Montgomery Street, San Francisco, February 15, 1884
Inside her apartment on Montgomery, Clara was about to fall asleep when she began to think about her defense strategy to keep George Kwong from the gallows. The power of the press was important. She used it to speak out for women’s rights and other issues. What if those other seven murders were leaked—not by Mayor Bartlett’s office—but by Andrew Kwong and his church-supported newspaper, The Oriental? She wanted to discuss this further with Captain Lees when he came by later. She fell asleep thinking about Lees’ dewy kiss late the previous evening, and she smiled.
Captain Lees appeared at Clara’s door promptly at nine. She let him in wearing her tennis dress, a striped affair with her corset loose and her bustle small. Unlike her peers, Clara did not feel pressured to constrict her circulation in order to affect the narrow waisted, big bustled look. After giving birth to five children, if a man expected a virgin’s hourglass shape then he was delusional. The pleasant smile and fixed look of intelligent interest on the officer’s face was enough for Clara to understand he was not impressed by outward feminine appearances.
“Clara, I must talk to you about George. I spent an hour with Connolly, and he wants to get this to trial very soon. We must …”
“Please, Isaiah. May I call you by your given name?” Clara interrupted.
“Yes. Certainly, but …”
“I have had my own discussion with the sheriff. In fact, I wanted to pose a strategy I have in mind to defend George. I know you come from England, where the press is forbidden by law to give out details of a criminal investigation. In this country, however, as you’re now certainly aware, since we have a constitutional form of government, we place much more value on the free press being able to get the facts out for its citizenry—even before a case has gone to trial. The First Amendment was added for that purpose.” Clara moved over to her purple couch and sat down. She patted the cushion, and Lees followed her lead and sat down beside her.
Lees liked the way Clara decorated her apartment. She had posters of her speeches at various political rallies and gatherings around California, and the main poster, right above the couch, was one that showed her with Governor Robert Waterman who was congratulating her on the passage of the state law that gave women the right to work at any trade or profession, and this included going to law school and taking the State Bar Examination.
The rest of the display, on hanging shelves, showed photos of her family and her five children. There was also some framed artwork depicting San Francisco and its beautiful landscapes and cityscapes. A long bookcase filled with legal books was decorating the wall next to the small kitchen. Lees had little interest in the furniture, but he would say her taste was very provincial, except for the purple couch. A stuffed, high-back chair, a footstool, a birdcage with a canary, and a table for tea and coffee service were the practical pieces. No flowers, no frilly doilies or coverlets, no ostentatious European antiques. This was the domicile of a working woman.
“Yes, I know the difference. We at the station call the newspapers the circus because of how they exaggerate the facts. What does your defense have to do with the press?”
“I believe what you said about Mayor Bartlett. He wants to win the governor’s race, and he’s willing to use the Chinese to do it. The only way he can cause a calamity big enough to attract attention is to arrest George, convict him in a virtual kangaroo courtroom, and then hang him with great hoopla in the press. I want to prevent that from happening.”
“As it just so happens, I agree with you. I went over what Connolly has on Kwong, and it’s mostly circumstantial. No weapon, no witness who saw George murder the girl, and testimony that reeks of bribery. I still think Bartlett is in cahoots with Miss Benedict the bee lady at the Home for Wayward Women. She could be in on his rise to power.” Isaiah Lees took hold of Clara’s hand. “Now what’s your plan, Clara? Maybe I can help.”
“I am going to help Andrew Kwong write an article for publication. He will not only publish it in his paper, The Oriental, but I will take it to all the major papers in San Francisco. This article will explain the facts behind all seven different murders that took place in Chinatown and how Mayor Bartlett was the operational force behind keeping them a secret from the public.” Clara squeezed Lees’ hand, and he squeezed back.
“I think it’s a good plan. The only way you can prevent Bartlett from using these murders to get him elected is to tell your story. Also, this could have an additional advantage.”
“Additional advantage? What do you mean?”
“The murderer is still at large. When this story becomes public, the killer will become enraged. I believe these killings may have been used for political purposes, but that doesn’t mean the killer is able to be bought. A certain blood lust sets in after several such murders, and the added ingredient of sex lust makes me believe this person will strike again.” Lees stood up. From inside his cape, he extracted a small pistol. It was a 45-caliber double-shot model of the small Derringer. “Keep this in your purse. Use it if you need it.”
Clara looked down at the pistol in her hand and sighed. As a wife and mother in the wilds of Illinois, she used a weapon to hunt or to ward off predators, This, very personal weapon, was a new experience, and she knew it was meant to kill a human being, the highest order of mammal on Earth. No matter how uneducated or primitive, a human life was sacred. Her parents and her culture raised her to believe this, but now she was being told there were exceptions in the world of police work.
“Thank you, Isaiah. I hope I won’t have the opportunity to use it. When I go down this path, I do understand I will be exploring the darkness of mankind, and I respect your experience and your assistance. I now must do it alone.”
Standing at the door, the two people of the law stared at each other. One, the female, had blonde hair tinged with a reddish hue, and as she was watched by the other, the male, he was able to see a deeper, intangible beauty within. It was a dignity that caused her to stand erect, with her back and shoulders set in a firm, immovable position. And yet, there was a wonderfully humble and feminine aspect to the slope of her bosom down to her corseted waist, and his eyes followed that path. The female allowed this roaming of the eyes from this man, this older, wiser, and battle-tested man. Her first husband had been battle-tested, even wounded, but the experience had weakened him and had made him afraid to be a real man. This male before her, with his concentrated scowl and piercing gaze, had been wounded mentally many times as well, but he had become stronger and kinder, with a passionate need that she could see was authentic. When he kissed her, she moved into him, and afterward, as her head rested on his shoulder for several minutes, perhaps the length of time it takes to clean a gun, she felt stronger after she withdrew.
Later, inside the office of The Oriental newspaper in Chinatown, on Waverly Place, Clara Foltz was seated before the desk of Andrew Kwong, the editor. As she spoke, she could see he was distraught, and deservedly so, as his son’s neck was virtually encircled by the heavy weight of a legal system that despised his kind.
“Mister Kwong, I want you to use the information you have collected about the seven murders of Chinese prostitutes in order to show the population of San Francisco that Mayor Washington Bartlett has been using you and your community to advance a political agenda. Indeed, as we have discovered, he wants to run for the office of California Governor, and it has been his intention to do so from the moment he stepped foot in your office after that first murder.” Clara could see a glimmer of hope in the man’s eyes.
“Of course! That’s why he arrested George. He knew George would be at every scene of the crime to take photos, and so when the white girl was murdered, he had what he wanted. And you say we should explain these facts in an editorial?”
Clara stood up and walked over to stand in front of Mister Kwong. She stared hard into his dusky eyes and her smile was just as dark. “I want not just an editorial about what the mayor is doing to you and your people, I want you to explain what can now happen to all of San Francisco if we don’t find the real killer of these women. I want you to ask all of the women of the city to write in to explain their fear of being struck down by this predator, and I shall be the first woman to answer your call. I will explain to them why I believe my client, your son, is innocent. I will also tell them I am acting alone as the hunter of this heinous monster, because the mayor doesn’t wish to expend the resources to find him. I am alone in my hunt, a woman in the wild, if you will, and I want them to demonstrate against City Hall to show their support for me!”
Andrew Kwong winced. “But, Missus Foltz. What if this killer is not captured in time? What if he doesn’t kill again? Don’t you believe the mayor will go ahead and hang my boy anyway?”
“This murderer doesn’t necessarily have to kill again. That is another reason why I am circulating this article of ours beyond Chinatown. I want to enrage the killer so he comes out of hiding. I am going to ask more questions of the suspects we have in mind. I hope to narrow the list to one or two main suspects. Once I know whom to track down, it will be simply a matter of trapping him or her before he or she can kill again.”
“How will you do that in so little time? Russian Hill and the Vigilantes are also waiting.” Kwong pointed out.
“Don’t concern yourself. I believe I now have the bait that will lure this killer out of hiding and into a trap.”
“Bait? Another woman? Who would be insane enough to tempt the hand of this monster?”
“You are looking at her,” Clara said, and she turned around, walked to the door, and left.
The article ran in all the major newspapers in San Francisco, and the national edition of the article ran through the Associate Press and the newer United Press. Eventually, because of the telegraph, all major newspapers had published the story about the woman out West who was confronting the male establishment in order to prove her client, a Chinese man, of all people, innocent.
Because of the danger to attorney Clara Foltz, and the obvious political corruption of the mayor, readers were sympathetic to her plight and were less suspicious of the arrested defendant, George Kwong. Indeed, when they read about how seven murders had been kept secret by the mayor, and George Kwong was a lowly journalist taking photos of the crime scenes, the women became embittered toward the San Francisco legal system.
After they read Clara’s letter that explained how she was hired by the Six Companies to protect their business interests in the community, and then she had to protect the son of its most learned and religious owner, Andrew Kwong, they were livid. Women from all over the United States began to learn that these poor Chinese had no rights in a court of law or in society. They were trapped inside their ghettos of poverty, and Mister Kwong had converted to Christianity and was trying to save the souls of these poor women being held prisoner in the wicked flesh trade of Chinatown.
Not only were these women’s lives being threatened by the acts of Mayor Bartlett, the entire female community was also in danger. Where would this killer strike now? He or she had already broken the racial divide and killed a white girl. Who would be next? It could be any woman in San Francisco! If women could be so easily struck down, what might happen in the communities of any state in the union?
After one week, this single editorial had elicited thousands of letters to the editor, and the demonstrators began to arrive in San Francisco by the trainload. They filled the hotels and rented rooms in the homes of enterprising homeowners, and they met at the churches and in the parks of the city to plan their demonstration against the mayor and City Hall.
City Hall, San Francisco, February 22, 1884
Inside the City Hall auditorium, Mayor Washington Bartlett was standing in front of his assembled cadre of uniformed sheriffs, police officers, and newspapers sympathetic to his cause. In addition, Captain Isaiah Lees and his partner, Detective Sergeant Eduard Vanderheiden, were standing quietly in the back of the room, subservient yet observant, as the leader of the city droned on.
“I want a full cordon of police presence around this building immediately! I have already responded to that scurrilous editorial, and I want my response circulated on all the press wires around the country. These Chinese and this one woman have usurped the law, and I will not allow a potential murderer out of my jail! The safety of my city must come before any special interests of criminal aliens who care not a whit for our culture or for our system of justice. This is why we keep them out of the country. They have stolen jobs from our good men, and they have brought crime and ungodly practices to our shores. I will speak to this crowd of women, and we will have our day in court! This man, this Kwong, will be hanged if our evidence convinces the jury, and no outsiders will ever sway the method of American justice that has withstood our Revolution against the British, and the many martyrs of our Civil War will have not died in vain. America is for Americans, and we have no room for foreigners who have made their deal with the big business tycoons of New York, behind the people’s backs. This foreign treaty has been disavowed once and for all, and these interlopers and pagans will never set foot in this great city, or any other United States territory or state, ever again!”
Captain Lees and Detective Vanderheiden looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. Vanderheiden took a cigar out of his jacket pocket, held it under his long nose, and smelled it. “Is she out questioning the suspects?” Vanderheiden said.
“Yes. She told me she has her own ideas about who might have committed these murders, but she wants to narrow down the list.” Lees shrugged again. “I gave her the Derringer. What else can I do? She’s a hard-headed woman.”
“She better not shoot the wrong person, boss.” Vanderheiden laughed.
“What do you mean, Dutch?”
“Bartlett ain’t going to let her roam around without somebody trailing her, now is he?”
Lees scowled. “All right, you’ve convinced me. I will make certain she has a clear path to discover what she called the evils of mankind."
For the entire week, Clara and Ah Toy visited all the main witnesses that Captain Lees considered suspects. Clara, of course, was beginning to have her own idea about who might have committed the murders, but she wasn’t certain she wanted to share it as yet. To her way of thinking, proving that the mayor had or had not hired this killer was not relevant at this juncture. Most important was the fact that another woman could die at any moment, and she wanted to prevent that.
She had first questioned Rachel Benedict at the Methodist Mission for Wayward Women in Chinatown. Clara found the woman quite eccentric in her ways, but her answers had been forthright. Had George Kwong ever struck Mary McCarthy in her presence? No. Had he threatened her in any way? No. Had she seen the two youngsters engaged in any affectionate activities? Yes, they often sat and held hands, staring into each other’s eyes, and George seemed quite smitten with her. Of course, she could use all of this testimony in the courtroom, if it came to that, and she advised Miss Benedict to be ready for her cross-examination. The teacher agreed, and they left her to her duties.
Clara then traveled to Oakland to question the coroner, Travis Goodbody. She found the gentleman to be quite reticent about talking to her, but when she showed him her credentials as an attorney for George Kwong, the accused, he reluctantly agreed. When she asked him whether the mayor’s office had contacted him about George Kwong and his internship, he said yes, He was, however, quite averse about talking further concerning the work the young man did or about the supposed theft of the post-mortem kit. Clara came away believing this man had been perhaps bribed or even threatened into cooperating with Bartlett.
She left the journalist, Stanley Boscombe, and the minister of the Tin How Joss House Temple, Guan Shi Yin, for last. In order to put her plan into effect, she left the same bit of information with each suspect. She told each person that when she went to trial to defend her client, George Kwong, she was going to surprise the jury with the identity of the killer. Clara then looked straight into the suspect’s eyes and said, “I know it’s you, and you should confess to me right now. Or else, your day of reckoning shall come in court.” Of course, not one of the suspects confessed, but she was certain she had awakened the monster within, and that he or she would come after her.
As a matter of fact, Clara had no such incontrovertible evidence. She had suspicions, but she knew the only way to bring the killer out of hiding was to tell every suspect he or she was the murderer. Then, Clara was going to wait for this killer to come to her. The only person Clara had told about this spider-and-fly subterfuge was her good friend, Ah Toy. She believed if she told Captain Lees he would not allow her to do it, and nobody would catch this heinous killer. Ah Toy, on the other hand, was quite excited to hear about setting this trap. She was going to help her do it, and she suggested they discuss the details over a nice dinner at the Hopkins mansion on Nob Hill.
One Nob Hill, San Francisco, February 22, 1884
Later, inside the macabre Victorian mansion, Clara was dining with Ah Toy and Mrs. Hopkins. Ah Toy explained before dinner that the old woman was just about prepared to purchase some of Ah Toy’s art. “She really wants my landscapes of Chinatown, and the ones I did of the Tin How Temple were especially pleasing to her. I’m afraid the old lady is going daft, however, and you must excuse her at dinner. Don’t worry what you say because she will forget it in five minutes.”
Clara realized this was true about Mrs. Mary Sherwood Hopkins when she told Ah Toy about her experience interviewing Stanley Boscombe and Guan Shi Yin. “When I told each one he was the killer and that he should confess to me right now, I got some rather interesting responses. The other suspects simply stated their innocence and some wanted to see my evidence. Mister Boscombe, in a real panic, began to stutter profusely, and he eventually broke down in tears. The minister, on the other hand, began to pray in Cantonese. At least, that’s what Ah Toy told me he was doing. His were the angriest prayers I have ever had the displeasure of hearing.”
When both Clara and Ah Toy began to laugh at this, Mrs. Hopkins, her face in a frown, said, “You mustn’t provoke God, my dear lady. Even the Chinese gods become belligerent.” This made the levity even more boisterous, and soon Ah Toy and Clara were crying and laughing at the same time.
After they gained their composure, Clara explained how she was going to prepare herself for the probable attack by the killer. “After Captain Lees gave me the Derringer, I knew I had the responsibility to save the lives of women who might become targets of this killer’s wrath. In addition, since the story of the killings has now circulated around the United States, I believe it will not infuriate this murderer, as the captain suggested. Instead, I think this killer will enjoy the notoriety such publicity will bring. Doesn’t it stand to reason? Somebody who kills like this must be an extremely arrogant sort. This person must believe that he or she is doing society a favor by getting rid of these women.”
“Yes, I saw a few of these types in my business as a Madame. They tend to be violent, and I had to restrict their access to my girls because it put them in danger of physical harm.” Ah Toy nodded at the butler Hannigan who was bringing in a tray filled with the dinner’s first course of mixed green salads.
“The mental state of the killer is a key to my discovery of this person’s identity. I believe that when I confronted him or her, I immediately caused a fear to take hold. I suddenly became the person who must be killed next.” Clara smiled up at Hannigan, who was placing the salad before her on the laced tablecloth. The butler did not return the smile, as he looked concerned about what she had just said.
“Don’t you believe you might be in immediate danger? Perhaps you should seek protection.” Ah Toy picked up her fork and held it aloft. “I know some Tongs who would do the job. Just give me your permission.”
“No. That would scare off this perpetrator. In fact, it is my guess that I won’t be approached until the trial. I told each suspect I was going to reveal the killer’s identity during the trial, as a surprise. It would be reasonable to assume this megalomaniac, who may be testifying for the prosecution, will also bask in the limelight of such recognition, even though it is the light of truth.” Clara picked up the canter of olive oil and spread it over her salad.
“The truth shall set you free!” exclaimed Mary Hopkins, between bites of her salad.
“I completely disagree! If this killer has any sanity left, he will attempt to kill you as soon as possible. The sooner you are out of the way, the sooner he can kill again.” Ah Toy pointed her fork at Clara.
“No, this killer already knows he or she is a suspect. When I divulge the secret identity during the trial, it simply means I believe he or she is the real murderer. The authorities don’t believe this, so the killer will simply declare his or her innocence in public, and then I shall truly be in danger of attack.” Clara bit off a large piece of lettuce. “It is at that moment I may seek protection from your Tongs or from the police, if they’ll give it to me.”
“Hannigan! Get this poor woman some tongs. She can’t pick up her salad!” Missus Hopkins cried.
As Clara walked to the streetcar after dinner, she began to feel the danger all around her. Why had she been so bold in her effort to bring this monstrous woman-killer out of hiding? She had five children and a family who depended on her. She wasn’t a bachelor like Isaiah Lees. Perhaps her assessment of the murderer being arrogant was misplaced. It was she who was most arrogant. She believed her life was more important than those prostitutes and that the killer would treat her with respect. Why should the killer wait until the trial? Women were nothing to this person.
Clara saw that the slowly encroaching fog was making its way across the streets below Nob Hill. Clara clutched at her wrap, and pulled it down, so that it covered her top half. She had worn a thick cotton brown dress, with a large bustle, so her position while riding in the streetcar was uncomfortable. Her thoughts were even more discomforting, however. The man seated in the row across the aisle was staring at her. He was burly and red bearded, and he had a rather imposing dent in his forehead, as if someone had struck him with a hammer or other such tool. She wondered if her killer might not subcontract another murderer to get rid of her. That would be intelligent.
The fog was thick, as he followed her down Montgomery Street toward her apartment building. Clara heard the man’s heavy steps. She smelled the foul odor from the man’s cigar. As she increased her gait, he increased his, and her heart began to pound so forcefully that she felt its pulsing in her throat. She opened the top two buttons on her dress. When she looked back, she saw nothing. The fog was too dense. She took a deep breath and began to run. She felt the bustle behind her swaying back and forth like a hot air balloon in the wind. Up ahead, as the fog began to clear, she saw the red awning in front of her building. She looked back, and the hammer head was still following her. She watched, as he began to run to catch up to her.
Was this going to be the moment of her demise? No, she insisted upon living for her children. She extracted the Derringer from her purse and pointed it at the intruder. She felt the trigger on her finger, and her aim was steady. “Stop right there!”
The man raised his hands. “Whoa, Missus Foltz. I don’t mean you no harm. Name’s Sergeant O’Brien. Perry O’Brien. I work with Captain Lees. He wanted me to follow you.” O’Brien held open his coat and showed her his SFPD badge.
Clara lowered the pistol to her side. “I am sorry, Detective. The captain didn’t tell me he was ordering anybody to protect me. How long have you been following me?”
“All week. I guess when I was on the streetcar you were spooked by something. I’ve been tailing you so’s you could question all your suspects without harm. And I’ll be watching your apartment while you stay there. Officer Cameron will also wear plain clothes to switch with me so I can get some sleep.” O’Brien took off his derby and held it in front of his portly stomach. Clara saw he was a redhead. “We’ll be with you all next week during the trial. You can rest assured nobody will harm you as long as we’re on the job, Missus. Old Sherlock’d have me head in a basket if you got harmed!”
Clara smiled. “Indeed. Well, thank you very much, Mister O’Brien. I will go up to my apartment now. It’s been a long week.”
O’Brien watched her climb the front steps. When Clara turned around to see where he was, the detective tipped his derby toward her and grinned. “May those who love us, love us; and those who don't love us, may God turn their hearts; and if He don't turn their hearts, may he turn their ankles so we'll know them by their limping.”
Clara turned the knob of the front door, and she felt safe for the first time that week.