ON AUGUST 2, THE SUPERINTENDENT OF THE NEW YORK Police Department sent an urgent message to Chief Jones in Philadelphia.
“Chief of Police of Philadelphia:—Send detective here with original letters of kidnappers of Ross child; think I have information.
GEO. W. WALLING,
“Superintendent of New York Police.”
George W. Walling had joined the force in 1847 at age twenty-four, when a friend retired and offered him his position. From his first post in a small stationhouse, Walling quickly learned that regardless of physical condition or mental acuity, the men who won promotions were those who had the right political opinions. During his years as an officer, he studied feuding in the city and concentrated his efforts on controlling ethnic riots and class tension.
The war years were good for the social lives of the northern upper class. Advertisements and society columns offered distractions from the bloody accounts of war reporters, and perhaps as a way of denying America’s suffering, members attended record numbers of social events. Antebellum propriety faded into exhibitionism; workers framed Fifth Avenue mansions with marble and ladies flaunted diamonds and furs on the streets. Amid parties and play, it might have been possible to ignore the war. It was harder to disregard the changes brought by Reconstruction.
When cities rushed to industrialize, the arrival of more than 3 million immigrants doubled the population of urban America. Their work expanded industry, allowing the number of factories and miles of railroad track to double within a decade. Their arrival, however, threatened those capitalists who benefited from their hard labor. As race riots raged in Philadelphia, immigrants in New York protested unsanitary working conditions through strikes, protests, and lockouts at the workplace. Their dissatisfaction revealed something of a contradiction in certain pro-Union ideologies of the northern upper and emerging middle classes: sympathizers wanted a unified country, but they struggled to acknowledge freed slaves and immigrant laborers as their equals. When workers asserted their voices, employers saw danger, not frustration, in arguments over rotting docks and unsafe factories. They knew that a challenge to authority could lead to war. And since they didn’t want to negotiate their power, they turned to those men their fathers had hired to watch, target, and punish their competition. Ironically, this fear gave the immigrant and the native a common enemy: the law enforcer.
When Walling gained his first promotion, to the rank of captain in 1853, he organized his men into “strong-arm” police teams that patrolled the streets with clubs carved from locust wood. Soon, every policeman in the city walked with a nightstick, and many held Walling’s clubs. Both citizens and the police defined neighborhoods by the class and ethnicity of residents. So when the Panic of 1873 hit, and 25 percent of laborers lost their jobs, the police knew where to go to monitor unrest or search for riot leaders. Tension became so thick around Irish shanties between 91st and 106th Streets in Yorkville and Italian tenements along Third Avenue that officers walked those streets in groups of three or more. Workers with bad tempers and drinking problems knew police clubs could crack human skulls. Fear of the weapons, though, didn’t keep many from fighting back, and citizens stood around brutal encounters, yelling “Shame! Shame!” at the police.
During the summer of 1874, officers walked through targeted neighborhoods late at night and demanded that people leave their porches—some of those who refused received a beating. Working women who returned home alone after hours complained that policemen treated them like prostitutes, and they filed assault charges. Politically appointed commissioners and judges protected unethical officers, even after human-rights groups convinced the state to restructure police courts.
After becoming an inspector, Walling was promoted to superintendent. The promotion came just two weeks before he sent the telegram of August 2 to Chief Jones in Philadelphia. Already, he was irritated with changes made to his office. Prior to Walling’s nomination, the person named superintendent had had total authority over the force for an unlimited term, and he could expect to communicate directly with any officer, no matter the rank. But Walling’s power came with limitations. The Board of the Police reserved the right to remove him whenever they wished, and they implemented a new measure that curbed conversation between the city’s thirty-six captains and their superintendent. The captains were told to speak only and directly with one of four inspectors, who then reported directly to the superintendent. Walling had served for twenty-seven years—long enough to watch municipal evolution, understand its politics, and know when, where, and why decisions limiting authorial power were made. It embarrassed him that the board withdrew certain powers as soon as he assumed control.
Immediately upon taking office, Walling learned of a case that revealed a flaw in the new communication system. For a few weeks, an Officer Doyle in the city’s thirteenth ward had been communicating with a man who claimed his brother had kidnapped Charley Ross. The police knew the informant. His name was Clinton “Gil” Mosher, and he was a well-known horse thief who had served time in the state prison. Officer Doyle had followed protocol, reporting Mosher’s lead only to his superior, Captain Henry Hedden. Hedden’s instinct was to dismiss anything to do with Gil Mosher, yet he had mentioned him to his superintendent, Walling’s predecessor. That man told Hedden to pursue the lead. But then, internal restructuring in the department had slowed communication. Walling’s former boss became police commissioner, Walling was promoted, and by the time he learned Doyle’s story, two weeks of conversations had passed.
Walling demanded to see Mosher, Doyle, and Hedden immediately. He knew it would take a few days for the cops to track down Mosher, especially once the seasoned criminal heard that somebody besides Doyle was looking for him. But he also knew Gil Mosher’s type—one that would betray anybody, even a brother, for $20,000. He was right. Gil Mosher soon sat in front of Walling, agreeing to answer his questions.
“What are your reasons for suspecting that your brother William took part in kidnapping Charley Ross?” Walling asked.
“Well, I was approached by Bill, who asked me if I would join him in carrying off some child who had rich parents. The plan was to steal one of Commodore Vanderbilt’s grandchildren.”
“Which one of the children was to be taken?”
“The youngest one we could get.”
“What would you do with it?”
“Hold it for a ransom.”
“Where did he propose to conceal the child?”
“In a boat. And, I was to negotiate for the ransom.”
“Well, what then?”
“I refused to have anything to do with the business.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought there would be too much risk in trying to get money from the Vanderbilts. They are too rich, have too much power and are not the kind of people to be frightened. There would be no trouble in stealing the child, the difficulty would be in negotiating for its ransom.”
“So you gave up the plan?”
“Yes; I would not run the risk of being detected. I did not think it was a safe enterprise.”
Gil Mosher’s story sounded like a criminal’s daydream, a child’s fantasy, an aging man’s attempt at delivering a tale that would earn him some reward money. The plan, as shared with Walling, was too vague to have an implicit connection to the Ross case, and as a seasoned criminal, Gil was hardly one to “[refuse] to have anything to do” with whatever “business” might bring him some extra cash. The Vanderbilts, magnates of the Gilded Age, were untouchable icons—too rich to be within the reach of the working class, and too clever to be outsmarted by petty river pirates. Criminals may have dreamed of taking from them, but the successful ones knew to aim for smaller game. Still, though, Gil Mosher’s story had the operative terms “ransom,” “negotiate,” and “child.” If nothing else, Walling could use it as his entrance into the high-profile Charley Ross case and its hefty reward.
After receiving Walling’s telegram on August 2, Chief Jones contacted Captain Heins and Joseph Ross, Christian’s brother. The next day, the men took the ransom notes to Walling at New York’s police headquarters.
“We hope that you at least have some trustworthy information,” said Heins.
“I think I have,” Walling responded. “Through Captain Henry Hedden, of the Thirteenth Police District, I have heard of a man who professes to know who the abductors are.” He called for Hedden to join the meeting.
Joseph Ross asked, “Had you any idea who the abductors were?”
“We suspect two men,” replied Walling.
“If we have their names, they can be hunted down,” said Joseph.
“Undoubtedly. And that is what we hope to do.”
Hedden told Heins and Ross about Gil Mosher and his brother William. “If my suspicions are correct, this William Mosher is the leader of the conspiracy. He arranged the plot and is the writer of the letters sent to Mr. Ross. I am familiar with Mosher’s writing, and can tell if I see the letters whether he is the author of them.”
“Before we show you the letters,” responded Heins, “describe to us the peculiarities of Mosher’s handwriting.”
William—or “Bill”—Mosher was a career petty thief, but an educated one. Gil told the officers that his brother had gone to school as a child, and that he had always liked to read. Gil also remembered Bill’s attempt to write a novel “some ten years before.” He said the handwriting was “dirty,” hard to read. His brother’s signature mark was the way he wrote the letter Y—looping the tail so that it spread into the next word.
“He writes very rapidly and is careless,” Gil said. “He seldom finishes a page without blotting it. He often writes either above or below the lines. When he folds a letter it is in a peculiar and awkward way.”
“At last!” cried Joseph Ross.
After hearing a short description of one man’s careless handwriting and paper-folding preference, Joseph Ross returned to Philadelphia believing that the kidnappers had been identified. He didn’t, however, share this news with his brother Christian. Walling had advised him not to.