THE MAN BENEATH THE STREET, by Dana Martin Batory

I’m not a detective. Or at least, not a criminal or private detective. I’m just an amateur local historian living and working in Ridgeline, Ohio. However, I must admit that my name, Valentine Snow, is not unknown to the staff at the State Historical Society in Columbus. I’ve cleared up more than one or two historical mysteries. So I suppose I’m sort of a detective.

Now that that is settled, my first brush with a crime took place a few years ago when Ridgeline was undergoing what was popularly termed “urban renewal.”

At the time I was still living just outside town in a shabby but comfortable house dating back to the 1860s. It used to be part of a large farm that occupied two or three hundred acres on the east side. It was long ago broken up into building lots by the money-hungry heirs. The small place met most of my needs, but my reference library not only filled my place, it also spilled over into my Mom and Dad’s and a brother’s.

I and a few others like me called the urban renewal what it was, state sanctioned, wholesale vandalism. What little character the tiny village ever possessed was rapidly disappearing under the treads of bulldozers or the crashes of wrecking balls. Our heritage, as pitiful as it may have been, was being destroyed and the blind city officials were cheering it on. Only the pompoms, short skirts and an occasional flash of panties were missing. Hell, the founder’s once magnificent home was now stacked full of used tires and the grounds were covered in acres of junk cars.

Ridgeline? It lies roughly halfway between Cleveland and Columbus. The village had been a Ohio rail center since 1851, purely due to the fact that two major lines accidentally crossed in the village, one going roughly north-south, the other roughly east-west. In its heyday hundreds of trains passed through daily. It was a busy town filled with shops, twenty-three bars, and two whorehouses. That also explained Ridgeline’s extensive rail yards and the massive brick roundhouse.

The first is a shadow of its former self and the latter was destroyed before the preservation society could purchase it. Its brick and steel were sold as scrap by its half-wit owner. For all that, the village was and still is a hick town. As a lifelong resident, I’ve earned the right to call it that. But don’t you try it!

I stood in the front yard of old man Jackson Blean at the corner of Bucyrus Avenue and East Washington Street, just at the bottom of the big hill. A group of us gathered that hot July morning to do some sidewalk supervising and watch the old street being peeled back. In case you don’t know it, it doesn’t take much to amuse people in a small town.

A bright yellow front loader was busy ripping up the carefully-laid heavy Wooster paving bricks from their bed of concrete and tar, dumping them into a rumbling truck. Some of us had already managed to salvage a few as souvenirs and they stood about here and there, like small russet-red Egyptian pyramids on peoples’s lawns, their glaze making them shine brightly. One ambitious guy had a couple hundred in a neat stack. A larger machine was busy digging a deep trench to install the new storm sewers.

Suddenly the front loader came to a dead stop and the clouds of fine dust began to settle. A large, still-intact “slab” of bricks and soil leaned back precariously. Duloe, the operator, stood up in his cab, yelled something to the other workers and excitedly pointed downward. They all came scurrying over, dropping their shovels. Two or three of us joined Duloe and the men at the front of the bucket to stare down into the shallow pit.

All but myself were a bit rattled at what lay stretched out in the depression. Not only had I studied physical anthropology, but in my time I’ve been to a few exhumations at ancient cemeteries. I’ve seen the rotted bottoms of coffins give way, spilling their contents. The sight of a human skeleton was nothing new to me. My only real surprise was seeing one there.

It lay on its back, its arms and legs close against the sides. The skull was tilted. A few shreds of bluish cloth covered the bones. I immediately noticed the badly rusted Smith & Wesson Model One .38 revolver and the cartridge belt and buckle sagging at its waist. My cousin and the foreman waved me forward.

I knelt between the men for a closer inspection, poking among the rib remains with an index finger and picked up a small button from among the ribs. Brushing away the corrosion on my blue jeans, I could barely made out the letters “RPD.”

Silently urged on by the rest, I gently eased the skull away from the spinal column and slowly rotated it in my hands. In the center of its forehead was a neat round hole. Dirt and sand gushed from the brain case and one of the workers looked sick. The entire back of the skull had been blown away.

I carefully replaced the skull and passed a quick semi-professional eye over the remains. Suddenly someone was rudely pushing through the on-lookers, grunting “Out of the way. Out of the way.” One man was nearly shoved backwards into the bucket. Naturally, some busybody had seen fit to call the police. Why can’t people mind their own damn business?

Overweight with both flesh and equipment, Police Chief “Pukey” Pewsey stood barely balanced at the grave’s rim. The skeleton dumbfounded him for a moment, but he quickly sized up the situation, being the professional he was, and decided it was a perfect opportunity to show his authority.

“Get out of there, you.” He must have meant me. A fat hand grabbed the back of my shirt and I was pushed, stumbling, to the sandstone curb.

“No need to get rough,” I observed, rubbing my arm.

“Shut up, Snow, or I’ll run you in for interfering with a police investigation and causing a disturbance at an emergency. Maybe even resisting arrest. We’ve had trouble with you before. In fact, I want all of you people out of here. Now! You construction workers can stay. We’ll want to talk to you.”

We silently retreated about twenty feet away, to the shaded comfort and safety of Mr. Blean’s front porch, to watch the proceedings. Someone had a digital camera out.

Pewsey was deliberating trying to escalate a minor situation into something serious. He stormed towards the wooden steps. “I said get out of here. That means go home. H. O. M. E.”

No one moved. Perhaps we were surprised that Pukey knew how to spell. Pewsey muttered something into his radio and began stomping up the steps.

“I said go! Or I’ll run all of you in for disobeying a direct police command.”

“We’re not bothering you,” said someone.

By that time, the furious Pewsey was on the porch and reaching for his taser. No one defied a direct order from him.

That’s when Mr. Blean stepped forward. “These gentlemen are my invited guests. When you buy the place, Pukey, then you can say who stays and goes. Until then, shut your big fat mouth and get the hell off my porch or I’ll take whatever steps are necessary to get you off. And then I’ll contact my son’s law firm in Cleveland and sue your lard ass.”

We were a law-abiding bunch of young guys, but it was obvious to Pewsey that it wouldn’t be smart—in more ways than one—to assault the frail eighty-five-year-old man. The taser stayed in its holster.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Pewsey screamed at Blean. His dramatic exit was spoiled when he slipped going down the steps and nearly fell on his face. We all sniggered.

“I look forward to it,” Mr. Blean replied calmly. “I could use another good laugh and a nice settlement from the village’s insurance company.”

All four cruisers were now parked along the street and their occupants were stringing up yellow tape, interviewing the workers, measuring, photographing, and trying to look busy, greedily racking up the overtime. The county coroner soon rolled up, briefly disappeared behind the slab, and an olive drab tent was quickly erected over the grisly discovery. On his heels followed my friends Taggart and Higgs, a TV reporter and a cameraman from the nearby city of Ladsfield, and Sally Rees, a reporter for its newspaper.

They attempted asking a few questions and were brushed off. Higgs shot some footage of Taggart standing in front of the disorganized commotion around the site. They then headed towards us. By that time, the show was basically over and only Mr. Blean and I were left on the porch.

“Valentine, old buddy,” said Taggart. “Sutton told me to talk to you. Chief Pukey said he couldn’t give a statement or answer any questions until they make a thorough investigation. Maybe not for two or three days. Seeing how you got a chance to examine the remains, maybe you can make some observations.”

“I only had a few minutes before I was thrown out,” I said. “But I saw enough. The construction crew uncovered the skeleton while digging up the street. It was buried in a shallow grave scooped out just beneath the bricks. It belongs to a male, probably in his late twenties or thirties. The buttons and weapon indicate he was a member of the old Ridgeline Police Department. A hole in the skull indicates he was shot through the forehead by a heavy caliber bullet, probably from an Army Colt .44 revolver. Not a suicide. Not a robbery. I saw four silver dollars and a gold piece in the dirt. It was murder. And the street was put down in September 1898.”

“He’s been down there over a hundred years?” asked Taggart.

“Sure looks like it,” I answered.

Taggart naturally asked too many questions while Higgs shot way too much footage, assuring that the studio would have plenty of raw material to edit into a three-minute time block. Then Sally asked some follow-up questions. I must admit, I do enjoy seeing myself on TV and being quoted in the newspapers.

d d d d

Five days later, Police Chief Pewsey held a news conference and read a brief press release. I summarize the highlights.

“After intensive investigation by the Ridgeline Police Department, assisted by the county sheriff’s department and the FBI, we have established that the skeleton found beneath East Washington Street last week was that of a male adult, probably in his late twenties or thirties. The uniform buttons and the service revolver indicate he was a member of the Ridgeline Police Department. He died from a single gunshot wound, the bullet entering through the forehead and exiting at the rear. Probably of forty-four caliber. The date of death is thought to be in the early 1890s. Perhaps 1891 or 1892, but the coroner can’t be more specific. Unfortunately, city records and newspaper files from that time period are incomplete.

“A thorough examination of what documents still exist did not report a missing Ridgeline police officer. The department has even sought the expertise of all important local historians with no results.

“As fellow police officers it truly saddens us that not only was a brother officer brutally murdered, but he then was buried like some kind of a dead animal. Though his honored name is known but to God, the city of Ridgeline will bury the fine hero with all the honors due to a law enforcement officer ruthlessly gunned down in the line of duty. Unfortunately, his cowardly murderer now remains beyond our laws, but we are certain a much higher court has pronounced sentence.”

It’s always nice to have oneself proved right. I ignored the petty “all the important local historians” jab, considering the jackass who mouthed the words.

d d d d

The mystery skeleton was the biggest thing to hit Ridgeline since the draft riots of 1862, when Federal troops were sent in. A close second was the “Great Labor Uprising of 1877” that spread through the state. Enthusiastic Ridgeliners had joined in and blocked the railroad tracks.

I love a mystery, especially a historical mystery, and I was already busy searching for the identity of the dead man. Surrounded by stacks of newspapers, documents, diaries, and journals, I realized Pewsey was right about one thing: written documents were getting me nowhere.

Besides my own extensive files on local history, which vastly exceeded those of any other individual or institution, I made it a point to keep track of the older residents of the city and county.

So, like a good detective, I began following up my leads. My best source for oral history had always been Roger Powys, who was pushing ninety. He answered my questions during the TV commercials while sitting in the nursing home’s common room.

“Eighteen ninety-eight? That’s a bit before my time, Val. Just how old do you think I am? Wait a minute. Have you tried old man Routledge? Never heard of him before? I don’t wonder. Keeps to himself. Always did. He’s older than the hills. He’s in the book.”

I was surprised to find Bill Routledge living almost under my nose. The family operated an organic produce farm just outside town. I drove out on the chance he would know something.

When I pulled in, an old man was bent over, pulling weeds in a large, well-groomed vegetable garden. He looked up and shaded his eyes against the sun. He looked well over ninety. That had to be my man.

I introduced myself. “Mr. Routledge, I’m Valentine Snow, a local historian. I’m looking into the story behind the skeleton they found under the street: the policeman killed around 1898.”

“I’m Bill Routledge, Junior,” the old man laughed. “You want my dad. He’s on the back porch snapping green beans.”

I followed his finger. Bill Senior sat hunched over in a ladder-back chair. He looked like a wet washcloth that had been wrung out and left to dry in the sun. I never saw a man so wrinkled before or since. He was a living raisin. His eyes, however, were sharp and clear and so was his mind, I soon discovered.

Once again, I introduced myself and explained my mission.

Routledge never paused in snapping his green beans. His nimble fingers fed them like a machine-gun into the large galvanized bucket at his feet and dropped the nubs into a cardboard box.

“I’ll be 114 next year,” he said right off. “My paw lived to 115. I’m hoping to break his record. So, they finally found the damn mick, did they? Sure as Hell took ’em long enough. Everybody thought he’d skipped town on a boxcar.”

“You know who it is?” I asked.

“Yep. Joe O’Malley. Knew him well. Redheaded Irishman. Good Catholic.” He snickered at the word “good” and went on. “Twelve brats and a wife nearly as dumb as he was. She had a tongue that could strip paint off a wall.

“O’Malley was the meanest, dirtiest cop that ever walked a beat. Yellow-bellied loud-mouthed coward and bully. Big as an ox and just a tad smarter. His only qualification was wanting the job. Loved it. Was always knocking smaller folks and kids around. Real tough.”

I knew we were off to a good start. “Do you know what actually happened?” I asked. I pulled up another chair and began snapping beans alongside him. I hoped Routledge would remain talkative.

“Well, I knows of one story.”

“I’d love to hear it,” I urged.

“It’s a long un,” he warned.

“No problem, Mr. Routledge,” I answered. “My time is my own.”

“Okay. It all started one day in the rail yards. I was about fourteen years old at the time. Tom Tiverton was head of a section gang working on a new spur to the Evans Feed Mill. He was a big, big man. Tough as nails but easy-going. Good-natured. Too good-natured. I was sitting on a pile of cross ties watching ’em drive spikes. Never could understand how they kept from getting their mauls all tangled up.

“O’Malley strutted by in his clean uniform and shiny buttons. He loved that costume. He was pushing along some kid hobo he just rousted from an empty freight car. He couldn’t have been much older than me. From the bruises, swollen eyes, and blood, we knew O’Malley had been amusing himself with his fists and his billy club. The poor kid almost fell to the ground and O’Malley gave him a smack up aside the head with his fist. I remember the kid cried like a little baby.

“‘That’ll be enough of that,’ said Tom in an ice-cold voice. ‘Hit him again, O’Malley, and you’ll deal with me.’

“‘You mind your own damn business, Tiverton,’ O’Malley sneered back. ‘High time this little punk was taught to respect the law. When I say “move,” you move. Nine years old or ninety, nobody back-talks me. And that goes for you, too.’

“‘Like I said,’ warned Tiverton. ‘Lay off.’

“Just to show him who was boss, O’Malley gave the kid a punch in the belly that sent him into a wet ditch. One of the gang went down to help him. The rest stood around waiting for it. It came. Tom never said a word. His ham of a fist lifted O’Malley off his feet and knocked him into the ballast. I remember O’Malley’s pretty uniform was all covered in dirt and cinders.

“‘You dirty son-of-a-bitch!’ O’Malley hollered from the ground. And he pulled out his revolver.

“Tom brought his boot down on O’Malley’s wrist and took the gun away just like a rattle from a baby. He tossed it over his shoulder to one of the gang and jerked O’Malley to feet. Then he gave him a kick in the rear that sent him six feet down the tracks.

“‘Git out of here,’ he ordered O’Malley. ‘You can pick your gun up at the mayor’s office. And I’ll be sure to tell him why I took it.’

“He got, while the bunch of us gave him a good horselaugh. The gang passed the hat for the kid, gave him some food from their lunch pails, and saw him safely off in a outgoing boxcar.”

“Tom thought that was the end of it, but not me. As far as he was concerned, it had been more than a fair fight. I knew trouble was a-coming. O’Malley wouldn’t forget. I figured on an ambush in an alley one dark night and a first-class beating. We was all surprised when the police chief told his maw that Tom’s body was down at the undertaker’s.”

“What happened?” I asked, my hands frozen in mid-bean.

“O’Malley and his brother-in-law Mike said they’d caught Tom stealing whiskey from a boxcar in the yards late the night before. Tom put up a struggle and come at ’em with a knife. They’d been obliged to shoot him. The undertaker told me he counted fifteen bullet holes.”

“Fifteen!” I exclaimed. “Two men each with a revolver, that means …”

Routledge interrupted me. “Yeah. One of ’em must’ve reloaded and pumped in some more. They had an inquest. Ruled ‘justified.’ Someone mentioned all the wounds. O’Malley said Tilverton just kept on coming. He was just a big guy who took a lot of killing. Why it is folk always take the cops’ side?”

“Stupidity, I guess,” was my only answer. Who does know?

“Well, we all knows what really happened. O’Malley and Mike gunned him down in cold blood while he was alone in the yard cleaning a switch. Couldn’t prove it, of course.

“A few days later Tom’s section gang found what was left of young Mike lying across the tracks. Head on one side. Feet on the other. Body in between. He stunk like whiskey. Everybody figured he got fallen-down drunk for real.

“Well, O’Malley must have had other thoughts, like maybe he’d been pushed. He tried mighty hard to stick close to town at night after that. I heard tell that he was checking train schedules and closed his bank account. Like he was getting ready to do a skip.

“One day, he was just plain gone. He’d gone out on his night shift to check the yards and never come back. They did find his bowler hat in the yards. Everybody figured he’d lost it jumping a freight to get away from his wife and kids. The authorities made a big search for him. Telegraphed up and down all the lines. Finally gave up. So did his wife. Packed up all the red-headed brats and went back East.”

“All very interesting, Mr. Routledge,” I observed. “So how did he end up under the street?”

“I’m gitting to that. Seems O’Malley never left town at night to check the yards. Just said he did. He was too scared. He kept a-thinking about Mike.

“While he was walking past the street construction, someone stepped out and blasted him with an old .44 Army Colt. He dumped the carcass into a shallow grave dug in the roadbed, shoveled on some dirt, tamped it down good and firm, and smoothed it out real nice. He then lost the bowler at the yards.”

“It does fit the facts, Mr. Routledge,” I agreed. “But how do you know so much?”

“Simple, Mr. Valentine. I killed the son-of-a-bitch. Tom Tiverton was my step-brother.”

d d d d

Routledge Senior passed away quietly in his sleep at home after beating his father’s record by two years. I attended the quiet ceremony. Occasionally when I’m doing genealogical research at the cemetery, I visit his well-kept grave. But after the town’s big ceremony, the twenty-one gun salute and the fine words, the grave of the unknown policeman remains unvisited and uncared for, his name still unknown, but to the Devil.

And Police Chief “Pukey” Pewsey? He disappeared one day. Rumor has it that he tried molesting the wrong underage girl and her relatives made Ridgeline too hot for him. Strange that he disappeared just before they finished repaving East Washington Street.

d

Dana Martin Batory is a freelance writer and cabinetmaker who also restores vintage machinery. His essays have been published in The Armchair Detective, The Baker Street Journal, and The Sherlock Holmes Journal, and he is the author of The Federation Holmes, A Baker Street Dozen+, and Dreams of Future Past.