The Murder of Harold Shaw

(Note: The following account was sourced from the excellent, rare book Play the Yellow Tape by Bobbie Lee, self-published in 2007.)

No one knows what Harold Shaw was doing in Fort Wayne, Indiana on the day he died. As far as his family knew, he was away, serving in the Navy.

(His body was discovered on New Year's Day.)

Was he a deserter then? We're never informed. Harold's body was found floating in the river, weighted down by the tops of two fire hydrants that had been wired to his cadaver. An autopsy suggested he had been hit on the head and tossed into the river. But first, someone had taken care to try and hide the evidence of their foul deed. (St. Mary's River, to be exact, is at the foot of Barr Street. The fire plugs were wrapped with the wire around Harold's torso. All Was.)

Who was Harold Shaw? He seems to have been a couple of people. One, the handsome, honorable Navy seaman, the other, a man that liked his wine, women, and song. Though he was known to send money back to his much-needing family, he was also known to frequent a slum full of whores, a place called "the Flats", wherein he had fun and good times at a much-fabled "house of ill-repute." A brothel, in other words.

Police were stumped, but they heard whispers in the wind. A local working girl was said to know all about Harold and his secretive, wanton ways. They began to frantically search for her. Blanche Moore was her name, and they found her in nearby Anderson.

Extradition was delayed, the deputy was drunk...

You can well imagine the scene with this old-time bad girl, being questioned by the detectives. Maybe she had one leg hiked up on a chair, pulling at a cigarette, her slouch cap hiding one eye, and the other partly obscured by a bushy tuft of hair. But, most probably that image isn't correct at all.

"Yeah, I knew him. He was one of my regular customers. Nice guy. Paid well. Well dressed, but kind of on the quiet side. Never let up on how he managed to be in town, to begin with. Understand he was from someplace down East. Military bearing and he had a tattoo of an anchor on his left hand. Sailor, but he was a real gentleman for all that. Sorry to hear how he went."

Smoke fills the cluttered, dirty rooming house room, and her eyes cast about in the shadows. She sighs, and the detective is busily scratching in his little notebook.

"It's a damn hard world, isn't it?" She says.

The detective smiles and says nothing. But, all of this is strictly the author's imagination.

Extradition for Blanche Moore was delayed. The deputy got drunk.

End of that avenue of inquiry.

Charles Davis

Several dozen individuals were interviewed by police. A man named Charles Davis was likewise interviewed. He had worked with Shaw at a hotel. He had been fired for showing up to work tattered and "with blood on his clothes."

"Yeah," says the hotel manager," I tossed that bum. Came to work looking like he tangled with an alley cat right before he had his first cup o' joe. Blood was all over his clothing, and he looked like hell. Say, mister, I don't know if he had anything to do with Shaw's death or not. I can't remember the exact date. Maybe, it was around that time. Who knows?"

The hotel manager, a creaking old man with a lean leathery face, chapped lips, and bad teeth, shrugged his shoulders and wet back in the back to fetch his sasparilla. He offered the detective one, but the officer refused, citing that it was "against regulations" to take food or beverage from a private citizen while on duty. He smiled, scratched in his notebook, doffed his hat, and was on his way.

(Again, pure creative license on the part of Your Humble Narrator.)

The Cigar Store

The cops were clueless but combed the files for cold cases and old reports. Or, something along those lines. They happened upon an incident that happened on the corner of Eureka and North Calhoun streets, apparently a "loud vicious fight", an altercation that sent one woman running home, and another fellow plunging into the nearby cigar shop. The proprietor of the establishment whistled between his teeth and said:

"Sure. I remember that. Some feller came in howling about how somebody was being murdered down at the flats. My regulars like to crowd around the stove there on a cold winter's day, I think it was around January. They smoke and tell tall tales. This feller came in, though, he weren't no regular customer. I'm sure one of my regulars would recognize him if he saw him again."

The detective ceased his scratching on his little notepad.

"Could you give me a list of those regulars? I'd like to talk to some of them."

The proprietor cracked a grin. "Well sure, officer," he said. "Anything I can do to help out the police!" And the cigar shop owner began to draw up a list of names.

(All dialog and little vignettes here, again, are nothing more than historical fiction, culled purely from the author's love of noir crime films and detective fiction from the 1940s.)

Never Apprehended

The killer of Harold Shaw was never brought to justice. This, despite the best efforts of law enforcement, and interview upon interview, all leads eventually lead to DEAD ENDS. This case has been a cold one since the Good Year 1911 when Harold's body was first discovered floating in that river.

All and sundry described him as an up-and-up young fellow with a military discipline, who was never known to womanize, drink, or gamble. His family back in Massachusetts were stunned to discover he hadn't re-enlisted; that he was carousing in a seedy town with a bunch of floozies in Fort Wayne. Harold's floating body is a continuing enigma. Some men seem to live double lives. But, double life or not, Harold Shaw screams out for justice to this very day.

Unfortunately, a hundred-and-twelve years later, not only is it too late in coming, but at this point, it is virtually FUTILE. C'est la vie!