Cities – Page 3 – 1947 Project

“Death Dinner” — the Dinner That Killed!

July 25, 1927

Glendale

On the evening of July 6, 1927, Glendale inventor John H. Carson settled down to a dinner of stew and strawberry preserves with his wife and business colleagues. Around 10 that evening, he complained of severe pain, became faint, and began to perspire profusely. He eventually slipped into a coma and died on July 11.

Initially, the cause of death was ruled as heart disease, but Carson’s widow insisted that he’d been in excellent health before sampling her cooking. The circumstances were indeed strange, and Mrs. Carson was insistent enough that an autopsy was performed.

Today, Dr. A.F. Wagner, county autopsy surgeon announced that a quantity of arsenic had been found in Carson’s viscera. An inquest was ordered, with Mrs. Carson and J.E. Walker, Carson’s business partner appearing as key witnesses. And of course, the Times gave the whole thing a clever name, just in case the story had legs.

At the inquest on July 26, Mrs. Carson testified that J.E. Walker, her husband’s business partner, had given her a box of candy and a bunch of bananas, which she’d feared to be poisoned. Walker was outraged at the suggestion, saying that since he stood to make 50% off of the oil pump Carson had been developing, it was certainly in his best interests for Carson to remain alive. Then, a bit cruelly, he added that he’d given Mrs. Carson a reducing recipe along with the candy because he thought she was "too fat." Then again, the woman had all but called him a murderer, so I guess he was entitled to a little snippiness.

Walker was also asked whether he’d hoped to get Carson out of the way so he could marry his widow. Walker icily declared that he already had a wife, and had no desire to marry Mrs. Carson.

Oddly, Carson said that she’d wrapped up the candy and bananas, given them back to Walker, and told him to burn the parcel in his incinerator without telling him what it contained. When asked why she’d done this, Carson said that she hadn’t wanted the parcel littering up her kitchen.

Though there was certainly something fishy about this case, investigators were unable to piece together enough evidence to prove a murder had taken place, and the inquest was closed on July 29, 1927, less than a week after it was opened. In fact, just about the only thing that was established was that Carson had most likely NOT committed suicide or consumed the arsenic accidentally by drinking from an irrigation ditch near an oil well. Just how 40 grains of arsenic got into his belly remains a mystery.

Dada Comes to Pasadena

July 22, 1927
Pasadena

Pasadenans, beware! If you’re Japanese, anyway. See, there’s a “giant Negro” on the loose, and he’s a criminal. His crime? Hanging the Japanese upside-down.

Seriously. George Shimanouchi was minding his own business in the garage of his home at 126 Elevado Drive (now Del Mar) when the aforementioned giant negro (hey, not my nomenclature) arrived unbidden and hung the boy upside-down from a rafter.

A Mrs. C. Duncan, 105 Elevado, heard someone yelling for help across the street and called it in; either she took her own sweet time about it or the authorities did, because when Detective Seargeants Mansell and Cheek arrived, Shimanouchi, now semiconscious, had been suspended head-down for nearly an hour.

The boy held the opinion that his assailant planned to rob the house after tying him to the rafter, but officers found no evidence of entry.

(While Hippocrates was a firm believer in inversion therapy, practitioners evidently went to absurd lengths in sharing their craft before its popularization via American Gigolo.)

Lions Turn Cannibal

July 12, 1927
El Monte

Quick, fellas, hop in the car! We gotta get out to El Monte pronto, or there won’t be any of the main course left. What, you mean you call yourself a Lion and you don’t want to sample a hunk of barbecued adolescent lion meat, personally prepared by the King of Beasts’ best pal Charles Gay out at his Lion Farm, as part of the celebration of the charters of the El Monte and Alhambra clubs? Getouttahere! Of course you do!

Ah, don’t be a stick in the mud! We’ll sit at the big table in the middle of the lion cages, drink up some hooch and gnaw on a cat bone while telling dirty jokes and practicing our roars. And then, when we’re all good and lit up, Gay’ll bring Numa, his biggest and friendliest lion out to walk the length of the table, and we’ll toast that kitty as he’s never been toasted before.

That’s the spirit, fellas, out we go. This is a big day for the Lions of Southern California, one we’ll tell our grandkids about!

(For more about Gay’s Lion Farm, please visit the Wikipedia page or join us on a future edition of the Blood and Dumplings Crime Bus Tour.)

How Do You Hook a Speckled Trout?

July 11, 1927
Riverside, CA

squirreltailbait Honorable Calvin Coolidge, President of the United States
Summer White House
Rapid City, SD

Dear Mr. President,

Have observed the pleasure you are taking in fishing during your vacation this summer. We think you may be interested in a special lure, used with much success in California to tempt the speckled beauties which abound in the streams near your summer home. We are sending under separate cover a few of our best "California squirrel tail bait." These were specially made for you and we trust they will bring you much luck. Squirrels are an agricultural pest in California, but we do find some use for a part of their anatomy. Trusting you will accept this contribution to your pleasure in the same spirit here manifested, we are:

Yours very truly,

L.J. Tobias, Chief Deputy Sheriff
George Bottel, Horticultural Inspector

Together As One

July 7, 1927
Riverside

James Clark has but one leg. Fortunately his wife has another. Together, they make one fine two-legged person. Unfortunately, their capacity for imbibery allows for the drunkitude of four persons, their double vision providing the visual acuity of eight.

Seems the Clarks got a few in ‘em and, sans hollow leg and all, the booze went to their collective head, and they thought it a good idea to hop in a flivver and go tearing down Mission Boulevard here in Riverside. Despite the symbiosis that stems from years of wedded camaraderie, his stomping the gas while she pounded brake and clutch didn’t work out to their combined advantage…no, these tourists from the Lone Star state plowed into another vehicle driven by one Fred Stutzman of West Riverside.

Deputy Sheriff Scott hauled the intoxicated unipeds off to the hoosegow, and reported that while both autos were severely damaged, no-one was seriously injured. Scott certainly realized that had someone involved lost a limb, he would have had to fill out the separate irony paperwork, instead of just checking the irony box on his standard report form.

Chicken Tonight

June 24, 1927
Monterey Park

Yeacio Tavary, Isa Magana and Daniel Garcia were brought before Police Judge F. F. Guaiano today on charges of stealing chickens. It seems last night officer T. J. Neal discovered the gentlemen in an automobile in the hills south of Monterey Park, along with empty sacks with feathers stuck to them, and a headless chicken.

The defendants pleaded not guilty, and to explain the presence of the chicken-in-question, one testified: “The chicken was hopping along the road with its head off and jumped into our car.” The others corroborated his statement.

The judge thought it was a good story, but not quite good enough to keep the trio out of jail for ten days.

Headless Chicken Hitchhikes in Monterey Park!

headless chicken headline

June 25, 1927
Monterey Park

The latest version of the old riddle, “Why did the chicken cross the road”, debuted today in Judge P.F. Guaiano’s courtroom. It fell flat.

While cruising his regular beat in the hills south of Monterey Park, Officer T.J. Neal eyeballed some shady looking characters in an automobile. The lawman resolved to have a look, and after further investigation he discovered three men, a decapitated chicken and three empty sacks with feathers stuck to them. Arriving at the obvious conclusion that the poultry had been pinched, Neal demanded an explanation for the beheaded bird. The suspects related a story so improbable it left the cop scratching his head in disbelief.

According to the men, Yeacio Tavary of Downey, Isa Magana of Belvedere, and Daniel Garcia of Los Angeles, they had been out for a drive when they spied a headless chicken running amok through the countryside. Imagine their surprise when, without warning, the frenzied fowl dashed up to their car and jumped in!

What were they to do? The bird possessed no identification, which ruled out returning it to its rightful owner. After a brief confab, the trio had decided to keep the bird and had been on their way to cook the obliging entree when they were rousted.

Officer Neal hadn’t believed the fantastic tale of the hitchhiking chicken, and apparently neither had Judge Guaiano who mused “Chickens are not that foolish”, and ordered the defendants to spend ten days in the slammer.

Back from R’lyeh

June 10, 1927
Santa Monica

lonchaney

His snorting throws out flashes of light; his eyes are like the rays of dawn. Firebrands stream from his mouth; sparks of fire shoot out. Smoke pours from his nostrils as from a boiling pot over a fire of reeds. His breath sets coals ablaze, and flames dart from his mouth. Strength resides in his neck; dismay goes before him. The folds of his flesh are tightly joined; they are firm and immovable. His chest is hard as rock, hard as a lower millstone. When he rises up, the mighty are terrified; they retreat before his thrashing. The sword that reaches him has no effect, nor does the spear or the dart or the javelin. Iron he treats like straw and bronze like rotten wood. Arrows do not make him flee; slingstones are like chaff to him. A club seems to him but a piece of straw; he laughs at the rattling of the lance. His undersides are jagged potsherds, leaving a trail in the mud like a threshing sledge. He makes the depths churn like a boiling caldron and stirs up the sea like a pot of ointment. Behind him he leaves a glistening wake; one would think the deep had white hair. Nothing on earth is his equal—a creature without fear. He looks down on all that are haughty; he is king over all that are proud.

—The Lord to Job, on his buddy the Leviathan

Harry G. Cole, special police officer and deputy sheriff of Santa Monica, was walking along that part of the map generally marked by wind gods and sea-serpents, you know, Santa Monica, when he chanced upon a great and insolent rahab, if not the very World Serpent, Mr. Kooky Quinotaur, yep, that Time-to-Come feast-tent leviathan of a Leviathan himself. (Oh, for the life of the Leviathan, roaming the watery abyss, romping with daughters of Canaan, siring Merovingian kings, cavorting with Atlanteans and generally making mayhem on the seashores of California!)

seamonster

Let’s hear Harry tell of it:

“As I was coming by the Sea Breeze Club the watchman was out spraying the dust down. I stopped long enough to pass the time of day and started south to finish my night work. When about one-eighth of a mile south of the clubhouse I notice something out about where the swells break, and at first thought it some kind of wreckage, but soon discovered it was a live thing. At first I thought it was a mammoth shark with a fin about three feet sticking out of the water and the top of its tail about twenty feet back, also sticking out. But soon a head about the size and shape of a seal’s appeared about ten feet ahead of this fin and then its neck.
“’Well, Mr. Cole,’ I says, “you and your dog are surely seeing things.’ Mike, my dog, had discovered it too by this time. I left my car and ran back—yelled to the watchman, ‘Come here quick! What is that out there?’ It was going north as fast as I could run. Then up came the head about three feet out of water…as near as we could guess it showed from thirty to forty feet, and whet it turned seaward we could see there were two of those big fins, or sails, about two feet apart and exactly abreast of each other.
“Last year several of the men working on the Gables Club said they saw an immense sea monster just off shore—four or five saw it. But I thought they were seeing things and let it pass my mind. But now I know that such things do happen in that old pond.”

seabeastpic

The press wryly noted that perhaps the seabeast was screen bogeyman Lon “Man of a Thousand Faces” Chaney. This is unlikely, as Chaney was busy over at Metro where in fact, on this day of 10 June, it was announced by Thalberg that Chaney would pair with Tod Browning (yet again) in The Hypnotic, whose plot would hinge on science’s strange new discoveries in the realm of mesmerism and mental waves; this picture would go on to become famous “lost” film London After Midnight.

In any event, Chaney does not appear in the greater list of cryptids. As to whatever type of yet to be catalogued by the piscatorial expert seabeast Cole saw, he said "If I didn’t have a witness to this I never would have never enough to tell what I saw. I have been night patrolling in that territory for six years and maybe it is time I was getting goofy.”

Au Revoir to Jesse Shepard

June 1, 1927
West Adams

For some time now Francis Grierson, better known in San Diego as Jesse Shepard, has been quietly living at the boarding house of a Hungarian benefactress who had taken in the aged author, spiritualist and improvisational musician and his longtime friend and secretary Lawrence Waldemar Tonner and was forgiving about their inability to pay the rent. Such is so often the fate for one like Grierson, who all his life fought Materialism despite great creative success.

Several days ago, Grierson had just completed one of his extraordinary piano performances, during which he channeled the creative energies of deceased musical geniuses and presented previously unheard compositions from beyond. As the music ceased, Grierson became very still, as was his habit… but after a long moment, his audience grew restless, and Tonner went to the piano to shake his friend. Grierson was dead, aged 79, most probably from heart disease exacerbated by malnutrition.

As a self-taught child musical prodigy he was the toast of Europe, a friend of Whitman and Verlaine, praised by Dumas pére and by Kings and Czars. Of his four-octave voice, the poet Stephane Mallarmé marveled, "It is not a voice, it is a choir!"

He claimed to be a silent partner to Madame Blavatsky in the founding of the Theosophical Society. His books (Modern Mysticism, The Valley of the Shadows) were best sellers, and in San Diego, the High Brothers built a fabulous home for him, the Villa Montezuma, in a vain hope that we would stay and sprinkle his spiritualist stardust over their sleepy burg.

But time moved for him, as it must for all of us, and in recent years he made a bit of a fool of himself, lecturing on "The Secret of Eternal Youth" with his lips and cheeks painted crimson, a toupee on top and a very obviously dyed moustache.

Just last week Grierson took a break from working on his new book of verse and pawned a gold watch given him by King Edward VII. But it wasn’t enough. Tonner went to the Assistance League begging support for the once celebrated man, and they were willing, but the aid came too late. Now they will take over his funeral arrangements, and ensure his disposal is a fitting one.

Francis Grierson (1848-1927) lies in state at Pierce Brothers, Washington and Figueroa. Won’t you go and pay your respects to one who flew so high and fell so far, before he is cremated tomorrow?

12 Angry Men and Women

May 30, 1927

Pomona

Today, 16-year-old Durward Wittenmeyer confessed to the murder of Fannie Weigel, the wife of a Pomona confectioner. It was just a few days since his release from the Whittier State School, a reformatory. The emotionally disturbed Wittenmeyer said that on his way home from the movies on May 28, he picked up an automobile spring leaf from a scrap heap, and "got a funny notion to hit someone." He saw Weigel walking home from the confectionery story, laden with bundles, and struck her twice in the side of the head. And what was the offense that had previously landed Wittenmeyer in juvie? Throwing a rock at a woman’s head in 1924.

Like a 1927 Veronica Mars, Thelma Sharp, the 17-year-old daughter of a Pomona police detective, helped police pin down the murderer. Working as an usher at the movie theater, she’d seen Wittenmeyer the night of the murder, and knew of his previous antics. When police followed up on her lead, they found Wittenmeyer’s distraught father in the midst of soul-searching. The man burst out, "My boy killed that woman. I have been beside myself since yesterday afternoon when I made him confess to me… I took cleaning fluid and tried to clean the blood off his clothes yesterday afternoon."
wittenmeyeronstand
Without emotion, young Wittenmeyer confessed to the police. A judge declared Wittenmeyer an unfit subject for juvenile court, and he was set to stand trial as an adult. A psychiatric evaluation found the boy emotionally unstable, but sane. However, a team of alienists for the defense begged to differ. Wittenmeyer suffered from a hereditary form of psychosis, they said, and the boy’s father testified that his wife was known to have hallucinations and that once, she’d been found wandering naked in an orange grove. Supervisors of the reform schools where Wittenmeyer had previously been an inmate testified to his erratic behavior while in custody. Throughout the proceedings, the boy seemed oblivious, amusing himself by arranging blotters on a table.

As the prosecution and defense rested, the jury was instructed to return one of four verdicts: not guilty, guilty of first degree murder, guilty of second degree murder, or guilty of first degree murder with the recommendation of a life sentence. Although deliberations were expected to be speedy, the jury was deadlocked after the first day with a single hold-out for a not guilty verdict, while the remaining 11 jurors stood in favor of the harshest sentence.

After 33 hours, Judge Fletcher Bowron threatened to replace the jurors unless they returned a verdict by noon the next day. However, the jury’s vote now stood at 10-2, with another juror in favor of acquittal. The foreman emerged periodically to ask Bowron whether a recommendation for leniency would be granted, and what the sentence was for second-degree murder. Bowron refused to answer his questions, saying that ultimately, the boy’s sentence was none of their concern.

Finally, after 55 hours of deliberation, the jury returned a verdict that found Wittenmeyer guilty of murder in the second degree, which carried a sentence of 5 years to life, making the boy eligible for parole in 1932. Acquittal would have sent Wittenmeyer to a state mental facility, so while he did not receive the treatment he needed, the jury’s decision at least spared the teenager from life imprisonment without the possibility of parole. Or did it?

As of November 1949 (the last mention I could find of him), Wittenmeyer was still serving time in San Quentin, having been denied parole on at least four occasions.