“The work of the department has been marked by great stupidity, if not inspired by ulterior motives,” Henry wrote. “They refused to send out a general alarm until the lapse of twenty-four hours and they said Cocchi was a reputable business man.” Instead of trying to find his daughter, Henry said that the police only wanted to find “some flaw in her character.” Instead, “[t]he much boasted efficiency of the Police Department was proved to be a hollow mockery by the persistent work of a woman,” wrote Henry. Henry called for Woods to be removed from office. He also had no faith in Wallstein’s inquiry. “Any investigation,” wrote Henry, “by the present Commissioner would not be worth the paper the report was written on.”
A couple of days later, Henry was in his apartment, now draped in black, when he received a personal letter from the mayor of New York City. Mayor Mitchel apologized to the accountant who had lost his dear daughter. “We will leave no stone unturned to determine why the work of the police was not more effective and to make as certain as possible that such things do not occur in the future.” The mayor tried to absorb the blame of his men. “I want to assure that my inquiries,” he wrote, “into the matter convince me that the Police Department held no theory which in any way reflected upon the character of your daughter and that no statement containing such a reflection ever issued from the Office of the Commissioner. You have been misled in this regard. In fact, I am told that their investigation revealed nothing in any way discreditable to your daughter. For the failure of the police to discover the body and to prevent the escape of the murderer there is no excuse. Culpability will be established shortly, and whether it consist of mere stupidity and incompetence, or of worse, it will be punished.” The mayor also defended Woods. “Through a period of unprecedented stress and public excitement,” Mitchel wrote, “a well-disciplined, well-organized, loyal and foresighted Police Department has insured and maintained public security, tranquility and order.” He signed it “Very truly yours.”
Henry Cruger’s emptiness could not be filled by even emptier political speak, no matter how well intended it might be. During the search for his daughter, Henry Cruger had disobeyed almost every request of the New York Police Department. He had no regrets about that. He was even glad when the letter from Mayor Mitchel later ran in the paper for all to see. Henry couldn’t help imagining what the outcome would have been had the police actually believed him in the first place. Now, as he looked across his apartment, its chairs empty, he felt as if he were in that basement.
Henry had started writing his letter to the mayor, as floating thoughts and words, as he followed his daughter’s body to her grave. Ruth Cruger was quietly buried in Kensico Cemetery in Valhalla, New York, in Westchester County on June 18. The papers reported that her body was encased in a casket sealed with steel and lead. The only attendees were the Crugers and Mrs. Grace Humiston. As Henry led his crying, bundled family back to the car, his letter stitched itself together in his mind.
The night before Ruth was taken to her rest, the papers reported that ghouls had stolen some of her personal effects. Thieves had taken a gold stickpin and five shell hairpins from the little bundle of trinkets that had been placed in a shallow metal tray next to her body in the morgue.
13
The Pointed Finger
There were so many people elbowed into room 1200 that workers had to fetch benches and camping chairs just to accommodate them. The crowd consisted of uniformed policemen, detectives, and maybe six or eight women, some of them still in their teens. Squirming around tables in the back were members of the press, with their overcoats, notebooks, and pencils. They had all come to the very new, forty-story Muncipal Building at One Centre Street to find out how far the police had slipped up in not finding Ruth Cruger. People walking in saw a gilded figure spark on the top of the building. The statue depicted a woman holding a shield and a five-point crown meant to symbolize the five boroughs of New York finally come together as one. It was called Civic Fame.
The rumors that were passing across the chairs only served to charge the air even further. A few hours before the hearing, Captain Cooper and Detective Lagarenne had been relieved of duty by Commissioner Woods and put on official suspension. Also suspended was Frank McGee, who had been alongside Kron as they dug through the street and into the black cellar. Lagarenne and McGee were the primary detectives of record on the case, and Cooper was their immediate supervisor. They were all expected to testify.
When Wallstein walked in, he stopped all the hushing with a glare. He began by asking any members of the police department who were present to rise. Eight men stood up in their dark blue, heavy uniforms. Everyone stared at them. Wallstein instructed them to leave until they were called to the witness stand. Some of them exited more slowly than others.
The first witness called was the acting chief of detectives, Captain Alonzo Cooper, who gave his age as forty-five. He had been in charge of Fourth Branch since August 1, 1914. Cooper knew that he was fighting for his career, if not more than that. Wallstein himself did all the questioning.
“I asked you to make a search of your branch for all papers in connection with the Cruger case,” Wallstein asked. “Have you found any others?” Wallstein looked everyone in the eye when they answered him, even if they mostly did not. Cooper nodded and handed up a bunch of papers he said were found in Cocchi’s private desk drawer. Wallstein looked through them quickly. One of the items was an Italian passport.
“When did you get this?” asked Wallstein.
“Shortly after Alfredo Cocchi went away,” Cooper answered. “February 16 or 17, I think.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“Sergeant McGee.”
“Where was it found?”
“In the home of Cocchi and his wife.”
Wallstein turned it over in his hands. “Has it been out of your possession since then?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Cooper. “I think some of the detectives had it at times.”
Cooper then passed up a small brown book that was about four or five square inches. Wallstein asked Cooper to identify this item and where it was marked for the clerk.
“It’s the Record Book of the Fourth Branch and the entry of Feb[ruary] 14, 1917,” said Cooper.
Wallstein read the entry aloud. It was a short announcement that Ruth Cruger, eighteen years old, was missing from her home on Claremont Avenue. She had last been seen at 2 P.M. on February 13. Lieutenant William Brown was listed as the officer who took the initial complaint.
“How many cases of missing persons have been reported to your branch in the last year?” Wallstein then asked Cooper, switching gears.
“I can’t answer that, but I can find out by telephoning to the department.”
“In the last year, what detectives have been assigned to such missing persons?”
“Detectives Lagarenne and McGee.”
Commissioner Wallstein then produced a deep yellow card from the sheaf of papers. Cooper identified it as a D.B.B. card, which contained a memorandum of the time of the initial report and a description of Ruth Cruger. Cooper looked at it and proclaimed that the message had been sent at 10:15 on February 14.
Wallstein continued. “Is it a rule of the Police Department to delay for twenty-four hours the sending out of a general alarm?”