The Five (book)

When did serial killers become sexy? Why did serial killers become sexy? Or more to the point, when did they become interesting? Fascinating? A subject of intellectual discourse of heated debate? Because to a man, they are all complete losers.

There was great interest in these losers in the 1990s, due in some part, I guess, to the 1992 Academy Award Winner for Best Picture, The Silence of the Lambs. It is not, however, the subject of the manhunt, Buffalo Bill, who became iconic, but the already incarcerated murderer, Hannibal Lecter, as performed by Anthony Hopkins. He’s cool, eerie, stylish, witty, brilliant, and, some would say, sexy.

He wasn’t the first murderer to hold my interest, however. That would be David Warner as Dr. John Leslie Stevenson in the 1979 time traveling romp, Time After Time. Malcolm McDowell, playing against type, is the bespectacled, naive and charming H.G. Wells, who (in this fictional tale) invents an actual, functional time machine. The device proves advantageous when the police arrive to arrest Dr. Stevenson, who uses it to escape Wells’ home, the city of London and the 19th Century. For Dr. Stevenson also happens to be the man known as “Jack the Ripper.”

Warner’s character travels through time – and space! – to disco-era San Francisco, where he continues his compulsion for slaughtering sex workers.

Because that’s what we know about him, isn’t it? I queried my brother recently, what do you know about Jack the Ripper? Nothing, he told me. I asked who his victims were. He said sex workers.

Seriously, my sixty-four year old brother said sex workers, not prostitutes. We have Gen Z children, after all.

Warner’s “Jack” was cool, eerie, stylish, witty, brilliant, and, some would say, sexy.

We seem to ascribe an extraordinary intelligence to serial murderers, and I imagine we do so due to the fact that they get away with it. They are "always one step ahead of the police” or that some even manage to stay anonymous, forever.

In the mid-to-late 1990s I read both Torso: The Story of Eliot Ness and the Search for a Psychopathic Killer by Steven Nickel and Paul W. Heimel’s Eliot Ness: The Real Story. The Ness-Cleveland connection greatly interested me (duh) and exposed me to the so-called Torso Murders, a series of grisly killings which occurred in the 1930s, and primarily during Ness’s tenure as Safety Director.

Attempts to connect these crimes are specious, but that hasn’t prevented folks from crafting their own theories about a single perpetrator. I personally cleave to the belief that these murders are unrelated. I was particularly grateful when this theory was put into print by Cleveland true crime author John Stark Bellamy in his book The Maniac in the Bushes (and More Tales of Cleveland Woe) that in the absence of corroborating evidence these tragedies should be assumed to be the work of different individuals.

Much has been made of this one guy, a member of a well-placed political family, who wrote taunting letters to Ness, claiming to be the culprit. But what of that? I send taunting letters to the Vice President every week.

Regardless, this desire to tell stories about these violent criminals … before Dexter, a contemporary cable program in which the serial killer is the hero because he kills other killers (oy) there was the X-Files spin-off Millennium. An FBI agent played by Lance Henriksen has the ability to access the sight of criminals, to see what they see. The first season was all about the crimes of serial killers, and I checked out from that show pretty fast. A network program thick with images of pain and horror.

Because that’s what we’re talking about – pain and horror. And as with fictions (Silence of the Lambs, Millennium, Dexter) or reality (Kingsbury Run or Whitechapel) the focus is on the killer. Ostensibly, to discover who he is, but also, because – as they say – he fascinates us.

Except he doesn’t. If reality has shown us anything, it’s that actual serial murderers are not interesting. They aren’t surgical villains with a penchant for chianti. They are outcasts and losers. Like Jeffrey Dahmer, Wayne Williams and John Wayne Gacy, unremarkable sociopaths.

The Whitechapel murders of 1888 inspired the legend of Jack the Ripper. That’s not even a real name, it originates from an anonymous letter to the editor of a newspaper, and almost certainly fake. Popular subjects have included barristers, doctors, and – of course – those within the sphere of the Royal Family.

The single, unidentified person of “Jack” killed five women over a period of several months, and then never again. These five are referred to as “canonical” which, while accurate because it means – generally – to be accepted as part of a group, is offensive to me as it lends legitimacy to something that cannot be known and is likely to be false.

All five were women, and all five have always been said to be sex workers. My introduction to “Jack the Ripper” was the film Time After Time, and it begins with Warner’s doctor encountering and then murdering a woman who has made it clear that the encounter is meant to be transactional.

In her book, The Five, author Hallie Rubenhold does what no one thought to do before, which is to question the common wisdom and to investigate the lives of the victims. Contemporary police accounts state clearly that all five were “prostitutes.” Rubenhold thoroughly documents the prevailing assumption at that time that all destitute women were, or that they may as well be so.

In describing the lives of each woman, we understand each; their unique descent into penury – which brought each to this locale, a district of London which was just one center for the destitute and unhoused – and their commonality, namely that each had an addiction to alcohol.

Rather than slaughtered in the act of solicitation, the first four were much more likely to have been preyed upon while sleeping out-of-doors, while the fifth – also sleeping – was surprised in her bed, the door to her one-room, ground floor apartment easily opened. To ascribe a (still) socially unacceptable occupation has always diminished their personhood, adding “they asked for it” to their epitaphs. But they were human people, undeserving of their economic status as well as their horrifying demise.

This is an actual, mass-marketed
"Jack the Ripper" costume.

This throws some salt into the works for many “Ripperologists” (a hateful term) whose theories about who the murderer may have been, especially those bespoke theories about an assassin for the Man-mans; eliminating a cabal of sex workers who could bring down the Monarchy, or someone on a Messianic quest to purge the city of lechery.

When we understand who the victims were, their deaths seem random. Each was just a very unlucky woman, sleeping rough (as they say) in the wrong place at the wrong time. And conspiracy theorists hate randomness. In fact, Rubenhold has had to endure a great deal of criticism and abuse for this book, as it does not offer any new insight into who “The Ripper” may be, Worse, it tears down a few theories carefully crafted by men (always men) who fancy themselves experts in a rarefied field.

The point is, we don’t know. We’ll never know. Accepting what we do not know is a very difficult thing. Conspiracy theories are born when men strain to apply meaning to what they do not understand, and in doing so they lose sight of the victims.

See also: Torso Murders (Cleveland Centennial)

The Death of Eliot Ness

Ness married sculptor Elisabeth Andersen Seaver in 1946. She was his third wife. They both drank. Since his failed run for Mayor of Cleveland in 1947, Ness' fortunes had dwindled until by the early 1950s he was accepting jobs as an electronics wholesalers, working as a clerk in a downtown bookstore (remember those?) and selling frozen hamburger patties to restaurants.

In 1949 they adopted a three year-old boy, Robert Warren Ness (July 10, 1946 - August 31, 1976) ... though his gravesite in Lakeview Cemetery reads Robert Eliot Ness. Not much is known about Bobby Ness, except what can be inferred from what we know about Ness. After failing to win the election, his drinking became a serious problem. The family lived in a rented house in Cleveland, Eliot spent too much money on a new car, too much time in hotel bars, and here he began inflating his responsibility in bringing down Al Capone to anyone who would listen.

In the early 1950s Eliot became a shareholder in Guaranty Paper Corporation - without going too much into the details, he was chosen through connections with persons who were trying to make a business out of a new watermarking process to make checks and other legal documents harder to counterfeit. They tagged Ness because of his connections in law enforcement. It was a good, regular job and supported his family.

In 1956 the operations of Guaranty were moved from Cleveland to Coudersport, PA, as a money-saving decision. The Ness' settled into a stable, middle-class existence. Bobby made friends with a boy across the street who had Down Syndrome. Coming home from work Eliot could be relied upon to play ball with the kids in the yard, and be a real sport.

Betty was less than happy to be a sculptor in rural Pennsylvania. They drank, they fought, the boy had to listen to it all.

There is a small cottage industry in Cleveland surrounding the so-called Torso Murderer. The Wikipedia entry for this unsolved murder case posits from time to time (depending on how recently it has been edited) that failure to solve this case destroyed Eliot Ness. He is referred to as "The 14th Victim" or some such nonsense.

The hit-and-run drunk driving accident Ness was involved in 1942 lost him his job as Safety Director. His ill-thought out run for Mayor in 1947 sealed his loss of reputation. He was a good cop, and a lousy businessman. He drank too much. These things happen. It's not as sexy as the myth. But myths are pat and dry and often teach us nothing. Easy, neat solutions make the world seem easy and neat. Learning how to deal with the messiness of real life is hard and unrewarding. Except for that is how we learn to deal with the messiness of real life.

Ness had a heart attack in his kitchen on May 16, 1957. He died at home, which is a fine place to die. He was 54 years old.

Sources:
Eliot Ness:The Real Story (Paul Heimel)
Squidoo

Bay Village

Eliot Ness and his wife Edna Staley Ness lived in a bungalow right on Lake Erie in the bedroom community of Bay Village, a town described in a 1936 edition of The Plain Dealer as "A little New England, west of Cleveland."

Eliot & Edna

Their cottage (pictured above) would have sat hidden from Lake Road, behind a much larger house. I have no idea what the address is, and the odds are very good it was torn down in the past decade to create a much larger house.

The Lake Shore Electric would make the trip downtown in about an hour. The Ness home was a gray, one-story affair with a reflecting pond, easy access to the water, a cozy fireplace and plenty of room for their six cats. However, Eliot did not usually get home before 10 PM.

Sources:
Bay Village (Virgina L. Peterson)
Eliot Ness, The Real Story (Paul W. Heimel)
Bay Village: A Way of Life

The Torso Murders and Wikipedia

From the Wikpedia Cleveland Torso Murderer entry:

During the time of the "official" murders, Eliot Ness was the Public Safety Director of Cleveland - a position known in other cities as police commissioner. Ness was unsuccessful in the investigation, and despite his history of the capture of Al Capone, Ness's career as a detective ended shortly after the murders stopped. Because of what was seen as Ness' failure to capture the killer, it has been said that Eliot Ness was the Torso Murderer's 13th "victim".

"It has been said," indeed. Poetic, but false.

"The Public Safety Director had supreme authority over municipal law enforcement and ancillary services." (Paul Heimel, Eliot Ness: The Real Story) He was in charge of the police and fire departments, a responsibility broader than that of Police Commissioner. He was not a "detective" and though he was called upon to make comments about the so-called Mad Butcher it was not his "case."

Ness' career as Safety Director ended four years after the last in this series of murders ended in 1938. Following a few years of slipping popularity, on March 5, 1942 Ness was responsible for a hit-and-run accident. Witnesses suggest he had been drinking earlier that evening, yet Ness did not formally resign until April 30.

Some may say his increased use of alcohol may have been caused by his failure to catch the Mad Butcher. But his career path, though maybe a little tragic, is kind of ordinary.

LATER: I tried to clean it up a bit. How does this sound?

During the time of the "official" murders, Eliot Ness was the Public Safety Director of Cleveland, who has authority over the police department and ancillary services, including the fire department. Ness was unsuccessful in the investigation, and despite his history of the capture of Al Capone, Ness's career as a detective ended four years after the murders stopped because of a hit and run accident he was involved in that had nothing to do with these murders.

No? I'll keep working at it.

EVEN LATER: I love Wikipedia. Someone already polished my prose and removed the last bit about the hit-and-run accident ... which is fine by me, the accident is irrelevant. Trying to suggest these murders are what ended Ness' career is also a fun party game.

Eliot Ness

Eliot Ness (April 19, 1903 – May 16, 1957) was an American Prohibition agent, famous for his efforts to enforce Prohibition in Chicago, Illinois, as the leader of a legendary team of law enforcement agents nicknamed The Untouchables. - Wikipedia

"Famous for his efforts." It would be churlish to say he failed. Capone did, after all, go to prison - for tax evasion. The two individuals met once, Ness was head of the police detail which escorted Capone to the train that would take him away. There is no record of their exchanging any words.

Ness: "Did you ever think you wanted something more than anything else in the world and then, after you got it, it wasn't half as good as you expected? Has that ever happened to you?" - Eliot Ness: The Real Story

Ness is famous for another great failure. Departing him hometown of Chicago, he spent some time busting up stills and almost getting killed by hillbillies before becoming Cleveland's Safety Director in late 1935, responsible for overseeing the Police and Fire Departments. He was not a detective or a man on the street policeman, he was a political appointee with the responsibility of managing the safety of the sixth largest city in America.

Shortly before his tenure began, mutilated bodies were left, on occasion, around the city. They were eventually attributed one killer, the so-called Torso Murderer. Ness never caught this supposed serial killer, and there are those who claim this fact plagued him with doubt the rest of his life. Married three times and most likely infertile, Ness died a penniless alcoholic in Coudersport, PA. Like Ulysses Grant before him, he managed through a co-writer to squeeze out a biography before his death and it is that book that made it possible for him to be so popular, to this day, especially, it would seem, among hip-hop artists.

Of course, it is easy to simplify a man's life, someone else's life, just as it is to simplify a murder case - when you are looking for a particular narrative, you can bend the facts however you like. Ness was a successful Safety Director, bringing Cleveland up to the 1930s with modern police techniques that brought down crime and arguably improved the quality of life in the city.