlord by Friday. No …

The matter is now closed. I thank you for your efforts and your labor for the university. My decision is final. This gentleman will escort you out now. And best of luck to you, Ms. Graham.

Please! You can’t do this. Please, listen! She began to approach the lady in desperation, but she was quickly blocked and restrained.

Mrs. Guterman pushed in her chair, gripped her papers and UC folder, nodded to those present, and walked down the long hallway, her dress shoes clicking sharply on the smooth, polished floors. She disappeared into a stairwell.

Lara was forcibly removed from the scene, her arm held tight, tears running down her tired face; and a minute later Lara Graham, age twenty, now unemployed, stood on the sidewalk next to the landscape men and the butterflies. The sight of fresh tulips and daffodils in the rich dirt did not assuage her sadness. She looked at the Food Services building again, and then turned and walked toward Clifton Avenue. She wept. She owed her landlord money, owed both her grocer and butcher money, and owed her next-door neighbor three dollars. With her head bent down, she walked down toward the city proper with that alluring dark skyline and dozens of unmistakable church steeples. Being so out of sorts, poor Lara bumped into the man with the city shovel and kept right on, lost in a daze.

Hey watchit, will yehs!

The city—named for Cincinnatus, the ancient Roman statesman—was old and handsome; some had dubbed it the Queen City, or the Paris of America. Economic development had boomed in decades past, in the days of steam and clicking telegraph offices and the days before the war. All the nineteenth century in retrospect had smiled on the Queen City—thousands of travelers, the thick traffic on the Ohio, that bend in the river, new warehouses and giant factories, the railroads, the arts, the incessant clang and buzz, the constant movement and hustle. The smells of kerosene and powdered sugar and black coal. German immigrants aplenty made their mark—they opened breweries with cold foamy goodness, and built handsome houses, churches, and schools. Its architecture was inspired. Black families carved out their neighborhoods on the West End, elbow to elbow with Slavs, Serbs, Irish, the Jews, the Greeks, and other groups. The streets were filled, day and night, with pedestrians and horses and cyclists and new electric cars.

See the enormous signs – Bottled Beer here.

Whitmire Seed Warehouse. Good Chairs.

During pleasant weather, families would pack a snack and take a ride, 350 feet, up Price’s Incline, west of town, and enjoy views of downtown and the great river, a distant steam emanating from the valley, up yonder alongside the birds and hawks that circled above the forests and cemetery and the Great Miami River, and Home City with her colorful thick plants and bushes; and above the factories for the Corliss steam engine (or Corliss engine), fitted with rotary valves and with variable valve timing that produced hundreds of good jobs and provided wear and tear to countless dungarees. Lara walked.

But lately, things around Cincinnati felt stagnant, a step or two behind. Most of the new technologies and enterprises skirted right past the Queen City—new engines and machines, telephone technology, sleek bentwood furniture, seaside coaches, colorful traveling circuses, and a growing corporatism in the country. Chicago, for example, dwarfed it. So did St. Louis and San Francisco. Urban centers to the north, Columbus and Cleveland, seemed to be faring better too. Not for nothing, the century was about over—coincidentally the might and influence of Cincinnati, the river town, may be evaporating as well. Only the wealthy had a telephone. There were a few at the university. Lara Graham before she got canned used the telephone a few times at Food Services. More than telephones, people generally were interested in their tobacco and horse races and a growing appetite for chocolate. They were interested in baseball.

And April meant baseball. The local Reds had an exciting team this year—they had compiled a record of 8 and 3 so far—and the mood around the park was light. They had good pitching, good baserunners, and fine batters. Their best performer was the second baseman Kid Horner. He had gotten a hit in all eleven games and was playing stellar defense.

The ballpark—the baseball grounds—was on an asymmetrical block bounded by Findlay Street (south), Western Avenue (northeast, angling), York Street (north) and McLean Avenue (west). It was convenient to a main branch of the railroad and the hotels and restaurants and had little trouble getting a sellout crowd of 3,800 people. Most attendees were men, rolled-up programs in their hands and rolled-up cigarettes dangling from their lips, black or gray pants and vests, sleeves rolled up. The lines, the trash, the smell of cooking grease, the smell of molasses and caramel emanating from that new concept—Cracker Jack popcorn, the breeze, the shouts from the field below, the faraway crack of the wooden bat meeting ball, the covered grandstand with nice leather seats, the entertainment. Many youngsters would congregate around Findlay and Western to snag a ticket to see the great Kid Horner and the first-place Reds. If they don’t win it’s a shame.

What’s eatin’ yehs?

Go fall on yerself!

We’re queered, eh?

Step aside, ye straphangers!

Skip, the manager, walked from the pitcher’s mound out toward second base with a firm look on his face and spring to his step, even though he was sixty-three years old.

Hey! Angle your body and whip it over to him. Again. He turned to the other coach of the Reds.

Ground ball.

The coach at home plate cracked another ground ball.

Angle your damn body; your throws will go straight. If you’re like this, then it will be like this!

Skip demonstrated a crooked body, which would lead to a crooked throw to first. Again.

Ground ball rolled over the green grass.

Again. Turn, whip it. Good! No team of mine will allow the lead runner to advance on an infield ground ball. We get the runner first. This saves runs. This wins games. And you—superstar, he said, addressing the second baseman. Tap the bag quickly and pull away. They come in cleats up. Especially Louisville.

Got it, Skip.

Again. Ground ball!

The manager went back to the dugout and approached one of his best pitchers, Sammy Graham. How’s the shoulder?

Fine, Skip.

Yeah, it didn’t look fine against Philadelphia.

I’ll be all right. Sammy was about twenty-five. He grew up nearby and always wanted to be a Red, even back when they were the Red Stockings. His father and uncle fought in the war against the rebels. The pitcher was five foot nine and was a lean 144. His rookie season in 1896 was his best—his record on the mound was 16 and 8.

Skip put his hands on Sammy’s waist. You’re not planting right, and you’re putting too much pressure on that wing of yours. You need to drop your ass down about two inches and plant here. Not at an angle. Like this. Follow through, sweeping motion. The Reds’ manager was a crusty old man who claimed to have studied the game since 1869, the year of the first ever baseball team.

But I’m getting them out, Skip.

For now. But you keep throwing like dat, I will only see you in this league two years, if you’re lucky! Let your hip fall a few more inches as you release. Will protect that arm!

Skip called out to his assistant and yelled, Man on first. Turn two. Quick steps. Sure hands! Under his breath he muttered, "In my day, shit, we didn’t have gloves …"

SAM, your sister is outside, wants to see you.

Damn. Sammy sighed.

She says it’s important, said Billy, who was the equipment manager. He was holding a large sack of socks and other garments.

Skip yelled at Sam—Goddammit—I told you boys. No visitors until after practice.

Sorry, Skip. Yep—

Your focus should be on the Chicago Orphans!

Yeah, Skip. This’ll only take a minute.

Sammy jogged out of the scene, through a dank tunnel, and back out under the sun. He dislodged a wet plug of tobacco with two fingers and then approached his sister.

I told you, you can’t come around—

Lara started to wail—She fired me, she fired me, Sam. I’m ruined. [crying]

Why? Why? Sammy was asking, his arms on her shoulders.

I want her dead! She was tearing some taffy and stuffing it into her mouth. Sammy, I am in trouble. I have debts to pay. I should just drown myself in the river.

Calm down, Lara, said her brother. Others walked by but kept a great distance due to the raw emotion coming from the duo. Her face turned red.

"I want her dead. I want her dead! I didn’t do nuthin’—"

Try to calm down, Lara. We can find more work for ye.

Evil bitch. Evil bitch …

Skip yelled down the tunnel—Keep it down, youse. Sounds like a mental hospital out here.

Let me finish practice and then I’ll come git ye. Sorry to hear that, sister … Sammy said. He jogged down the tunnel, his metal cleats hammering the concrete floor and making echoes. Lara plopped down on a wooden bench and sulked.

She could hear eighty feet away the gruff voice—Your focus should be on the Chicago Orphans!

Then, seventy-two hours later, the residents of Cincinnati were rocked by the stunning news in the newspapers that, on the night of April 22, around nine o’clock, at the big house at 404 Lowe Drive, West End, Ms. Nancy Guterman was found, murdered.

The cause of death is strangulation, and the murder weapon is a long leather belt. Nancy Guterman was forty-two years old. According to the police report there were no witnesses on scene. Mrs. Guterman was alone in the big house. Her husband, the wealthy Mr. Guterman (of Guterman’s Upholstery), was away for the evening. Police last night closed off Lowe Drive to all traffic, in addition to Halsey Terrace and Waters Way, adjoining. The case is very much open, and on-going. Citizens who have any leads to a possible arrest should contact their local police precinct. A handsome reward is in the offing, that of $125 dollars.—Cincinnati Enquirer

Hard evidence was incredibly scant. There was no sign of breaking and entering, nary a footprint about the place. Upon preliminary questioning of the closest neighbors, they knew absolutely nothing, and expressed as much shock and sadness as does the man who first picks up the paper and sees the story himself. Up and down the streets there was no trace of unusual activity, out-of-place wheel tracks, bike tracks, nothing. There was not even one reportage of a single dog letting out a cautionary yelp the evening entire.

Poor Mr. Guterman of course was emotionally crushed, as were immediate friends and family. The police meanwhile searched and questioned and studied the scene, and their only major discoveries were emptiness and perplexity and utter defeat. The uncomfortable fact of the matter was the Guterman case was headed right to the filing cabinet downtown that was labeled Unsolved Murders 1898. Already there had been twenty-one of them and it was only April.

The funeral, solemn and tasteful, was Sunday morning. The man found solace in convening with friends and together playing their violins. Yiddish Fantasy, an arrangement of several Yiddish songs and klezmer tunes that were popular among the Jews of Eastern Europe like Guterman, opened with Vu is dus Gessele (Where Is the Little Street?), which took the listener on a journey into the time and place of the shtetl, a little village where Jews lived in the old world. He and four or five others stood in a circle, heads cocked at an angle looking at their sheets, and bowed steadily with their right arms. Roshinkes mit Mandlen (Raisins and Almonds), written by Abe Goldfaden in 1880, was a popular lullaby these children likely heard at bedtime. They played Russian songs and two Frailachs (joyful dances). These tunes were written for and played by Jewish musicians, klezmorim, at weddings and other celebrations.

In dem beys hamikdash

In a vinkl kheyder

Zitzt di almone Bas Zion aleyn.

Ir ben yokhidl Yidele

Vigt zi keseyder

Un zingt im tzu shlofn a lidele sheyn: ay-lu-lu …

Unter Yidele’s vigele

Shteyt a klor vayse tzigele

Dos tzigele is geforn handlen …

But for the tens of thousands of hard-working Cincinnatians, life went on. It was just another chilly Friday morning. Punch in, punch out, pay bills, meet the fellas for a brew after work, ask around how the Reds did. The old Island Queen, puttering around the brownish-green surface, acted no differently. The trains ran on time. People laughed and read papers and smoked and hurried about like they did millions of times before.

People had other things on their mind, like—oh yeah, WAR. The Cuban people were suffering under the mighty cruel grip of Spanish totalitarianism, and old Uncle Sam felt triggered. This was the Western Hemisphere and little Cuba was like our little cousin; Spain was the bully. Effective journalism—or, cynics would say slick and aggressive journalism—pumped out hundreds of stories that highlighted banana trees cut down, people unhappy, cane fields burned, desolation and suffering. Stories that made clear, Spain was the villain. Sensationalism was the order of the day. Readers across America had no other opinion in the matter—Spain was the villain! Less than three days after the Guterman murder, Congress declared war against Spain.

Spain, it was thought, was yesterday’s news—out of touch, weaker, too much pomp and tradition, backward in their thinking of liberty. And America (more forward-thinking) didn’t like monarchies! William McKinley, the president, at first tried to avoid war, but after the Maine battleship had blown up in Havana Harbor, the gloves were off. Just as the plump umpire hollers, over at Findlay and Western—

Let’s play ball.

common

A forty-five-year-old heavy-set man alighted from his carriage and walked up to the old firehouse. He was dressed to the nines, in classic morning suit of tailcoat, striped pants, double-breasted vest, stark white shirt, dress boots, tie and silk top hat. Smelled like cigar smoke. His pudgy face was smooth and ruddy.

He made his fortune in furniture upholstery and was the owner of thirteen warehouses across all of Cincinnati—top-of-the-line quality and service. His competitors usually didn’t last long. He came from the German Jewish clan Guterman who first came to America in 1858. Albert (his father) had seven siblings; most stayed back in New York City but he and a brother came to southern Ohio in 1892. The brother continued on to Kansas City but Albert laid roots in Cincinnati. He invested wisely in wrought iron manufacturing and silver and bonds; he survived the depression of 1893, and gobbled up small struggling businesses and sold them later for a profit. By 1896, he had opened up four upholstery stores; the next year he opened up three more, and by 1898, he had a foothold on the market. His crew, mostly hardworking Eastern European Jews, did magnificent work on Charles II dining chairs, Newport sofas, walnut chairs, armchairs, oak chairs, easy chairs, fancy settees. When Cincinnati erected new high-rise office buildings, the paint was hardly dry when Guterman would swoop in with his old-world charm and impeccable fashion and manners, with a congratulatory bottle of champagne for the owner of the building, and offer him a bully deal of chairs, desks, clocks on every floor, the best in America, at a fair price. Many said yes. And said, for their next new building also, they would deal only with Guterman. His network—and reputation, bank accounts, waistline—got bigger.

Is the captain here? he asked a young fireman.

Yeah, he’s in the back.

Cheers. He walked past more uniformed youngsters and their dalmatian, its doggie bowl, and came upon an open door that led to an office. A firm tap with the knuckles.

Captain Budge?

Yes.

Albert Guterman.

Budge and Guterman shook and smiled. Please sit down. A capital surprise, sir. Your contributions to our department over the years have been generous, sir. Cigar?

Sure, obliged, Guterman answered. They sparked their Cubans together.

Mr. Guterman, I am sorry to hear about the tragedy that befell your family, the loss of your beautiful wife.

Thank you, I appreciate that, Captain. Married ten wonderful years! Nothing will replace her spirit or the smile in my life. That is, in a roundabout way, why I am here today.

Yes? Budge asked, intrigued.

Last summer, the fire at St. Mark’s …

Oh yes— The captain’s face wrinkled suddenly …

"There was a young man who, if I remember reading, climbed up to the bell tower, fastened himself to it by a long cable, and floated down