HOW THE CRIME WAS HANDLED BY THE POLICE—THE CONFESSIONS
Now begins some of the most interesting work connected with the taxicab
case—the examination of the first prisoners, which led to confessions,
the implication of other guilty persons not yet under arrest, and the
voluntary pleas of guilty in court which saved costly trials in all but
Montani’s case.
This sort of work is familiar under the term of “third degree.” It is
popularly supposed to be accompanied by force and sometimes
brutality—and in wrong hands often is. Commissioner Dougherty’s
experience with a commercial detective agency, however, has led him to
develop intelligent methods. The commercial detective organization has
none of the authority of an official police force, and at the same time,
through its national operations and the general character of its work,
deals chiefly with the most accomplished criminals. Therefore, tact and
legal subtilty are depended upon in examining suspects, and the
Commissioner long ago learned to get his results mainly by straight
question and answer. He puts his own wits against those of the suspect,
backed by experience in many other cases. He has a practical grasp of
criminal psychology, as well as many ingenious ways of using evidence to
the best purpose, overwhelming the suspect, and breaking down stolidity
and deception. Dougherty is not only opposed to force in the “third
degree,” but knows that it is of absolutely no use.
The first prisoner examined was Eddie Kinsman.
When he was brought to Police Headquarters Kinsman appeared to be
thoroughly satisfied with himself, and confident that no policeman would
get anything out of _him_. He proved to be a good-looking young fellow,
of athletic build, and by no means a fool.
Methods of examination are never twice alike, for they depend upon the
case and the suspect. As a rule, however, when the criminal first sits
down to answer Commissioner Dougherty he is astonished by that
gentleman’s apparent lack of guile, and ignorance of worldly knowledge.
When Dougherty composes himself for an inquiry, he is rather a
heavy-looking citizen, not unlike a country magistrate, and his first
questions, put for the purpose of determining the suspect’s character
and previous surroundings, usually relate to bald routine matters, such
as name, age, residence, education, family, and so on.
“Gee!” thinks the suspect, “This guy is the biggest lobster I ever got
up against! I wonder how he ever got to be a police commissioner. He
must have a strong political pull.”
Kinsman was ushered into a large, quiet office, where this bureaucratic
official began by asking his name, birthplace and other details.
“Will you kindly stand up a minute while I get your height?” asked the
questioner, and Kinsman did so in a patronizing way. Then the
dull-looking gentleman turned back Kinsman’s coat and looked at the
little label sewed in the inside pocket.
“I see that you have been in Chicago recently,” he observed. “This suit
was made by a tailor there. You ordered it February 17th, two days after
the robbery.”
He looked into Kinsman’s hat.
“That was bought in Chicago, too.”
He examined the label on Kinsman’s tie.
“This was also bought in Chicago.”
He turned up the label at the back of the neck of the new silk
underclothes worn by the prisoner.
“Those were bought in State street, Chicago, and from a very good store,
too—I know it well.”
Kinsman now began to be pugnacious and defiant.
“See here!” he said, “You must take me for a boob.”
“Yes, I think you are a boob,” replied the Commissioner. “You might as
well have made your getaway with a brass band as to take Swede Annie
with you to Albany, attracting attention all the way, and then send her
back to New York with a hundred dollars to tell the police where you had
gone.”
Suddenly Lieutenant Riley, personal aide, walked into the Commissioner’s
office carrying a cheap article of millinery—a shabby black velvet hat
with a row of little red roses across the front. Commissioner Dougherty
apparently grew very angry.
“What do you mean by bringing that thing in here now?” he exclaimed. “I
am not ready for that—take it away.”
This “shot” had been previously arranged, of course, but Riley pretended
to be injured when called by his superior.
“Cripes!” exclaimed Kinsman. “Annie’s old hat. How did you get that so
quick?”
“Oh, that is only one thing we’ve got on you,” replied the Commissioner.
“We know that you went to Peekskill in a taxicab with Annie and Splaine
on the afternoon of the robbery. We know that you took Train 13 to
Albany, and where you stopped that night, and where you bought Annie’s
new hat, and how much you paid for it, and what train you took to
Chicago Friday noon. Suppose you tell me something more about your
movements?”
Kinsman became scornful.
“If you know all that,” he said, “maybe you know more about where I went
and what I did than I do myself. So what would be the use of me telling
_you_ anything?”
While certain people were being found outside, the Commissioner worked
upon the prisoner along another line. Enough of Kinsman’s personality
was now disclosed to show that he was vain and egotistical. This side of
his nature was therefore fed with flattery. He was assured that the
taxicab robbery had been a wonderful “stick-up.” Everybody in New York
had been astonished. The whole country was talking about it, and about
him. He must be an awfully bright, cunning fellow to have planned and
carried out such a piece of crime.
Kinsman warmed up genially under this admiration, and seemed to be more
confident than ever that so shrewd a young man as himself would have
little difficulty in fooling the police.
But presently self-satisfaction was subjected to shock after shock.
Detectives were bringing in Montani, Myrtle Hoyt, Rose Levy, Mrs.
Sullivan, the landlady with whom Kinsman had lived, and her housekeeper.
Jess Albrazzo was under arrest. Kinsman’s brother was there for
examination, and Inspector Hughes and Lieutenant Riley were bringing in
startling intelligence every few minutes.
The housekeeper was ushered in, and told how Kinsman had given her five
dollars from a huge roll of bills before leaving for Peekskill.
Commissioner Waldo came in and sat while Mrs. Sullivan told what she
knew about her late lodger.
Kinsman’s brother gave information about the former’s movements from the
time he had arrived in Boston until he brought him to New York to have a
good time, and Kinsman knew that at the home of his parents in Boston
the police would surely find money in the original wrappers of the bank.
The prisoner was put under pressure to explain how a man like himself,
known to be working as a waiter in a cheap resort, could suddenly have
come into possession of such sums. Statements from the women in the case
had been secured, and were produced, and finally Kinsman was brought to
detailed admissions, one by one. He agreed that it was true he had gone
to Peekskill in a taxicab with Annie and Splaine, that he had gone to
Albany, had bought Annie a hat there, had gone to Chicago, and so forth.
Opportunities were given him to see Montani and Jess, under arrest.
Nothing but the truth was told him, yet by degrees he was led to see
himself surrounded on all sides by evidence and confessing accomplices.
At last he broke down completely, his vain self-confidence destroyed,
and made a detailed confession.
Kinsman’s story brought up fresh circumstances and new actors in the
taxicab case.
He told how he had come to New York nine months before, to have a good
time and make money, and how, after going penniless and hungry, and
getting a few dollars for taking part in a boxing match, he had become a
waiter at the “Nutshell Café.” There he soon made the acquaintance of
criminals, meeting Gene Splaine, “Dutch” Keller, “Joe the Kid,” “Scotty
the Lamb” and other characters who were afterward to assist in the taxi
robbery. There he also met “Swede Annie” and became her sweetheart, and
finally, Jess Albrazzo, a dark little Italian who seemed to exert marked
influence over all the others. It was from Jess that Kinsman first heard
about the plan to rob a taxicab carrying money to a bank. This “swell
job” was discussed, and Jess told him he had a friend named Montani who
carried the bank’s cash, and would cooperate in stealing it. The job
would be easy, because Montani would run the cab through a side street,
and the only guard was an old man and a boy, neither of them armed.
One Sunday night, two weeks before the crime, Jess took Kinsman and
other accomplices over the route, after all had drunk themselves into
optimistic mood, and pointed out the bank from which the money was
drawn, the streets through which Montani would run, the place where the
gang could board the cab, and the point at which they could leave it and
escape uptown. Details were discussed. There was a difference of opinion
as to methods, and the plotters parted that night with the understanding
that each would submit his own ideas of how the robbery could be most
effectively and safely carried out. Eventually there was a definite
agreement as to boarding the cab, preventing an outcry, making the
getaway and splitting up the money.
According to Montani’s information, the bank messengers usually carried
between $75,000 and $100,000. When the day for the robbery had been set,
word suddenly came that there would not be so large a sum. This was
disappointing, but the gang decided to put their project through,
nevertheless. Kinsman was busy at the café, where he worked until four
o’clock on the morning of February 15, and “Dutch” called for him
several times, asking if he was going to “lay down on the job.” Finally
Kinsman got away, went to a room in a lodging house taken by “Dutch,”
and found the gang all there smoking and drinking. At five o’clock they
all went to sleep. At eight everybody was awakened. “Dutch” and Splaine
took blackjacks, and offered Kinsman a revolver, which he refused,
saying he could take care of himself with his hands, being a boxer.
There were six in the party—Kinsman, “Dutch,” Splaine, “Joe the Kid,”
Jess and “Scotty the Lamb,” whose part was to stumble in front of
Montani’s cab at the place selected for the boarding, and thus give the
chauffeur a colorable reason for slackening speed if eye-witnesses
afterward called his honesty into question. The gang had breakfast in a
cheap restaurant, stopped for a drink at the saloon of “Jimmie the Push”
in Thompson street, where the booty was to be divided, and proceeded
downtown, after parting with Jess. The latter was the organizer, and
took no part in the robbery; as he explained, he was known as a friend
of Montani’s, and wanted to arrange so that he could prove an alibi if
suspected, proving that he had not been near the scene of the crime when
it was committed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: “Scotty” Receives Final Instructions]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
At that saloon they had met a trio of Italian criminals known as the
“Three Brigands,” who said they were not to take part in the robbery,
but would be on hand to see that it was vigorously put through.
Arrived upon the ground, at Church street and Trinity Place, Splaine and
Kinsman waited on the west side of the thoroughfare, while “Dutch” and
“Joe the Kid” stood on the opposite side. “Scotty the Lamb” posted
himself fifty feet off.
As Montani’s cab came speeding along, “Dutch” raised his hat as a
signal. “Scotty the Lamb” did not have time to step in front of the
vehicle before it slackened, and the robbers were aboard. “Dutch” opened
one door and struck the old bank teller, Wilbur Smith, and “Joe the Kid”
boosted Splaine in on the other side, where he assaulted young Wardle.
Kinsman mounted the seat beside Montani, and the latter put on full
speed, telling Kinsman to point his finger at his side as though he had
a revolver. The cab slipped past trucks and dodged pedestrians. Kinsman
said he seemed to see policemen everywhere, and was dazed when the
vehicle stopped at Park Place and Church street. All the criminals got
off there, “Dutch” lugging the brown bag containing the money. Splaine
and “Dutch” were both covered with the bank guards’ blood. Taking
Kinsman, they jumped aboard a street car. It was crowded. Several
passengers noticed the bloody men, but were told that there had been a
fight, and the occurrence was not reported to the police. After riding
two or three blocks they got off, boarded an elevated train, rode to
Bleeker street, and went to a back room in “Jimmie the Push’s” saloon,
where the money was to be divided. Here they found Jess and the “Three
Brigands,” and the latter now set up a claim for a share in the booty.
Matteo, leader of the trio, pulled out a revolver, and there was a
discussion. Finally the bag was opened, and found to contain $25,000.
There were three packages of $5,000 each and one of $10,000. Matteo
grabbed the latter package, saying that his gang was to get $3,000
apiece, and that the odd $1,000 would go for “fall money” to get Molloy
out of jail in Brooklyn. The robbers then divided the remainder, Jess
taking $3,000 for himself and another $3,000 for Montani, Splaine
getting $3,000, Kinsman $2,750, “Joe the Kid” $250 and “Scotty the Lamb”
nothing. Kinsman then told how he had called for Swede Annie, and left
town in a taxicab, going as far as Peekskill, to avoid the police at the
Grand Central Station.
_Jess Confesses and Assists_
The next prisoner examined was Jess Albrazzo, a dark little Italian, who
appeared to be somewhat ignorant.
In this examination the Commissioner had ample outside proof, and he
also employed what he calls his “psychological study.” Years ago, in
dealing with negro suspects in Southern crime, Dougherty devised a
little instrument which he dubbed his “lie watch.” This was a dial with
a needle, hung round the suspect’s neck. If the latter told the truth,
the needle presumably pointed to “Truth,” and if he didn’t, it pointed
to “Lie.” Being out of the suspect’s sight, it had a strong effect.
From that, Dougherty went into studies of the mental states of suspects
under examination, and found rough physiological indications which he
uses as a guide to the integrity of the suspect. Investigations of
European criminal experts like Professor Hans Gross amply demonstrate
that there is a real scientific basis for such methods.
Dougherty took it a little easier with Jess. They sat down, and the
Commissioner went over the Italian’s movements for the past few months,
showing him how thoroughly he was implicated. Jess had worked for
Montani, and been intimate with the rest of the taxicab “mob.” He and
Montani were confronted with each other, and points brought out in
Kinsman’s confession were skillfully used.
At one point in this examination the Commissioner rose from his desk,
took the lobe of Jess’s ear between his thumb and finger, pinched it
slightly, looked at the ear closely, and then walked out of the room.
Jess was all on edge with curiosity.
“Why did he pinch my ear?” he asked of Lieutenant Riley.
“To see if you are telling the truth,” was the answer, and in a moment
the Commissioner came back and examined that ear again.
“Yes, he’s lying,” he declared. “Look at his ear—can’t you see it
yourself?” Others were invited to look at Jess’s ear, and the little
Italian became so curious that he actually tried to look around the side
of his skull and see his own ear!
This psychological study was backed up with abundant proof that Jess had
not told the whole truth. Presently he weakened and confessed. He told
how he had handed $2,000 in a collar box to “Jimmie the Push” on the day
of the robbery, which was to be taken to a Bowery bank and put in a
safe-deposit vault for Montani. He agreed to accompany the police to
Jimmie’s place in Thompson street, and late that evening a party made up
of Commissioner Dougherty, Inspector Hughes and Lieutenant Riley went
there, taking Jess along.
“Jimmie the Push’s” place is one of the most picturesque thieves’
resorts in lower New York.
“Typical of the old village,” as Dougherty puts it. “In fact, this whole
case has a strong flavor of the little old village of New York.”
Jimmie was out when they got there, but this saloon was in charge of the
biggest, swarthiest Italian bartender in town, a tough Hercules weighing
somewhere around three hundred pounds. The room was crowded with motley
characters, drinking beverages known to the neighborhood as “shocks” and
“high hats.” For their edification, a tramp magician was taking coins
out of his ears, his nose and the air.
Jess was not known to be under arrest, and immediately sent a boy called
“Reddy” to fetch the proprietor, who had known the three police officers
for years. Presently Reddy came back and said that Jimmie would come in
about half an hour, as he was playing cards and had a fine hand.
Reddy was sent back to impress upon Jimmie that Jess wanted to see him
right away—it was very important. In about two minutes, just as the
Commissioner had bought a “high hat” for everybody in his party, Jimmie
appeared. He was told that Jess had got into trouble in connection with
the taxicab robbery, and asked about the money in the safe deposit
vault. “Jimmie the Push,” with his partner, Bob Deilio, had by this time
been implicated themselves, for it was clear that the money had been
divided in their resort, and that probably they had taken part in the
planning, and the decidedly one-sided division of the spoils. Jimmie was
led to believe that he did not rest under suspicion, however, and that
he was only asked to aid the police. He said Jess had handed him a
collar box on the day of the robbery, asking him to put it in a vault in
his own name, but that he had had no idea what the box contained, and
had left it lying behind the bar for a couple of days before he got a
chance to go to the bank with it. He readily promised to appear at
Police Headquarters the following morning, bring the key to the safe
deposit box, and help recover the money. Thereupon the police officials
bade him good night and went away. But no chances were taken on “Jimmie
the Push.” From that moment he was shadowed.
That Monday was a busy day in many other ways.
Developments came thick and fast.
Kinsman’s home in Boston was visited, and $750 of the bank money
recovered in the original wrappers. It had laid in his grip, unknown to
the honest Kinsman family.
Swede Annie, Myrtle Horn and a girl named Rose Levy were examined,
quickly broke down, and made tearful statements to be used in evidence.
These women were held only as witnesses, and as the case cleared up
after a few days’ detention, were released.
The girl, Rose Levy, greatly attracted the Commissioner. She was only
nineteen years old, a mild-mannered little Jewess with jet black hair
and very remarkable eyes. The Commissioner went into details of her
personal story. It seems that she had left her home in Brooklyn two
months before, after a quarrel with her mother, and had come to New York
looking for a position. But she quickly fell into the lower world,
became known as Jess’s girl, and was ambitious to be “one of the gang.”
After a fatherly talk she was persuaded to return to her home and live a
decent life. But within a week she was back in New York again, in her
old haunts, trying to raise money to help Jess, for whom, she told the
Commissioner, she would willingly work for the rest of her days.
Before visiting Jimmie’s saloon the Commissioner called up the “Orange
Growers” in Chicago, had a long talk with them, told what progress was
being made, and put new life into them.
_More Money Recovered_
True to his word, “Jimmie the Push” walked into Police Headquarters at
nine o’clock Tuesday morning, February 27, closely followed by his
unseen shadowers. He produced the key of the safe-deposit vault, and
went with officers to see the money recovered. There was $2,000, as Jess
had stated, still in the wrappers of the bank. Jimmie was still
permitted to go free, under the impression that he had come through the
ordeal “clean,” while fresh evidence was being obtained against him.
That morning the Commissioner also took Kinsman down over the route of
the robbery, to have him explain it in his own way. This was done to
strengthen the case against Montani, and upset his story in court.
Then “Scotty the Lamb” was located, arrested, brought to headquarters
and led to confess. “Scotty the Lamb” was in some respects a pathetic
figure in the case, and also a humorous one. He had been in charge of
the lunch kitchen at the Arch Café when Jess owned it, and later worked
as a dishwasher in a Washington Square hotel. A Scotch youth, from
Glasgow, he had been in this country about four years, and while no
criminal record appeared against him, he was plainly in the company of
thieves most of the time. According to his statement, he had been
promised $25 for doing some work for Jess, and without inquiring into
the nature of it at all, had shown up with the gang and gone along to do
his minor part of a “stall,” stumbling in front of the cab. But before
he could get out into the street, the cab had been boarded. So poor
“Scotty the Lamb,” without a nickel for carfare, plodded all the way
uptown again to the saloon where the money was to be divided, and got
nothing whatever. He was a cheerful soul, however, and the life of the
party when the gang was locked up, cracking jokes, and taking the view
that, as sentences ought to be proportioned to the amount of money each
member of the gang had got in the division, and he had got nothing, he
might be let off with six months’ imprisonment.
“Scotty, haven’t you got any overcoat?” asked Inspector Hughes,
sympathetically, as they were going to court one brisk morning. “Did you
_ever_ have an overcoat, Scotty?”
“No, sir, I never had an overcoat,” replied Scotty, and then as he
thought of his prospects for going to prison, added drolly, “And now I
don’t expect, sir, that I ever will!”
_The Fine Italian Hand_
The next step in the case was that of arresting “Jimmie the Push” and
his partner, Bob Deilio.
Another phase of the robbery now began to come out plainly.
Up to the present time the main burden of proof pointed to the four
“hold-up” men of American birth as the chief actors in the crime.
Montani and Jess, the two Italians, appeared to be accessories.
But as the tangled threads were unravelled, one by one, it was found
that the Italians involved outnumbered the American thugs, and that
furthermore they had outwitted them.
When Bob Deilio was arrested he drew $215 in five-dollar bills out of
his pocket and handed it to the police, admitting that it was part of
$5,500 of the stolen money. The rest, he asserted, had just been paid
for rent of the two resorts operated by “Jimmie the Push” and himself.
Jimmie and Bob were taken to Police Headquarters and examined, with Jess
present. Commissioner Dougherty played one against the other so
skillfully, with cross-questions and counter pressure, that in a little
while each was excitedly telling tales on his two companions with the
desperate hope of clearing himself, and denunciations flew back and
forth among the trio as evidence came out that was likely to send them
all to prison. Their confessions were obtained, and used in a new effort
to break down Montani. But this was without results. The little Italian
chauffeur still stuck doggedly to his original story.
From these new confessions it appeared that the Italians had planned the
crime, enlisted the American hold-up men to carry out the dirty work,
and laid a counter-plot for holding them up in turn when the money was
divided. The “Three Brigands” were ostensibly offered a chance to take
part in the actual robbery, but refused on the plea that it would be too
risky, and that they did not believe Montani could carry it out
successfully. On the morning of the crime they walked north over the
route. When they met the taxicab coming south, with a policeman on the
seat beside Montani and two unconscious bank messengers inside, they
knew that the project had succeeded. So the “Three Brigands” hurried
uptown to “Jimmie the Push’s” saloon. They got there so quickly that
they were ahead of the robbers. Jess made a rehearsed protest when they
insisted in sharing in the plunder, but the “Three Brigands” drew
revolvers, threatened to make a disturbance that would bring in the
police, and finally helped themselves to $10,000. When the thugs who had
done the actual work left the saloon, they had only $8,000 all told. The
Italians, who had “played safe” at every point, had $17,000.
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[Illustration: “The Brigands” “Stick-up” the Hold-up Men for Theirs]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_One of the Brigands Comes In_
The actual whereabouts of the “Three Brigands” was not known to the
police then. But there were certain channels through which news might
reach at least one of them. Word was sent through those channels,
therefore, that it might be best for them to appear and give an account
of themselves, and on Friday, March 1, just at the time Splaine had been
brought back from Memphis, the little leader of the brigands, Matteo
Arbrano, an undersized Italian wearing spectacles, who had carried out
the job of robbing the hold-up men, surrendered himself to the District
Attorney.
Arbrano said that he had divided his $10,000 with his two companions,
Gonzales and Cavaquero, and immediately left New York, taking a steamer
for Mexico by way of Havana. At the latter city he stopped over night,
met a woman and accompanied her to a resort, was drugged and robbed of
$2,700, and woke on the Prado with only $100 left, a single bill that
had been concealed in his shoe. With that he returned to New York. The
story is regarded by the police as more picturesque than convincing. It
is probable that Matteo’s share of the plunder, with that of other
Italians involved, has been carefully “planted.”
Pauli Gonzales, another of the brigands, was traced to Vera Cruz,
Mexico. In the present state of that country, however, it was found
impossible to arrest and extradite him upon the evidence at hand.
Three other persons concerned in the robbery are still at large at this
writing—“Dutch” Keller, “Joe the Kid,” and an “unknown” whose identity
is concealed for police reasons.
Montani pleaded “Not guilty,” and stood trial. After two days, exactly a
month and a day subsequent to the robbery, he was convicted by a jury,
and sentenced to not less than ten years and not more than eighteen
years and two months in prison, with hard labor.
A word must be said about the prompt action of the District Attorney’s
office in the taxicab case. Where crime has had such publicity there is
an opportunity to make a demonstration of great value by pressing the
prosecutions. It was not lost. Under Assistant Charles C. Nott, Jr.,
evidence was succinctly laid before judges and juries, the trials
finished in a matter of hours, and convictions and sentences secured
within six weeks after the robbery. Furthermore, the various sentences
were just, being carefully graded according to the part played by each
offender, his character and previous record, and his individual effort
in facilitating justice.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Name_ _Arrested_ _Pleaded_ _Sentenced_ _Sentence_
MONTANI, GENO Feb. 26,’12 Feb. 29,’12 Mch. 16,’12 Not less than
10 yrs. nor
more than 18
yrs. 2 mos.
Judge
Seabury.
KINSMAN, EDW. Feb. 26,’12 Mch. 1,’12 April 9,’12 Not less than 3
yrs. nor more
than 6 yrs.
Judge Crain.
SPLAINE, EUGENE Mch. 2,’12 Mch. 4,’12 Mch. 25,’12 Not less than 7
yrs. 6 mos.
nor more than
14 yrs. 6
mos. Judge
Seabury.
DELIO, ROBERT Feb. 28,’12 Mch. 4,’12 Mch. 29,’12 Not less than 2
yrs. 6 mos.
nor more than
4 yrs. 2 mos.
Judge
Seabury.
PASQUALE, JAMES Feb. 28,’12 Mch. 4,’12 April 8,’12 6 mos.
(“Jimmie the Penitent’ry.
Push”) Judge Davis.
LAMB, JOSEPH Feb. 27,’12 Mch. 18,’12 Mch. 29,’12 Indeterminate
(“Scotty the sentence,
Lamb”) Elmira. Judge
Seabury.
ARBRANO, MATTEO Mch. 2,’12 April 3,’12 2 to 4 years.
Judge Davis.
ALBRAZZO, JESS Mch. 26,’12 Mch. 18,’12 3 to 6 years.
Judge Davis.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
FINAL
A WORD ABOUT THE NEW YORK POLICE
It has been the writer’s good fortune to look into the work of both the
London and the New York policemen recently, within the same year.
A somewhat embarrassing point arose.
In London, the “bobby” was anxious to know which police force the writer
considered best. The “bobby” gets his ideas of the New York “cop” from
such accounts as filter through the cable dispatches from our
newspapers. He hears chiefly the worst, and pictures the “cop” as a
lawless individual, wielding pistol and club indiscriminately, with whom
it is not safe to pass a civil word. So, when he puts his little
question about the respective merits of the two organizations, he
reserves the right to keep his opinion that the London force is best
anyway.
In New York, it is much the same. The “cop” has heard just enough about
the “bobby” to regard him with mild tolerance. He pictures him as a
policeman servile to the last degree, thankfully accepting sixpenny tips
from pedestrians, and occupied chiefly with unarmed thieves and harmless
political offenders.
When one has good friends in both forces, the question “Which do you
think best?” is to be met with tactful evasions. And the more one thinks
it over, the more it becomes clear that there is really little
difference at bottom. Both police organizations are made up of good men,
following the same trade along the same lines, and dealing with about
the same general conditions.
The London “bobby,” however, enjoys excellent leadership, is governed by
a definite administrative policy, has the backing of the courts, and
therefore comes in for a general public good will which is exceedingly
useful to him in the performance of duty.
The New York “cop” rather lacks public good will. Administrative policy
has not been well defined in the past. The courts do not always accept
his evidence, much less back him up, and he has been made the scapegoat
for various shortcomings in leadership.
But to-day the New York policeman is working on an entirely new basis.
Before long his public is certain to understand and like him as
thoroughly as London does its “bobby.”
The change began with Mayor Gaynor, who insisted that both policeman and
citizen have plain legal rights—until the citizen has committed a crime
the policeman may not arrest him. The policeman has plain rights—the law
empowers him to use all necessary force in making arrests in grave
cases. But force must not be used for minor offenses. Confusion existed
on these points to such a degree that when the Mayor began insisting
upon them, many people thought he was putting into effect some of his
personal whims. But they are all in the statute books, and many of them
were there before the Mayor was born, because they are constitutional.
The present Police Commissioner, Rhinelander Waldo, is not only
administering the department along the strict legal line pointed out by
the Mayor, but is effecting improvements of organization and method that
must favorably alter the whole future of the service.
Commissioner Waldo is a soldier, with a record of service in the United
States Army, and the Army’s fine standards to guide him.
In some ways the administration of the New York Police Department is a
soldier’s job. If the ten thousand members were mobilized, they would
make quite an impressive little standing army, with eight or ten full
regiments of patrolmen, a brigade of cavalry, a small transport corps, a
little navy, and so forth. As in an army, too, the men are enlisted, and
may only be discharged for serious offenses. It is a force scattered
over three hundred square miles of territory. The leader must be
skillful in laying down regulations, and handling men in the mass rather
than by personal contact. He must define duty plainly, hold everybody to
it, eliminate departmental politics and abuses. Every man, wherever he
is stationed, must feel that the general knows his business, that he
lays down regulations for good reasons, and that day by day he is taking
the organization somewhere.
For years, every Police Commissioner has asked for more men to keep pace
with the growing city. When Waldo took charge he asked, too. While he
was waiting, however, he overhauled the organization and got one
thousand additional patrolmen by cutting off men detailed for clerical
and other special duty. Every large working force tends to create
superfluous routine work. The useless routine was eliminated by better
accounting methods, and the men sent back to do the street duty for
which they originally enlisted.
Then Waldo’s system of “fixed posts” was introduced. Complaints that
policemen were hard to find at night had become common. So the platoon
on duty from 11 p. m. to 7 a. m. was distributed by a plan under which
the men work in pairs, one patrolling a given beat and the other
standing on a street intersection. Each hour they change places, or
oftener in severe weather. The fixed posts are about a thousand feet
apart all over Manhattan and parts of Brooklyn. The system has been
indiscriminately criticised, but produces its results. Fire losses were
cut down the first six months, night crime has decreased, and many
notable arrests are due to the fact that policemen stand all over town
like checkers through the night. The exposure is no greater than that
endured by traffic men. The men have better opportunities to advance
themselves by making meritorious arrests, and the Commissioner knows
that, as citizens see the police on duty, night after night, and crime
decreases, there will be a growing good will for the department.
The Detective Bureau has not only been reorganized so that plain-clothes
men are distributed over the whole city, but a new spirit has been
introduced. Formerly, when the patrolman rose to detective rank, he felt
that he had “arrived.” No longer wearing the uniform or keeping
scheduled hours, he was in danger of going to sleep. To-day, however,
the detective has, not a job, but an opportunity. He must maintain his
rank by results, or be reduced. To help him do this, he is taught
methods in the school for detectives. But he knows that hundreds of
ambitious men in brass buttons are working to attain that rank.
In an organization of ten thousand men, it would be strange if there
were not some intriguing and politics. New York policemen are
exceptionally shrewd, and occasionally they will try to “put one over”
on the Commissioner, going around his authority. But Commissioner Waldo
has proved singularly resourceful. He meets such an emergency with the
quickness, certainty and impartiality of a natural force like gravity,
and the department has found it out.
He has laid out a clear path for advancement all through the department.
The newest uniformed patrolman understands that, for meritorious work,
he will have a chance of promotion. If he makes a commendable arrest, he
is sent to the Detective Bureau, given instruction, and tried at
detective work. If he makes good, he stays. If unfitted for
plain-clothes duty, he has still had his chance. What is just as
important, the Detective Bureau has had a chance to see him.
Under Commissioner Waldo and Deputy Commissioner Dougherty, the
so-called “Black Hand” crimes among Italians have been checked, and will
be stopped. Many of these cases were traced to sensational reporting of
ordinary quarrels and assaults, and others to business rivalries. In the
serious cases, arrests have been made and convictions secured.
Another well-known form of law-breaking in New York is gambling. This is
particularly difficult to check because of ingenuity in concealing
evidence, developed by long experience on the part of the law-breakers,
and also the strong political alliances of gambling-house keepers. But
after several experiments in dealing with it, the Commissioner now feels
confident that he has a method which will result in the suppression of
gambling, and that, as he says, “When you put a crimp into things of
that sort they don’t generally come back.”
In other directions red tape has been abolished and economies brought
about; the way has been opened for individual merit in all ranks; steps
have been taken to develop and teach better methods; the work of the
department has been brought closer to the public. There is a new spirit
in the New York Police Department to-day—a spirit certain to develop the
public good will and appreciation that is so necessary to the best order
of public service.
* * * * *
SOME INTERESTING FACTS ABOUT THE POLICE
DEPARTMENT OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK
The Police Department of the City of New York is made up as follows:
Commissioner and four Deputy Commissioners
19 Inspectors
25 Surgeons
95 Captains
624 Lieutenants
586 Sergeants
8,585 Patrolmen
191 Doormen
69 Matrons
1 Superintendent of Telegraph
2 Assistant Superintendents of Telegraph
1 Chief Lineman
5 Linemen
2 Boiler Inspectors
------
10,207 Total uniform force
Of this number, 500 are detectives in civilian dress.
In addition, there are over 247 civilians employed in clerical capacity.
There are 6 automobiles and 161 other vehicles, including patrol wagons,
used by the Department. Also 679 horses for mounted patrolmen.
The Harbor Squad numbers: 1 Captain, 7 Lieutenants, 9 Sergeants, 36
Patrolmen, 2 Doormen, besides civilians employed as engineers, firemen,
oilers, deck-hands, etc.
It is provided with one vessel of 235 tons, five launches, two dories,
and six boats.
These boats patrol about 340 miles of water front.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Great Taxicab Robbery, by James H. Collins