_The Jail at Bridgeport._--_An Important Arrest._--_Bucholz Finds a
Friend._--_A Suspicious Character who Watches and Listens._--_Bucholz
Relates His Story._
A few days had elapsed after my taking charge of the case of William
Bucholz, when two arrests were made by the officials of Bridgeport,
one of which promised to have an important bearing upon the
investigation in hand.
One was that of a shrewdly-educated young Irishman, whose sharp,
piercing black eyes, and closely-cut black hair, gave him a look of
acuteness that was apparent to the most casual observer. He had been
charged with false pretense in assuming to be the agent of a
publisher of chromos, and his practice was to take orders for the
pictures which he exhibited, from his unsuspecting customers, the
same to be delivered at some future time. He would then receive a
part of the purchase money in advance, and take his departure, while
the innocent subscriber would look in vain for the fulfillment of his
contract.
The other arrest was that of a handsome and gentlemanly-looking man
of about thirty-five years of age. His hair, which was prematurely
gray, curled gracefully about his brow and temples, but his
moustache, which was of a brownish color and carefully trimmed,
lessened the indication of greater age on account of the color of his
hair. He evinced a quiet reserve of manner, and a general air of
respectability scarcely in accord with his appearing to answer for
the commission of a crime, and many sympathetic remarks were made by
the bystanders on the occasion of his hearing.
He was charged with forgery, and had been arrested in the act of
presenting a forged order for a money package, at the office of the
Adams Express Company at Bridgeport. The evidence of the forgery was
unmistakable, and the agent of the company detecting it, at once had
the man arrested.
These two arrests were almost coincident; their hearing at the
preliminary examination took place at the same session of the court,
and as each of them waived a hearing and were unable to procure bail,
they were both consigned to the jail to await their trial at the next
sitting of the general court.
As a general thing there seems to be a sort of community of interest
or fraternity of feeling existing between prisoners during their
confinement. At certain hours in the day, in many places of
imprisonment, the authorities permit the prisoners to leave their
cells and to take exercise in the corridors. At such times they
mingle together indiscriminately and indulge in general conversation,
and many interesting episodes could be gathered from their recitals
of the various scenes through which they have passed during their
vicarious life, and the experiences thus related would tend to prove,
beyond question, that the imagination of the romancer falls far short
of the actual realities of life.
Many wild and seemingly extravagant stories are related, which fill
the listener with incredulity, but which, upon inquiry, are usually
found to be but truthful relations of actual occurrences.
But in this jail at Bridgeport there was one person, who, upon
finding himself a prisoner, held himself aloof from the rest,
declining to make any acquaintances or to engender any friendships,
and this person was the quiet-looking man who had been arrested by
the express company, and whose name was ascertained to be Edward
Sommers. He studiously avoided his fellow-prisoners and maintained a
degree of reserve which repelled their advances and at once induced
their respect.
Thomas Brown, the black-haired, false pretender, however, immediately
placed himself on friendly terms with every one within reach, and his
merry stories were fully appreciated by the residents of the
correctional institution in which they found themselves thrown
together.
But how fared William Bucholz during the days that had intervened
since his incarceration? His mind, it is true, had grown calmer since
the first paroxysm of his grief had spent itself, and he had composed
himself sufficiently to look the future hopefully in the face. As day
after day was passed in the seclusion of his cell, he had grown
reconciled to a certain extent to the existing state of affairs, but
he still looked forward anxiously to the day which was to deliver him
from the enclosing walls that restrained him of his liberty.
He was moody and silent, and his mind was much disturbed. His waking
thoughts were ever busy with the weighty and depressing consideration
of his position and of the fate that hung over him like a pall. Hour
after hour he would pace the corridors, seeking no companionship and
taking no pleasure in the mirth-provoking actions of those who
surrounded him, or in any of the events that transpired within the
jail.
Mechanically he would walk backward and forward, apparently in deep
and dejected thoughtfulness, and when the time came for the keepers
to lock him up again he would yield a ready but listless obedience,
and spend the remainder of the time in reading and profound
meditation.
He appeared to have no visitors except his counsel and a few friends
from South Norwalk. But his attorneys would invariably exercise a
cheering influence upon him, and their visits were always looked
forward to with pleasure.
Under their ministrations Bucholz seemed to have buoyed himself up
with a certain well-grounded hope of ultimate acquittal, and the
thought of the possibility of conviction, while it would frequently
occur to him, never found a firm place in his mind.
During the infrequent and invariably short conversations that took
place between himself and any of his fellow prisoners, he always
spoke hopefully of his approaching trial, and ever asserted, with an
air of conviction, that upon its completion he would walk out of the
court-room a free man. His counsel had solemnly warned him against
making a confidant of any one with whom he conversed, and he was
always very careful in his utterances when speaking about his
connection with the murder of Henry Schulte.
Thus the days sped on until Edward Sommers entered the jail, and then
it seemed as though his disposition for reserve entirely left him.
There appeared to be some feeling of personal attraction between
Bucholz and the newcomer almost unaccountable, for as they both had
avoided the companionship of the other inmates, they, strange to say,
soon quietly, almost imperceptibly, drifted into a friendship for
each other seemingly as profound as it was demonstrative.
Both being natives of Germany, they conversed in the language of the
Fatherland, and as they were familiar with many localities of joint
interest, they became quite intimate, and many hours were whiled away
in the relation of their earlier experiences and in fond
recollections of bygone days.
During the entire time in which they were allowed to mingle with each
other, these two would sit together, and their friendship soon became
the topic of general conversation. Thomas Brown, however, seemed to
be exceedingly uneasy under its manifestations, and he would
oftentimes steal upon them unawares and endeavor to catch some
fleeting words of their apparently interesting conversations.
Under the inspiration of a mutual interchange of thoughts the two
friends became warmly attached to each other, particularly so far as
Bucholz was concerned. They shared together their stores and the
delicacies which would be furnished them by visiting ladies or by the
counsel of Bucholz, who frequently visited his client and supplied
him with needed articles of diet, which were not furnished by the
authorities of the prison.
Thus matters went on, the friendship of Sommers and William Bucholz
seeming to increase with every recurring day, and the watchful Brown
still jealously watching their movements and attempting to listen to
their confidences.
They were sitting together one day shortly after this, when Bucholz,
in a jocular manner, addressing his companion, said:
"Ah, my dear Sommers, I am surprised to find you here in jail and
upon such a charge as they have brought against you."
"Yes, but my dear Bucholz, consider my surprise to find you here, and
upon the charge of murder, too. You must remember you are not clear
yet," answered Sommers, with a tinge of annoyance in his voice, but
whether it was his tone or the language used that brought the color
to the face of the accused man, Sommers did not then know.
"Ah, you should not joke upon such a serious matter," he answered,
with a degree of confusion that could not have escaped the attention
of his friend.
"Never mind, my friend," replied Sommers. "It will all come out right
in the end, only you must not talk to your fellow-prisoners about
their troubles, nor allow them to talk to you about yours."
"Oh, no!" said Bucholz; "my lawyers always tell me to say nothing to
anybody."
"That is right. You cannot tell who would be your friend or who your
enemy, in a place of this kind."
The next day, as they were sitting together, two German newspapers
were handed to Sommers by the hall-man, and upon receiving them he
handed them at once to his companion. Bucholz opened the paper
carelessly, but as his eyes glanced over its contents, he stopped,
started to his feet, and then throwing the paper suddenly down upon
the floor, he buried his face in his hands.
"What is the matter now?" asked Sommers, astonished at this strange
behavior, and picking up the discarded paper.
"Look there!" exclaimed Bucholz, pointing to a passage in the paper.
"Read that. That is the first time that paper ever said I was
guilty."
The article to which he alluded was in regard to a statement which
Bucholz had made at the time of his arrest. In explaining the fact of
his having several large sums of money in his possession, he had
declared that his sister had sent them to him from Germany. This
statement had just been discovered to be untrue, and the denial of
the sister of the fact of her having sent any money at all, was the
basis of the article in question.
"This looks rather bad for you, William," said Sommers, sorrowfully.
"It does look bad," he replied, "but I never did say that I received
any money from my sister. I never did say anything of that kind."
The black eyes of the ubiquitous Brown were upon the two men as they
stood talking, but he was too far away to hear what was transpiring
between them.
"What can they have against you any how?" inquired Sommers. "Surely
there must be some ground of suspicion upon which to base their
charge."
"Ah, you do not know. After the old man was murdered; I was arrested;
I was closely questioned, and I did say some things that I should not
have said. I had no lawyer, and a white-haired fox whose name was
Illing did every thing he could against me. I did not have an
opportunity to explain myself at all."
"That was too bad, indeed," added Sommers; "but it can all be shown
right upon the trial, and then you will come out safely."
"Oh, yes, it will come out all right on the trial, I know, for then I
will have my lawyers to defend me."
"But, tell me, William, how did this murder occur?"
Thus questioned, Bucholz, without hesitation, at once commenced and
related to his friend the circumstances of the affair, adhering
strictly to the same story which he had told at the inquest, and
which he had religiously repeated ever since.
While they were thus conversing, the jailer came to lock them in
their cells for the night. Brown slipped quietly away, and the two
men, thus so strangely thrown together, shook hands and retired to
their separate apartments, where they spent the night in slumber. But
ah, how pleasant or how fatiguing was that slumber!