QRT HISTORY AND LOMBARD AND CAREY

By Retired Lieutenant Charles J. Key
PROLOGUE

I provided Bill Hackley (the original curator of the Baltimore Police Museum website) with the materials regarding Lombard and Carey and the inception of the Quick Response Teams because I had them for thirty plus years, and, like me, they were just getting older and not doing anybody much good. What good can these materials do? They can serve as a reminder that preserving the status quo in the dangerous business of police work can get cops killed. All of the materials concerning Lombard and Carey are a matter of public record. The documents concerning the establishing of the Quick Response Teams are not public records, but, since I wrote them and have provided them to countless other agencies, I am putting them out there. Their only relevance now is to history. The reader will note that they are signed by the, then, Acting Commanding Officer of Tactical (John Schmidt), who believed that any correspondence from his unit should be signed by him. As long as the program was approved, it didn’t make much difference to me whose signature was on it. Regardless, they document the founding of SWAT operations in the Baltimore Police Department at a time when moving ahead with new concepts was like pulling good teeth out of a really pissed off Grizzly Bear’s mouth–a chancy business at best.

Some of the heroes in the command structure at the beginning of that process were Bishop Robinson, and Joe Bolesta. Of particular note on the operational level, then and later, was Lieutenant Darryl Duggins (1901 in the City Wide Communications Tape Transcript). Duggins was a sometimes recalcitrant, always plain spoken, always forge ahead and damn the "brass," brilliant leader, and implementer of the structural minutia that makes a group of diverse and resistive personalities into a cohesive unit. Darryl was a Marine at Chosin Reservoir. Nothing else needs to be said. How do the documents concerning the founding of the QRT relate to Lombard and Carey? The one led to the other, or, rather, significantly sped up the other. In the months just prior to Lombard and Carey, Bishop Robinson, who was Chief of Patrol, convened several meetings of Tactical supervisors and the Commanding Officer of Tactical, Joe Bolesta. Bolesta was, and is, a more refined version of Duggins; i.e., a man that had the fortitude to stand up to command, but could do it without making unnecessary enemies that could hurt his goals and those of his unit. I was a sergeant in Tactical at the time (1930 and 2501 in the City Wide Communications Tape Transcript) and was assigned the task of writing the general order for the resolution of sniper, barricade, and hostage situations. I completed that assignment by January of 1976. With Captain Bolesta’s permission, I began training my squad in SWAT procedures. We worked mostly on our time with equipment we bought and used tactical procedures I had acquired from military tactics manuals, Los Angeles SWAT (In operation, by contrast, since the late 60's), New York SWAT, and other similar programs. We did all of the physical training on our own time, although the effort was something like filling up a balloon with mud. In February of 1976, Captain Bolesta sent my squad to the FBI SWAT school. On Good Friday, April 16, 1976, my squad was the only squad in the Baltimore Police Department with any SWAT training. On that evening, John Earl Williams decided to impress his girlfriend by killing a few cops.

LOMBARD AND CAREY
The entire Lombard and Carey incident lasted a little more than thirty-five minutes, but its repercussions still linger through today. I was scheduled to start training other TAC squads in SWAT tactics on Monday, April 19th. Lombard and Carey had been the first incident where members of the, then, nonexistent QRT had been deployed. Members of my squad were assigned as observers for the counter-sniper, an evacuation team, a gas deployment team, and an entry team for 1303 Lombard after Williams was forced out by cover/suppression fire fusillade. Those team roles had been learned and practiced primarily on their own time. Lombard and Carey would lay the groundwork for ensuring that training and equipping the QRT became a mandated, on-duty, part of the Department’s response to sniper, barricade, and hostage situations. Shortly before 7:00 p.m. on Good Friday, the temperature was above 90 degrees. TAC had been redeployed to the area around Lombard and Carey because Williams had called and told Communications that he planned to kill cops. Williams was a nothing person whose girlfriend (in his mind only) had told him to get lost. His attempt to impress her by shooting cops landed him in prison, where the last I heard, he has had many relationships much more "fulfilling" than the one he used as an excuse for his madness. I’m sure his role in prison is the achievement pinnacle of his pathetic life. Williams has been released now, a travesty and miscarriage of justice. Williams had briefly been in the National Guard and had received some training in weapons and tactics from them. He had also stolen some equipment from the Guard and had amassed a large quantity of ammunition and long guns. Specifically, that night he was shooting a 300 Winchester magnum, an 8mm Magnum, a 30-06, a 12 gauge shotgun, and perhaps others. After ingesting some PCP, he began his shooting spree shortly before 7:00 p.m.. His first targets were TAC officers, who, ironically, became his targets because of their redeployment to the area in response to his threats.

As for the rest of the story, the transcript of the tapes and photos will tell it. All of the officers were shot within the first nine minutes of the inception of the incident. They were evacuated from the line of fire within forty minutes, and the incident was over in less than an hour–39 minutes, actually. There were numerous heroes on that night, starting with, of course, Jimmy Halcomb, a Marine veteran. A hero not just because he gave his life, but because he, like nearly two hundred other cops responded to the call of cops taking fire. He and the officers who were wounded (Jimmy Brennan, Art Kennel, Neal Splain, Calvin Mencken, Roland Miller) were trying to stop Williams and did what cops do by profession and calling–they ran into the mouth of the dragon when others were running away. Also, off-duty Homicide Detective, Nick Giangrazo (forgive the spelling), who ran from a position of safety across Lombard Street into the killing zone, helped put Jimmy Brennan in a van and drive him from the scene. Brennan had been dragged behind the van by his friend and fellow Western District Officer, Doug Bryson, during a hail of gunfire. He had lain there bleeding from the time the incident began, but was kept alive by Bryson who had applied direct pressure to Brennan's gaping, gushing wounds in his elbow and side. Then there was Mike Hurm from TAC and Frank Stallings from the Western, who pulled Halcomb out during the barrage of cover/suppression fire. On the communications tape, Duggins can be heard asking me to provide a barrage of cover fire so he could take a gas team across Carey St. to a house across from 1303 Lombard. Since I had sent an evacuation team–Rummo (TL), Siebor, Schillo, and Hurm–down for Halcomb, I told Duggins I would coordinate it with their retrieval effort. Unlike the chaos of the previous half hour, when 2501 ordered cover/suppression fire, it started immediately, and ceased immediately, almost exactly one minute later, when I ordered a cease-fire. After the deafening gunfire, the silence was a remarkable change from the previous chaotic, uncontrolled communications. 2501 also ordered any streetlights shot out that were illuminating the gas and evacuation team’s efforts. Cops being cops, that order was broadly interpreted to include streetlights. a block or so away from Carey Street, where Duggins was crossing with the gas team and the evacuation team was trying to retrieve Halcomb. It was, unfortunately, too late because Officer Halcomb had died instantly, but the efforts of Hurm and Stallings were no less courageous. The reality was that all of the officers who responded that night did so selflessly, and without concern for their personal safety, and with the one overriding motivation of helping brother officers. The coward Williams decided that dying by multiple gunshot wounds wasn’t in his future after all and called communications to beg for his life. I had reset the command post’s position to Baltimore and Carey, because its original location (Hollins and Carey) was taking ricochets from either from Williams or officers who mistakenly thought Williams was on the north side of Lombard.

Communications called me and asked that I call them via land line. The radios in those days had weak signals, so I had to ask a Western District lieutenant to listen up for me while I went inside a laundry mat to use the pay phone. The Communications supervisor told me Williams wanted to surrender and asked how he should do that. Normally, he would have been directed to walk with his hands up to a place where cops were behind cover and could safely take him in custody, but I suspected that if he walked out and didn’t immediately go prone, there was a good chance he would be shot. He did that, and, although the house hadn’t been cleared, a number of officers ran to him and dragged him away. Luckily, he was the only shooter.

There were many flaws in the Department’s response to Lombard and Carey. Communications’ discipline was practically nonexistent. Officers gave conflicting information concerning the location of Williams, which resulted in officers firing on officers. Contradictory information concerning the removal of wounded officers resulted in Jimmy Halcomb being left where he fell for over twenty minutes. Again, Halcomb was killed immediately, but that didn’t change the fact that his location should have been identified and a rescue effort mounted much more quickly. The command post, 2501, was implemented and manned only by a rookie sergeant who gave all of the orders until 1303 Lombard had been declared secure by the entry team. Two colonels were on the scene (Avara and Watkins), but neither gave orders, responded and/or stayed at the command post until after Williams was forced out by a couple of hundred shots into his house. After Williams  was forced out, Watkins ordered all units, including 2501, to standby. He wanted all the district officers to return to their posts and tactical officers to remain on the scene. I broadcast to Watkins that I needed the officers to remain to protect and secure the scene until we had cleared Williams’ house–at that point it was unknown if there was more than one shooter or that Williams was, in fact, the shooter. Watkins responded again with his order for patrol officers to go back in service. After hearing that order, the unknown Western lieutenant with me at Baltimore and Carey told me he and his men would stay there as long as I needed them. Also, showing his brass mettle, Bolesta–again, a captain–told KGA to have the officers remain on the scene to protect the crime scene per general order. When KGA asked Bolesta if he was aware that unit 11 (Watkins) had ordered them back in service, Bolesta replied, “I’m aware of that.” After the house was cleared, I walked down to where Halcomb had lain. While standing over the blood soaked sidewalk with Captain Bolesta, Colonel Robinson walked up. He had tears in his eyes. He asked us, “How can I prevent this from ever happening again?” Bolesta told him, “Sign the Sniper/Barricade General Order.” Robinson did that, but, because of bureaucratic stalling by other command members, the actual publishing of the General Order wasn’t accomplished until October of 1977–for whatever reason a day or so after I was promoted to lieutenant. As a final and somewhat eerie note, the streetlight above where Halcomb had died had been shot during the cover/suppression fire, but it didn’t fully extinguish until Robinson walked up to where Bolesta and I were standing. Over the years there has been much criticism concerning the handling of Lombard and Carey. The main reason why it occurred the way it did, however, was the failure by the Department to recognize the need for a specialized team and disciplined response to such incidents well before the efforts of Bishop Robinson and Joe Bolesta. After all, there had been many similar incidents around the country and several such incidents in Baltimore prior to April 16th. Old line thinking, petty interdepartmental rivalries, and a drag-them-out-by-their-hair mentality dictated the entire response spectrum to situations like Lombard and Carey. I wish that I could say that Good Friday, April 16, 1976, changed all of that, but it would take many years for any true change to occur and, even then, not a whole hearted change. In addition to honoring the cops that were there that night, the posting of these materials is meant to stand as a stark reminder of what can happen when a police department loses, or, more accurately, never finds its ability to give the same weight to issues vital to officer safety as it does to its crime reduction mission, or now, DEI concerns. In the past crime reduction has trumped all other concerns. Today, the certain eventuality of terrorist attacks in this country should compel the Baltimore Police Department to ensure that all of its officers are well prepared to meet such challenges. It is an absolute that Baltimore Police Officers will thrust themselves into the breach, with or without proper training, with or without appropriate guidelines, and with or without necessary equipment. They will do so, and some will pay the price like Jimmy Halcomb, Jimmy Brennan, Roland Miller, Art Kennel, Neal Splain, and Calvin Mencken did on that hot night in April. It is incumbent on the Baltimore Police Department to provide them with the tools, guidelines, and training they will need. The tragedy of Lombard and Carey demands that.

Finally, I didn’t know what I was going to do with the documents that I had until I came across Bill Hackley’s website, which is now under the watchful and dedicated eye of Detective Ken Driscoll. I was much impressed by Hackley’s dedication to memorializing the Baltimore Police Department’s rich history and the huge amount of work he put into the effort. Driscoll, who sacrificed his health in the service of the citizens of Baltimore, has carried on and expanded Hackley’s work. I can think of no better way to have the story of Lombard and Carey told than to entrust it to Ken Driscoll. I know he will do it justice.

POLICE INFORMATION

Richard B. Mioduszewski Sr.

Richard B. Mioduszewski Sr., a highly decorated Baltimore police officer who earned the department’s highest honor for helping end a 1971 shooting spree that killed five, died Saturday of liver failure at Johns Hopkins Hospital. He was 56.

The former longtime Millersville resident had lived in New Freedom, Pa., since 1996.

Born in Baltimore and raised in Brooklyn, Mr. Mioduszewski was a 1964 graduate of Southern High School, where he played tackle on the football team and wrestled.

After graduating from the Baltimore Police Academy in 1966, he was assigned as a patrolman to the Southwestern District.

On Nov. 22, 1971, on his way to begin his shift, he arrived at a shooting.

Raymond D. Ferrel-el, 29, an Army veteran dressed in camouflage clothing, had carried a carbine and a .30-caliber hunting rifle into the PPG Industries brush manufacturing plant in the 3200 block of Frederick Ave., where he was employed dipping brush handles in vats of lacquer.

Mr. Ferrel-el, a former teacher’s aide in Baltimore public schools, began shooting, killing five co-workers and wounding another.

“The killer was ‘yelling as he shot, laughing wild, hysterical laughter,’ an officer said,” The Sun reported. “But the gunman calmly asked one witness to help him get out of the plant with his rifles.”

After leaving the building, he crossed Frederick Avenue and was standing near a fire station, reloading one of his weapons, when police arrived. Patrolman Kenneth Hayden approached, and Mr. Ferrel-el opened fire, wounding him in the left knee.

Mr. Mioduszewski “was late for work and was zipping down an alley when he arrived at the crime scene,” said his wife of 25 years, the former Margaret L. Keeney. “He quickly realized it was a bad situation. He saw the wounded officer and was afraid that Ferrel-el was going to shoot him again, so he shot him. It was the only time in his career that he ever drew his weapon.”

The gunman was wounded in the stomach and fell to the ground. After recovering, he was found innocent by reason of insanity and committed to the state’s Clifton T. Perkins mental hospital.

In 1972, Mr. Mioduszewski was awarded the Police Medal of Honor, the department’s highest decoration, for his role in responding to the shooting.

“He seldom talked about the incident and was a very quiet and modest man who took the job of protecting people’s lives and property very seriously,” said Mrs. Mioduszewski.

After resigning from the Police Department in 1978, he joined the University of Maryland campus police and was a patrol officer on the school’s Baltimore campus until retiring in 1996.

He was a member of the National Rifle Association, and he collected antique weapons. He also collected domestic and foreign money.

A memorial service will be held at 8 p.m. today at the J.J. Hartenstein Mortuary in New Freedom, Pa.

Other survivors include a son, Richard B. Mioduszewski Jr. of Annapolis; a brother, Arthur Mioduszewski of Ferndale; and two grandchildren.

Click HERE or the picture above for full-size article

Baltimore Police Books by Baltimore Police Authors

DATE PUB	AUTHOR	TITLE	ISBN #
2006	Baler, Barry M.	Becoming a Police Officer	13-978-0-595-38078-7
2008	Brooks, Herman Louis Jr.	Could it Be; Personal Reflections on the Book of Revelations	978-0-615-27564-2
2018	Cabrzas, James	Eyes of Justice	978-1727093636
No Date	Coppage, E. M., Sr. Rev/DR	Inside the Divide: The Friction Within; Mending of the Blue Broken Community	None
2015	Danko, Steve P.	Tour of Duty Complexity of Police Work	13-1491778258
2023	Danko, Steve P.	Charm City Boys	13-8854313315
2009	Dillon, John W.	Have I told You About…	1-60610-393-8
1997	Douglas, Robert E. Dr.	Death with Valor	None
1999	Douglas, Robert E. Dr.	Hope Beyond the Badge	None
2010	Douglas, Robert E. Dr.	Healing for a Hero's Heart	None
2023	Douglas, Robert E. Dr.	The Art of Being You	None
2023	Douglas, Robert E. Dr.	I Can't Live an Empty Life	None
2016	Driscoll, Kenny	Baltimore City Police History; A Historical Timeline	13-978-153087706
2016	Ellwood, Dick	A Dark Side of Blue	13-978-1530126789
2017	Ellwood, Dick	Police Baltimore Cop Stories II; A Real Conversation	13-978-1987410637
2022	Ellwood, Dick	LEO Legends / BCPD; A look Behind the Badge	13-979-8630414021
2010	Ellwood, Dick	Cop Stories; The Few, The Proud, The Ugly	978-1-4502-4351-3
2012	Ellwood, Dick	Charm City Blue Justice	978-1-4759-6665-7
2012	Ellwood, Dick	Charm City Blue Justice	978-1-4759-6665-7
2014	Ellwood, Dick	The Secret Zoo	978-1500640484
1893	Frey, Jacob	Reminiscence of Baltimore (Reprint 2002)	1-58549-745-2
2014	Gordon, Joel E.	Still Seeking Justice; One Officers Story	None
2014	Gordon, William D.	Life in Black and White	None
1980	Gribbin, August K. Sr.	How it All Happened	53304314x
2017	Kapfhammer, Sean	The Ghost of Anne Arundel Community College and Surroung Area	978-0-9993846-0-2
2016	Kapfhammer, Sean	The Ghost of Loyola University Maryland and the Surrounding Area	None
2018	Kowalczyk, Eric John	The Politics if Crisis	978-19474804131
2020	LeBrun, Robert L.	If I Had A Story to Tell	13-978-1-0879-2167-9
2023	LeBrun, Robert L.	Death Always Wins	13-979-8886793888
2022	LeBrun, Robert L.	Death Has It Ways	13-979-8886794847
2014	LeBrun, Robert L.	All That Remains	978-1-59299-983-5
2019	LeBrun, Robert L.	The Forever Ranger	978-1-6453-0306-0
2008	Malecki, Edward G.	On Patrol; Baltimore Police	978-0-6152-0986-9
1960	Marders, Irvin E.	How to Use Dogs Effectively in Modern Police Work	None
2022	MclHinney, Gary / Cowherd, Kevin	Bleeding Blue	978-1627203753
2002	Mize, Lawrence E.	Dead Man Calling	1-56167-709-4
2019	Mize, Lawrence E.	My Long Journey in Baltimore	978-1-6453-0634-4
2020	Mize, Lawrence E.	Baltimore A City Besieged	978-8580887777
2008	Moskes, Peter	Cop in the Hood	978-0-691-12655-5
2017	Norris, Ed / Cowherd, Kevin	Way Down in the Hole	978-1-62720-144-5
2009	Olson, Steven P. / Brown, Robert P.	Some Gave All; A History of Baltimore Police Killed in the Line of Duty 1808-2007	978-0-9635159-5-7
2009	Parsons, George P. Jr.	Passing the Baton	978-1-4251-8387-3
2017	Phelan-Eilerman, Mary	Tenley's Magic Thumb	13-1-985017641
1990	Reintzell, John F.	The Police Officers Guide to Survival, Health and Fitness	0-398-05711-7
2018	Reintzell, John F.	Charm City Cop; Life and Times of Steve Tabeling	978-1-532056505
No Date	Riddick, John	Life in Black and White	None
No Date	Riddick, John	The Boogeyman of Baltimore	None
2009	Rosado, Jose A.	THUGS Amoung Us	978-1-4389-5703-6
2011	Sewell, Kelvin / Janis, Stephen	Why Do We Kill?	None
2006	Shanahan, Daniel J.	Badges, Bullets, & Bars	1-42570963x
2020	Stout, P. M.	Baltimore Blue Bloods	979-8637795789
2013	Tabeling, Stephen / Janis, Stephen	You Can't Stop Murder: Truths about Policing in Baltimore and Beyond	None
2017	Tabeling, Stephen / Janis, Stephen	The Book of Cop; A Testament to Policing that Works	None
2013	Tomczak, Michael P.	Feasting with Franklin	None
2020	Tress, Samuel D.	The Art of Policing in Baltimore	979-8613521890
2016	Weinhold, Rob / Cowherd, Kevin	The Art of Crisis Leadership	978-1-62720-112-4
2021	Wilson, Bob	Twenty-Five Years with the Baltimore City Police Department from Behind the Badge	978-8788244754
2021	Wilson, Bob	The Baltimore Police Department: Those Were the Days	979-8481325837
2017	Wise, Wesley R.	A life in Blue	13-978-1508503583
2023	Wise, Wesley R.	Wise Musing: A Collection of Essays and Short Stories	13-979-8377164333
2014	Wise, Wesley R.	A Blue and White Life	978-1503266532

2022            Wilson, Bob                                  My Memories of The Baltimore Police Department from Behind the Badge
2021            Wilson, Bob                                  Growing Up in Dundalk in the 50s and 60s
2021            Wilson, Bob                                  The Baltimore Police Department – Those Were the Days                                       979-8481925837
                                               

Detective Albert “Mad Dog” Marcus

Detective Albert Marcus, affectionately known as “Mad Dog,” is a highly esteemed member of the Baltimore Police Department. His impactful career spans over 40 years, during which he has made significant contributions to his field.

Renowned for his assertive approach to law enforcement, Detective Marcus earned his nickname, “Mad Dog.” Over his 18-year tenure with the department, he has made nearly 6,000 arrests. His unwavering dedication and commitment to his role have garnered him numerous commendations, including two Bronze Stars. He has also been nominated as Policeman of the Year award twice.

Detective Marcus dedicated many years to narcotics before transitioning to homicide cases. His career is a testament to his deep commitment to law enforcement and public service. Even as he neared retirement, he continued to work tirelessly on solving cold cases, demonstrating his relentless pursuit of justice.

Commissioner Kevin Davis retired Detective Albert Marcus's Detective badge # 12 on March 5, 2016. This significant honor is a testament to an officer’s contributions and service. It's important to note that the Baltimore Police Department has only retired five badge numbers since its founding in 1784.

The Rising Star of Jiu-jitsu: Henry Driscoll

In the world of martial arts, a new name is making waves: Henry Driscoll. At just eight years old, this young man from Baltimore County has shown exceptional talent and dedication to the art of Jiu Jitsu.

Born into a family of MMA fighters, Henry Driscoll was introduced to martial arts at a young age. His parents, Kennith Driscoll II and Brittany Driscoll, both practical MMA fighters, have been instrumental in his journey. They have not only nurtured his skills but also ignited his passion for the sport, encouraging him to excel and fostering his love for martial arts.

Henry’s determination and resilience are not just a testament to his character but also a reflection of his lineage. His grandfather, retired Detective Kenny Driscoll, studied Jiu-jitsu and Judo under Robert Koga while serving in the Baltimore Police Department for nearly 16 years. Despite facing significant injuries, Detective Driscoll’s determination never wavered, and he always managed to stay one step ahead. His unique approach to eliciting confessions, which had a 98% success rate, encouraged people to confide in him and share their stories.

Just like his grandfather, Henry has turned his challenges into his strength. Despite Henry’s battle with asthma, he has shown that no obstacle is too big. His technique is precise, his movements fluid, and his understanding of the sport is well beyond his years.

Henry often hears stories about his grandfather’s achievements, his grandmother’s excellence, and how his uncles and aunts have all been known for their abilities. So, Henry has been eager to create his own legacy. He dreams of the day when people will search his name in the search engines or ask Alexa and hear about him and his accomplishments.

Well, Henry, that day has come. Your name is now etched in the archives of martial arts, and your story is an inspiration to us all. Keep shining, keep fighting, and keep making us proud. The world of martial arts awaits its new champion, and we believe that champion is Henry Driscoll.

Remember, every time Henry steps onto the mat, he’s not just fighting an opponent; he’s fighting his own health challenges, and he is fighting for his dreams. We are all cheering for him to succeed, and we have no doubt he will.

This is just the beginning, Henry Driscoll. The future holds great things for this kid. Just like his father, his mother, his aunts, uncles, grandmother, and grandfather, Henry is creating a legacy of resilience, determination, and excellence that we believe will outshine all of theirs put together if he keeps his heart in it, as he is already off to a great start.

This is just the beginning, Henry Driscoll. The future holds great things for you.

 

For audio, click HERE 

Stephen Tabeling
Retired Baltimore police lieutenant

Stephen Tabeling is a former Baltimore police lieutenant who served for 25 years in various roles, including narcotics, homicide, and security. He was the first detective to win a murder conviction without a body, and he investigated some of the most notorious cases in the city’s history, such as the attempted assassination of former Mayor William Donald Schaefer, the sniper shooting of seven police officers, and the killing of a drug-dealing state delegate. He also worked as a chief of police in Salisbury, a director of public safety at Loyola University, and a consultant for Johns Hopkins and the Baltimore Police Department. He retired from policing in 2000, but he did not stop working. He became a private detective, a substitute teacher, and an author. He co-wrote several books about his experiences in law enforcement, such as Black October, The Badge and the Bullet, and The Thin Blue Line. He also co-produced a documentary series called The Wire: The Real Story, which won an Emmy award in 2008. At the time of these writings, he is currently 94 years old and lives in Towson, Maryland. He is married to Dolores Tabeling and has four children and nine grandchildren. He is passionate about education and mentoring young people, and he often tells his students, “Don’t be like me.” He is a respected and admired figure in the Baltimore community, and he is a living legend in the history of policing. He has dedicated his life to serving and protecting the people of Baltimore, and his impact on the city's police force is immeasurable.

Throughout his career, he has been known for his commitment to justice and his unwavering determination to make a difference. His contributions to law enforcement have left a lasting legacy, inspiring future generations of officers to follow in his footsteps.

My Notes on Edgar Allan Poe, 

In reality, Poe was never a suspect in any murder case, nor did he help the police solve any crime. He did write a story based on a real murder case called “The Mystery of Marie Rogêt," in which he used his fictional detective, C. Auguste Dupin, to analyze the clues and propose a solution. In his story, his solution was wrong in reality ( or was it—Poe never named the killer; he only gave the initials W.W.G. ), and the actual killer confessed on his deathbed in 1849, shortly before Poe’s own death. The killer was William W. Gantt, a former Baltimore police officer and journalist who had a romantic interest in the victim, Marie Rogêt, aka Mary Rogers.

Poe's stories had an impact on the development of detective fiction and crime solving because they introduced the reasoning, observation, and deduction techniques that both fictional and actual detectives still use today. However, Poe himself was never directly involved in any criminal investigations.

William W. Gantt 
The Mystery of “The Mystery of Marie Roget”

When we say that Edgar Allan Poe invented the detective story, we may as well say that Poe invented the detective. In 1841, when “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” were first published in Graham Magazine, Boston Police was five years away from founding the first professional police detective unit in the United States. Indeed, Poe established one of the genre's most enduring tropes when he created the character C. Auguste Dupin to solve mysteries using "ratiocination," or the powers of reasoning: a civilian solves a mystery without an obvious solution because they enjoy the thrill and challenge of the puzzle.

Edgar Allan Poe
and the
Baltimore Police Department

Edgar Allan Poe revolutionized the literary genre of mystery with his story “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” He created the first fictional detective who solved crimes by using logic and observation rather than intuition, community support, or luck.

Poe’s life and work were full of mystery and drama, as some movies have shown. They imagined him as both a target and a solver of crimes, using his own fiction as a guide. These stories were not true, but they added to the appeal and mystery of Poe’s legacy. Poe’s stories also had a real impact on crime solving, as they inspired many detectives to follow his logic and style. Poe not only created a character; he also shaped a profession that has been using his techniques for almost 200 years. Poe’s influence also reached other writers, such as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who created one of the most famous fictional detectives, Sherlock Holmes.

According to some accounts, Poe was found unconscious and delirious in a tavern in Baltimore on October 3, 1849, by a man named Joseph W. Walker, who was a printer and a member of the Fourth Ward Watch, a volunteer police force. Walker sent a note to Poe’s friend, Dr. Joseph E. Snodgrass, asking for help. Snodgrass arrived and saw that Poe was wearing someone else’s clothes and was in a state of "beastly intoxication." He took Poe to the Washington College Hospital, where Poe died four days later. The exact cause of Poe’s condition and death remains a mystery, but some theories suggest that he was a victim of cooping, a form of electoral fraud in which people were kidnapped, drugged, and forced to vote multiple times for a certain candidate. The tavern where Poe was found was a polling place for the 1849 Baltimore mayoral election, and Poe’s strange clothes could have been used to disguise him as a different voter.

However, Poe was also involved in a murder case that he helped solve with his detective fiction. In 1842, Poe published “The Mystery of Marie Rogêt," a sequel to his first detective story, “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” The story was based on the real-life murder of Mary Cecilia Rogers, a cigar shop employee who was found dead in the Hudson River in New York in 1841. Poe used the details of the case, which was widely reported in the newspapers, and transposed them to Paris, where his fictional detective, C. Auguste Dupin, solved the mystery by using his analytical skills and newspaper clippings. Poe claimed that his solution was correct and that he knew the identity of the murderer, but he never revealed it publicly.

However, in 1849, a few months before Poe’s death, a man named William W. Gantt confessed to the murder of Mary Rogers on his deathbed. Gantt was a former Baltimore police officer who had moved to New York and became a journalist. He had met Rogers at her shop and had a romantic relationship with her. He admitted that he had taken her on a boat ride and had killed her in a fit of jealousy. He also said that he had read Poe’s story and was amazed by how close Poe had come to the truth. Gantt’s confession was published in the New York Herald on October 7, 1849, the same day that Poe died in Baltimore. It is unknown if Poe ever learned of Gantt’s confession or if he had any connection to him.

Poe’s death and his involvement in the murder case have inspired many works of fiction and non-fiction, such as The Poe Shadow by Matthew Pearl, The Pale Blue Eye by Louis Bayard, and The Poe Museum by Edward Pettit.

THE PASSING OF POE
What really happened to the master of the macabre in the days leading up to his death here 174 years ago?

By DOUG BIRCH

PUBLISHED: October 2, 1994
UPDATED: October 24, 2018

Death has reared himself a throne... In a strange city, lying alone

On a balmy Friday in late September 1849, a middle-aged man with curly brown hair and deep pouches under his eyes stood among the passengers of a smoke- and cinder-belching steamship as it slid into Baltimore’s Inner Harbor.

No diary, letter, or newspaper article recorded his arrival. But it’s likely he wore his trademark threadbare black suit with a boutonniere and black bow tie. He probably held a Malacca cane, which he was later found clutching.

As he stepped off the ship, perhaps the ancient side-wheeler Pocahontas, he may have plunged into the mob of hansom cab drivers and hotel hawkers that often greeted visitors at the wharves.

One thing is certain: On Sept. 28, 1849, Edgar Allan Poe vanished into the city’s crowded, noisy, and dangerous streets.

Five days later, he was discovered muttering incoherently and dressed in filthy, outlandish clothes in the first-floor saloon of a hotel in what is now Little Italy. Taken by friends to a hospital in East Baltimore, he spent nearly four days wrestling with invisible demons.

Before dawn on Sunday, Oct. 7—145 years ago this week—the acclaimed writer died with a hoarse plea: “Lord, help my poor soul.”

It was a fitting coda to a remarkable, troubled life.

An author of horror tales about premature burials and corpses springing to life, Poe himself died in a mental maelstrom of confusion and terror.

With the publication of “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” in 1841, he invented the genre of detective fiction. Yet he left few clues about the events that led to his own death—a puzzle that has intrigued, divided, and stumped historians, fans, and critics for almost a century and a half.

According to Jeffrey Savoye, the secretary of the Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore, "his mystery attracts people who are interested in Poe." “His death is so shrouded by so much disinformation and lack of information that we don’t know why he died, and we’ll probably never know.”

Yet Poe’s death amounts to more than just a mystery tale or an antique celebrity scandal. It resembles a faded family album, full of disturbingly familiar faces.

There are fading images of a city scarred by violence. Daguerreotypes of a society split by ethnic divisions. And an intimate portrait of a prodigious talent tragically destroyed, or foolishly squandered—but in any event, lost.

“There are some secrets that do not permit themselves to be told.”

From “The Man of the Crowd”

Born in Boston, where his parents were working as actors, Edgar Allan Poe was orphaned before he was 2 years old.

After his mother died, he was raised in the household of John Allan, a wealthy merchant in Richmond, Va. John Allan fed and clothed Edgar and paid to send him to school. But he never adopted the boy, and the pair began to quarrel as Poe grew older. Ultimately, they fought over Poe’s college debts and career plans, which severed relations.

After stints as a student at the University of Virginia, as an Army recruit, and as a cadet at West Point, Poe moved to Baltimore, where he lived with relatives.

This is where he struggled to launch his writing career. This is probably where, in 1835, he married his 13-year-old first cousin, Virginia. After a few years, the restless artist moved on to work as an editor, critic, and writer in Richmond, Philadelphia, and New York.

When Poe arrived here on Friday, Sept. 28, 1849, he was a 40-year-old widower and an accomplished man of letters. The internationally known author of the poem “The Raven” was a master of Gothic fiction and one of the most prominent literary critics of his day.

The stop in Baltimore was expected to be brief. In Richmond, Poe had proposed to a wealthy widow—a childhood sweetheart—then set off for New York, probably to pack up his things for the move to Virginia.

He had taken a steamer to Baltimore, then planned to continue north by train, stopping in Philadelphia long enough to edit a book of poetry by the wife of a piano manufacturer and collect a $100 fee.

The author had much to look forward to: his coming marriage, the move from New York to his boyhood home of Richmond, and his long-delayed plans to launch a literary magazine.

But he was also a troubled man.

In an age before effective copyright laws, Poe was chronically broke and forced to borrow small sums of money. His wife's death from tuberculosis two years earlier still troubled him. He was in poor health and sometimes drank excessively. A few weeks before leaving Richmond, he joined the Sons of Temperance and swore never to drink alcohol again.

Throughout his life, he quarreled with bosses, had trouble holding onto a job, and frequently moved from city to city. Weeks of lassitude would follow months of overwork.

In November 1848, he tried to commit suicide with an overdose of laudanum, or liquid opium.

“I have been terribly depressed since birth,” Poe wrote to a friend the year he died. “I cannot express to you how terribly I have been suffering from gloom. . . . I am full of dark foreboding. Nothing cheers or comforts me. My life seems wasted, the future a dreary blank.”

“Once upon a midnight dreary . . . “

From “The Raven”

Wednesday, Oct. 3, 1849, brought rain and an early chill to Baltimore. Smoke curled from chimneys. It was Election Day for members of Congress and the state legislature, and men sloshed through the streets to the city’s polling places, many of them neighborhood saloons.

That afternoon, Joseph W. Walker, a Baltimore Sun compositor, dove into Gunner’s Hall, a hotel and tavern on Lombard Street owned by a man named Ryan. Fourth Ward voters and patrons mingled in the tavern, located just east of the Jones Falls in present-day Little Italy.

Walker talked to a raggedly dressed man. Shocked at the man’s condition, he scribbled a note and dispatched it to Dr. Joseph Evans Snodgrass, a physician who lived on nearby High Street.

“Dear Sir: There is a gentleman, rather the worse for wear, at Ryan’s 4th ward polls who goes under the cognomen of Edgar A. Poe and who appears in great distress, and he says he is acquainted with you, and I assure you, he is in need of immediate assistance.

“Yours in haste, Jos. W. Walker.”

Snodgrass, once editor of the Baltimore Saturday Visiter and a longtime friend of the poet, later recalled that when he arrived, Poe sat slumped in a chair with “an aspect of vacant stupidity that made me shudder.” On his head was a “cheap palm-leaf” hat; around his shoulders, a second-hand coat. He wore dingy and badly fitting pants and a rumpled, soiled shirt. He had a Malacca cane.

Poe mumbled and seemed almost paralyzed.

The doctor tried to rent a room upstairs for the sick man, but the hotel was full. About this time, Henry Herring, a well-off lumber dealer and Virginia Poe’s uncle, walked in. He offered to help his nephew-in-law, but refused to take the sick man home with him. In the past, Herring said, Poe had abused him and been ungrateful for his help—presumably when Poe was drunk.

So Snodgrass and others carried Poe into a horse-drawn cab, which took him to what was then called the Washington Medical College and is now Church Hospital—at the crest of Broadway in East Baltimore.

Dr. John J. Moran, the young resident physician, put his patient in a second-floor room with a view of Fells Point, Locust Point, and the harbor.

There, Poe passed out.

“It was the most noisome quarter... where everything wore the worst impression of the most deplorable poverty and of the most desperate crime... Horrible filth festered in the dammed-up gutters. The whole atmosphere teemed with desolation.”

From “The Man of the Crowd”

What happened between the time Poe left the docks on Friday and that next Wednesday when he wound up in Gunner’s, just a few blocks east? No first-hand accounts survive about his five days missing in Baltimore. Rumor and speculation have filled the void.

It’s clear, though, that in 1849, Baltimore’s streets were dangerous places for a stranger to wander.

A noisy, restless, and rapidly growing city of 169,000 residents, Baltimore was one of the nation’s largest urban centers and a commercial hub of the booming South. Iron foundries pumped smoke skyward. A forest of ship masts jammed the Inner Harbor. Merchants peddled goods from Pratt Street warehouses or clapboard storefronts lining Baltimore Street.

Baltimore was just beginning to acquire its rich ethnic texture. Irish immigrants came to escape the potato famine of 1845–1849. German political dissidents arrived at the docks, fleeing repression after the collapse of their country’s 1848 liberal revolution. By 1850, about one out of five Baltimoreans was born overseas.

The city’s population of free blacks and fugitive slaves was one of the nation’s largest and was growing rapidly. Still, slave traders were busy here. Coffles of chained men, women, and children were sometimes marched through downtown streets.

Immigrants competed for scarce jobs with free blacks and migrants from America’s rural areas.

Knots of young men loitered around saloons or the streets. Whiskey was cheap and generally more potent than it is today. Temperance advocates, meanwhile, battled the bottle with a righteous vigor.

Neighborhood gangs, usually made up of members of a single ethnic group, flourished. Adopting names like the Eighth Ward Blaggards, the Red Necks, and Butt Enders, they attacked rival gangs or unlucky bystanders, employing fists, clubs, knives, and pistols.

Many gang members also worked as firemen in the city’s numerous private companies, which raced each other to blazes. Sometimes, while the building burned, competing companies would battle for the right to fight the fire and the right to collect the insurance company’s fee for dousing the flames. Firefighters were even suspected of committing arson to drum up business.

A handful of police officers and night watchmen struggled to cope with the growing violence. In five years, the city jail population will grow by 40 percent.

Violence escalated during the election season. And Poe was unlucky enough to arrive here during a fierce political battle.

The Whig Party had controlled Maryland politics for the previous decade but saw its grip slip. Democrats, meanwhile, aggressively recruited immigrants and were gradually eroding their rivals’ power.

As in most major American cities in the early 19th century, election fraud was widespread in Baltimore. One popular form of ballot rigging was called “cooping.”

A few days before Election Day, gangs of thugs roved the city, rounding up drunkards and the homeless. They furnished their captives with liquor and food and kept them in a basement or back room, like chickens in a coop. On Election Day, these hapless citizens were herded to the polls to vote repeatedly for the candidates of the party that sponsored the gang.

There were no voters’ lists. Balloting was done with color-coded cards, so there was nothing secret about it. Election judges, who were charged with challenging the qualifications of suspicious voters, were often bribed to look the other way, says Robert I. Cottam Jr., a Baltimore historian who has studied the politics and gang violence of the era.

By some accounts, there was a notorious Whig coop in the rear of an old firehouse on High Street, near Gunner’s saloon.

Poe—injured, sick, drunk, or perhaps just vulnerable-looking—was scooped from the streets by a gang and carried off to their coop, some biographers and historians strongly suspect.

On Election Day, Oct. 3, he and his fellow captives most likely would have been roused and herded over to Gunner’s, where they would have been told to vote the Whig ballot. That being done, Poe would have been sent back to his coop, told to swap clothes, and then herded out to vote again. The exchange of clothing was supposed to make it harder for opponents at the polls to spot the fraud, Mr. Cottam said.

Critics of the cooping theory have sometimes objected that Poe had too many fans, friends, and relatives in Baltimore to permit him to be marched through the streets without being recognized and rescued.

In the days before television, however, celebrities were not so easily recognized. And it seems hard to account for Poe’s strange attire in any other way.

Many scholars find the cooping theory very persuasive. In his 1934 biography of Poe, the scholar Hervey Allen called it “by far the most probable explanation of what happened.” Jean Baker, a historian at Goucher College who has written about the politics of pre-Civil War Baltimore, agreed.

“The people who like Poe as a writer really don’t like this story of cooping,” she said. But, she insisted, the circumstantial evidence seems strong. “It’s more than just sort of the myth of Edgar Allan Poe, which would fit nicely with his life.”

“I was sick — sick unto death with that long agony. . . . “

“The Pit and the Pendulum.”

After the polls closed that evening, triumphant partisans lit bonfires in the streets and set off gunpowder charges.

Poe saw and heard none of this. From the time he was taken to Washington Medical College until before dawn the next day, Thursday, Oct. 4, the author lay unconscious in his room.

He woke to a nightmare.

Delirious, shaking, and drenched in perspiration, he began to babble, talking with “spectral and imaginary objects on the walls,” Moran, the resident physician, reported. For more than 24 hours, he remained restless and incoherent.

Then, on Friday afternoon, Poe was able to talk to Moran, although he was still confused. He said that he had a wife in Richmond. To soothe his patient, Dr. Moran said Poe would soon be staying with friends.

“At this he broke out with much energy,” Moran reported in a letter written weeks later, “and said the best thing his best friend could do would be to blow out his brains with a pistol.”

Poe dozed, then lapsed back into a “violent delirium.” At one point, two nurses had to hold him down.

By Saturday evening, he began shouting the name "Reynolds" and kept it up for several hours. (To this day, Reynolds’ identity remains a mystery.)

Exhausted, finally, he grew silent.

Shortly after 3 a.m. on Sunday, Oct. 7, Poe turned his head and died.

“We tremble with the violence of the conflict within us—of the definite with the indefinite—of the substance with the shadow. But if the contest has proceeded thus far, it is the shadow

which prevails—we struggle in vain.”

“The Imp of the Perverse”

Biographers and others have blamed Poe’s death on various things: alcohol withdrawal, injury, or illness. Whatever the direct cause, his last months seemed haunted by the shadow of self-destruction.

“This death was almost a suicide, a suicide prepared for a long time,” wrote Charles Baudelaire, the French poet and Poe’s fervent admirer.

Poe’s mother-in-law, Marie Poe Clemm, decided, after talking to friends here, that the writer had run into some former classmates from West Point, who urged him to break his temperance pledge with a fateful toast of champagne.

John Pendleton Kennedy, a Baltimore lawyer and early patron of Poe, came to a similar conclusion. He noted in his diary entry for Oct. 10, 1849, that “Poe fell in with some companion here who seduced him to the bottle.”

“The consequence,” he wrote, “was fever, delirium, and madness.”

Snodgrass, a trained physician and the city’s leading lTC temperance advocate, wrote years later that, when he found Poe in Gunner’s saloon, the poet was “utterly stupefied with liquor.”

The New York Herald reported in October 1849 that Poe died during an attack of mania a’ potu—delirium tremens, the chills, pains, fever, and hallucinations that come with alcohol withdrawal.

Poe’s fans resisted this conclusion then, and they resist it now. His defenders portray him as a level-headed man, often down on his luck, whose character is too often confused with the tortured, self-destructive figures who populated his Gothic tales and poetry.

Some defenders suggest Poe may have been robbed and beaten. Others say illness felled him. Jeffrey Jerome, curator of the Edgar Allan Poe House in Baltimore, thinks the author suffered from diabetes or a heart condition. Poe, he said, probably collapsed on a Baltimore street and was picked up by passersby and taken into Gunner’s Hall for shelter.

Poe’s reputation as a drinker, his defenders say, is false, or at least grossly exaggerated. It grew, they say, out of a malicious 1850 memoir by his bitter literary rival, the Rev. Rufus W. Griswold.

Yet there is no question that Poe drank, sometimes with disastrous results.

“I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I so madly indulge,” he once wrote. “It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have perilled life, reputation, and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, some a sense of insupportable loneliness, and the dread of some strange, impending doom.”

“Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long since gone my way into the region of shadows.”

From "Shadow: A Parable”

On Monday, October 8, the author's dejected little funeral cortege—a hearse and a single carriage—bubbled through the rain along the cobblestone streets from the hospital on Broadway across town to the Presbyterian cemetery at Fayette and Greene streets.

The lumber dealer, Henry Herring, provided a mahogany coffin.

About 10 mourners gathered for the hastily arranged ceremony, including the undertaker. The Rev. William T. D. Clemm, a relative of Poe’s late wife, said a few words. Mourners lowered the coffin. In all, the service took about three minutes.

That same morning, the sun carried this obituary:

“DEATH OF EDGAR A. POE. — We regret to learn that Edgar A. Poe, Esq., the distinguished American poet, scholar, and critic, died in this city yesterday morning after an illness of four or five days. This announcement, coming so suddenly and unexpectedly, will cause poignant regret among all who admire genius and have sympathy for the frailties too often attending it. . . . “

The Mystery of Edgar Allan Poe's Death

Edgar Allan Poe National Historic Site

No subject regarding Edgar Allan Poe ignites as much controversy as his sudden death at the age of forty, which remains shrouded in mystery. What we know is that Poe planned a trip from Richmond, Virginia, to New York City, during which he traveled by steamer and stopped in Baltimore on September 28, 1849. His actions and whereabouts throughout the next five days are uncertain.

Was Alcohol Involved?

On October 3, 1849, printer Joseph Walker found Poe inside or near Gunner's Hall tavern and sent a note for J.E. Snodgrass, one of Poe’s acquaintances in Baltimore. Walker described Poe as appearing in "great distress.”

Snodgrass noted that the clothes Poe wore looked disheveled and out of place: "he had evidently been robbed of his [own] clothing or cheated in an exchange." Snodgrass and his uncle, Henry Herring, both presumed that Poe was in a drunken state and agreed to send him to Washington College Hospital. Once there, Poe was taken to a room reserved for patients who were ill due to intoxication.

Poe lapsed in and out of consciousness for the next few days, and according to Dr. John J. Moran, who questioned Poe about his condition, Poe's answers were incoherent and unsatisfactory. Moran also prevented visitors due to Poe’s “excitable” condition.

Moran later noted in a letter to Maria Clemm, Poe’s mother-in-law, that during a period of consciousness, Poe held "vacant converse with spectral and imaginary objects on the walls. His face was pale, and his whole person was drenched in perspiration." Poe died quietly before sunrise on Sunday, October 7, 1849.

It may be logical to assume that alcohol played a role in Poe's death, given that it intermittently surfaced as a negative influence during his adult life. But how does it explain why Poe was wearing somebody else's clothes? Nor does it provide any insight into the circumstances that caused him to be found in such an unfortunate state.

Was Poe a Victim of Cooping?

One of the most popular theories about Poe’s death stems from the fact that Poe was found on Election Day, and Gunner’s Hall was a polling location. It is possible that on that day, Poe fell victim to cooping, a common method of voter fraud in the 19th century. Cooping victims were kidnapped, drugged or forced to drink, and disguised several times in order to cast several votes. Others have suggested that perhaps Poe was beaten and robbed, or even that he contracted rabies.

Theories abound about Poe’s death, but there has yet to be one that proves definitive—a fittingly mysterious end for the master of mystery.

 

Poe's History Life and Death
"I had walled the monster up within the tomb!"

Described as horrifying, mystifying, and brilliant, Poe’s writing has engaged readers all over the globe. The six years Edgar Allan Poe lived in Philadelphia were his happiest and most productive. Yet Poe also struggled with bad luck, personal demons, and his wife’s illness. In Poe’s humble home, reflect on the human spirit surmounting crushing obstacles and celebrate Poe’s astonishing creativity.

Early Life

Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston in 1809. Both of his parents were actors. His mother, the much-admired Elizabeth Arnold Poe, was a talented actress. His father, David Poe, was considered less talented. The Poes performed at theaters throughout the Eastern Seaboard, from Boston to Virginia. In 1811, Elizabeth Poe died of tuberculosis in Richmond, Virginia, leaving orphaned Edgar, his infant sister Rosalie, and his older brother Henry. David Poe apparently abandoned his wife and children earlier and was not present when she died.

Different families separated and raised the three children. The successful Richmond businessman John Allan and his frail wife Frances took Edgar in. The Allans had no children of their own. They raised Edgar as part of the family and gave him their middle name, but never legally adopted him.

In 1815, Edgar traveled with the Allans to England and Scotland, where John Allan planned to expand his tobacco business. Edgar attended boarding schools throughout the five years the family lived overseas. After John Allan’s business venture failed, he moved the family back to Richmond, Virginia, in 1820.

From University of Virginia to West Point

Edgar continued his studies in Richmond. He entered the University of Virginia in 1826 at the age of 17. During the year he attended the university, Edgar excelled in his studies of Latin and French. He was unable to complete his studies at the university because Allan refused to pay debts Edgar had incurred during the school year. Allan and Edgar quarreled over the debts, of which a large portion was incurred from gambling.

Shortly after his quarrel with his foster father, Edgar Allan Poe left Richmond for Boston, where he hoped to pursue a literary career. His first book of poetry, Tamerlane and Other Poems, was published there. Unable to support himself and receiving little assistance from his foster father, Poe enlisted as a private in the US Army on May 26, 1827, for a five-year term. He entered under an assumed name and lied about his age, claiming to be 22 years old when he was only 18. Poe was assigned to Battery H of the First Artillery at Fort Independence in Boston Harbor. On October 31, 1827, Battery H was ordered to Fort Moultrie to protect Charleston Harbor. He sailed on the Brigantine Waltham, arriving for duty in Charleston on November 18.

At Fort Moultrie, Poe was promoted to artificer, the rank of a noncommissioned officer or enlisted man who had a mechanical specialty. On December 11, 1828, Poe’s battery sailed for duty at Fortress Monroe, Virginia, where he attained the rank of Sergeant-Major, the highest possible rank for a non-commissioned officer. His quick progress up the ranks can be attributed to his education, high social standing, and competence. Despite his accomplishments, Poe left military service in April 1829 and hired a substitute to complete his obligation. 

A brief reconciliation between Poe and Allan occurred upon the death of Frances Allan in 1829. Allan assisted Poe in obtaining a discharge from the regular Army and an appointment as a cadet at the US Military Academy in West Point. Poe experienced restlessness once more as he entered West Point in July 1830. One of his roommates described him as having “the appearance of being much older. He had a worn, weary, discontented look, not easily forgotten by those who were intimate with him.” The financial hardship, along with the realization that literature was his true vocation, led to Poe’s decision to resign from the academy. Allan, as Poe's guardian, refused to give him permission to resign. Unable to obtain permission to resign, Poe chose to neglect his duties and was court-martialed for “gross neglect of duty” and “disobedience of orders.”

Editor and Author

After leaving West Point, Poe eventually moved to Baltimore, where he lived with his impoverished Aunt Maria Poe Clemm, and her young daughter, Virginia. Poe continued to write poetry and prose. In 1833, he won a $50 prize and attention for his short story “Ms. Found in a Bottle.” The attention he gained led to a job offer as an editor for the Southern Literary Messenger in Richmond. Poe accepted the position and moved to Richmond in 1835. His aunt and cousin joined him the following year. Poe married his thirteen-year-old cousin, Virginia, shortly afterwards.

The Poes and Mrs. Clemm moved to New York City in 1837 with the hope of Edgar finding work in the literary field. The financial "Panic of '37" had caused a depression in the city as well as the rest of the nation. Unable to find work, Poe moved to Philadelphia in 1838. The six years he spent in Philadelphia proved to be his most productive and perhaps the happiest years of his life. He worked as an editor and critic for one of the nation's largest magazines, Graham’s Magazine. Some of his most famous stories were written in Philadelphia, including “Fall of the House of Usher,” “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” “The Mask of the Red Death,” and “Ligeia.” Poe referred to South Carolina settings in several short stories, including “The Balloon-Hoax" and “The Oblong Box." The Gold Bug, first published in 1843, was by far his most well-known work and drew inspiration from Sullivan's Island. In 1842, his beloved wife became ill with tuberculosis. Her illness and the constant strain of financial problems caused Poe to sink into deep bouts of depression.

Professional and Personal Loss

The Poes and Mrs. Clemm moved to New York City in 1844. Poe continued to work as an editor and critic. He gained his greatest fame as a poet after his poem “The Raven” was published in 1845. In the same year, he achieved his lifelong dream of owning a literary journal. Unfortunately, the journal failed within a few months. The Poes and Mrs. Clemm moved outside of New York City to a small cottage in 1846. Virginia died of tuberculosis the following year.

Death

For the next two years, Poe continued to write poetry, short stories, criticism, and plans for his own literary journal. After a successful lecture tour in the South and an extended visit to Richmond, Poe seemed to be finally recovering from the loss of Virginia and making plans for the future. On his way back to New York City, Poe stopped in Baltimore, where he died of “acute congestion of the brain.” The day was October 7, 1849; Edgar Allan Poe was 40 years old.

Edgar Allan Poe was suspected of killing Mary Rogers, a young woman who worked in a cigar shop in New York and whose body was found in the Hudson River in 1841. Poe wrote a story based on her murder, called “The Mystery of Marie Rogêt”, in which he claimed to have solved the case using his fictional detective, C. Auguste Dupin. However, Poe’s solution was wrong, as the real killer confessed on his deathbed in 1849, shortly before Poe’s own death. The killer was William W. Gantt, a former Baltimore police officer and a journalist who had a romantic relationship with Rogers.

Possible Solutions

Retired Major Joseph A. Chianca  Jr., 

Baltimore Police, a long-time employee of JetBlue, devoted husband, father, and friend to all of East Boston, passed away peacefully on March 15th. Loving husband, father, Papa', brother, uncle, and nephew. Joe was born in Chelsea, MA. He attended Christopher Columbus High School in the North End and graduated with the Class of 1969. Joe proudly enlisted in the Marines (Reservists) for a four-year term. Having a deep passion for law enforcement, Joe traveled to Baltimore, Maryland, joined the Baltimore police force as a patrolman, and made his way up the ranks, retiring 27 years later as a major. Joe returned to his home in East Boston to enjoy time with his family. After a short retirement, he accepted a position with Jet Blue as an airport operations crew member and later as the Chairman of the Airport Values Committee, which he served with great pride and dedication—Loyalty Above All Except Honor. Joe's wife Beth Chianca, beloved daughter Caitlin Sophie Chianca, cherished grandson Shawn Joseph, late parents Joseph A. and Sophie Chianca, godmother and aunt Lucy Ryan, sister JoAnn Memmolo, and late husband Richard, brother Anthony J. Chianca, and wife Jeannette are all still alive. I am a loving and adored cousin, uncle, great uncle, friend, and mentor to so many.

Black Maria America's First Police Transport Vehicle

Black Maria

It is a well-known fact that Maria Lee influenced the nickname of the Black Maria police transport vehicle.

In the annals of history, countless individuals have left their indelible mark, shaping the world as we know it today. Yet, many of these individuals remain unsung heroes, their stories untold, and their contributions unrecognized. One such individual is Maria Lee, a formidable woman from colonial Boston. Maria Lee was no ordinary woman. She was a towering figure, both in stature and in the impact she had on her community. As the proprietress of a boardinghouse for sailors, Maria Lee was known for her strength, energy, and her unique ability to maintain law and order. In her neighborhood, there was a new sheriff in town, and he was a she, and she ruled with an iron fist. Her story is a testament to the power of individual courage and resilience.

This page aims to shed light on the life and legacy of Maria Lee, a woman whose influence extended beyond the confines of her boardinghouse, reaching into the very heart of Boston’s law enforcement. As we delve into her story, we hope you will gain a deeper appreciation for unsung heroes like Maria Lee, whose contributions have helped shape our society. Join us on these pages as we journey back in time, uncovering the life of Maria Lee and celebrating her remarkable contribution to colonial Boston.

Before we learn of Maria Lee, let’s learn why we are learning of Naria Lee. The term “Black Maria” is often used to refer to a police van, also known as a paddy wagon. The history of the term is quite interesting and has roots in the mid-1800s in Boston, Massachusetts. There lived a black woman named Maria Lee who ran a lodging house for sailors. Maria was a large and powerful person, known for her ability to quell fights and bring offenders to jail. So successful was she in handling tough characters that the constables frequently enlisted her aid in bringing malefactors to book. When police wagons came into use in the 1830s, the Boston constables, remembering the great help the black woman had given them, immortalized her name in the term "Black Maria." These vehicles were usually painted black or a very dark blue. 

Maria Lee was an African American woman who ran a boarding house for sailors in colonial Boston, and some accounts place her in the early 1800s. She was known for her large stature, strength, and energy. Maria Lee became an indispensable asset to the Boston police force of her time due to her ability to handle particularly rowdy individuals. There’s an often-repeated anecdote that describes Maria Lee single-handedly hauling three boisterous sailors into the police station when they were causing a disturbance at her boardinghouse.

The term “Black Maria," used as slang for a police van, is often attributed to her. The story goes that when the police needed backup to take a lawbreaker to jail, they would call for “Black Maria," referring to Maria Lee. When police vans, originally large boxy horse-drawn wagons, came about, they were painted black and named “Black Maria” in honor of Maria Lee. However, it’s important to note that there’s no concrete evidence linking Maria Lee directly to the origin of the term for the police vans.

Maria Lee’s most notable accomplishment was her significant contribution to maintaining law and order in colonial Boston. Her strength and courage in dealing with rowdy individuals, particularly sailors, made her an indispensable asset to the Boston police force of her time.

There’s an anecdote that describes Maria Lee single-handedly hauling three boisterous sailors into the police station when they were causing a disturbance at her boardinghouse. This story has been repeated in several periodical and newspaper publications as a bit of interesting trivia.

However, beyond these accounts, there don’t seem to be any other specific accomplishments attributed to Maria Lee. It’s important to note that historical records from this time period are often incomplete or biased, and the contributions of many individuals, particularly women and people of color, may not have been fully recognized or documented. Maria Lee’s story is a reminder of the many unsung heroes who played vital roles in their communities.

The exact birth and death dates of Maria Lee, the proprietress of a boardinghouse for sailors in colonial Boston, are not documented in the available historical records. This is not uncommon for individuals from this time period, particularly women and people of color, whose lives were often not as thoroughly documented. If you’re interested in more information about Maria Lee or other historical figures.

Paddy Wagon

The term “paddy wagon” is also commonly used to refer to these police vans. The precise origin of this term is uncertain and disputed, though its use dates back to at least the beginning of the 1900s. One theory suggests that the term arose due to the number of immigrant Irish being arrested for having consumed too much alcohol and taken away in the paddy wagon.

Another theory holds that the name originates from the padding used on the inside of police horse-drawn carriages to prevent injury. However, the most prevalent theory is based on the term “Paddy” (derived from the common name Patrick), which was once a nickname for anyone of Irish descent. Since many of the early constables, or police officers, in the major east coast cities at the turn of the century were Irish, their police vans were also called paddy wagons by association. It’s fascinating to see how these terms have evolved and are still used today in parts of Britain, Australia, and the United States. I hope this gives you a good overview of the history of the terms “Black Maria” and “paddy wagon." If you have any other questions, feel free to ask!

The term “paddy wagon” is commonly thought to have originated from an association with the Irish. There are two main theories about its origin:

The first theory suggests that the term “paddy wagon” came into use because a disproportionately large number of Irish were police officers in North American cities in the 19th and early 20th centuries. The term “Paddy” is a common Irish shortening of Padraig (Patrick in English) and was used in a derogatory way to refer to Irish people.

The second theory suggests that the term originated in the 1840s and 1850s, when the majority of people being transported by police were poverty-stricken Irish Americans acting out against their destitute conditions.

It’s also worth noting that many believe “paddy wagon” could simply be a shortening of “patrol wagon" to Patty Wagon, but due to the Irish influence at the time, it became Paddy instead of Patty. This would be similar to how police cars are referred to as patrol cars today. However, the exact origin of the term is uncertain and heavily disputed. It’s fascinating to see how these terms have evolved and are still used today in parts of Britain, Australia, and the United States.

There could be a third theory. Perhaps it was a combination of both the first and second theories. At this time, there were a disproportionately large number of Irish police officers on the east coast. Likewise, the majority of those the Irish police were transporting at the time were impoverished Irish Americans, most for drinking, others for fighting, and still yet a third-class combination of the two: drinking and fighting. So, the Irish were driving and the Irish were occupying these wagons, so maybe that contributed to the nickname. While this theory suggests that the term "paddy wagon" may have originated from the stereotype of Irish involvement in law enforcement and the transportation of Irish Americans, it is important to note that this theory is speculative and lacks evidence, so any conclusions you may draw are left solely up to you. Nonetheless, it offers an interesting perspective on the possible origins of the term "paddy wagon," and for the easily offended, they need not worry about the feelings of the Irish, as we are not that sensative, and if this is a fact, it is a fact that makes us proud. There were many Irish police in the United States at the time, and Boston may have had even a higher number than the other east coast police forces, though looking at the yearsbooks of those times, NYPD and BPD were not lacking in the area of Irish police. 

We cannot leave this article without providing still yet another argument: an argument that says the term may have originated from an abbreviated form of the term "patrol wagon," where "patrol" has been shortened to "patty," but due to the Irish influence, "patty" had become "paddy." This theory is widely debated. However, some linguists maintain that the term "paddy wagon" is strongly linked to the Irish. If we look at St. Paddy's Day, a religious holiday named after St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland, the Irish say St. Paddy's Day, not St. Patty's Day. According to the linguists, the term "paddy wagon" may have derived from the term "paddy," which they say is derogatory and was used to refer to Irish immigrants in a way that was meant to mock and demean the Irish. The issue with this is that the Irish call St. Patrick St. Paddy, and the Irish do not offend easily. With that, it should be noted that the Irish do not find the term "paddy" derogatory.

Despite the uncertainty surrounding its exact origin, these terms continue to be used in various countries, such as Britain, Australia, and the United States. The term "Paddy Wagon" is commonly used to refer to a police vehicle used for transporting multiple suspects or prisoners. So while we are not sure where the temr Paddy Wagon came from, we do know where the term Black Maria came from.

 

Traffic Officer William R. Myers

Traffic Officer William R. Myers passed away on September 27, 1933.

On September 20, 1933, Officer Myers reported feeling ill to the point that another officer had to take over his post at Howard and Pratt Streets. Officer Myers was an original member of the "Beauty Squad," Baltimore's first Traffic Division; he took his spot in the division on its start in 1912. After working on one of the busiest corners of Baltimore for more than twenty years, the corner located at Lexington and Eutaw Streets, he reported to his supervisor, Captain Hamilton Atkinson, respectfully requesting to be moved to a semaphore. Myers, who has been with the Baltimore Police Department since July 14, 1896, was well known and well liked. He did his time on one of the harder corners of Baltimore, and it was becoming too stressful for him toward the end of his career, so Captain Atkinson gave him the transfer he had requested. The captain had acknowledged Myers' commitment and years of service by granting his request and moving him to the semaphore once located at the corner of Howard and Pratt Streets. This move allowed Myers to continue serving the Baltimore Police Department in a more subdued capacity.

However, after 20+ years on Baltimore's most congested corner, the stress had caught up with him, and the damage was already done. Feeling ill on the 20th day of September 1933, Officer Myers reported his illness to his supervisor and was sent home. He wasn't getting better after a week at home, and on September 27, 1933, just before 6 a.m., he passed away from heart disease, a stress-related illness. Myers' dedication to the Baltimore Police Department was evident in his willingness to dedicate himself to a tough corner and work it for so many years before requesting a move to an easier semaphore. Still, the toll of serving on such a congested corner for over 20 years had taken its toll on his health. Despite reporting feeling ill to his supervisor and being sent home, Myers' condition wouldn't improve; tragically, it took his life on September 27, 1933, signaling the end of an area in Baltimore's Traffic Division.

We can't say 100% that his death was the result of a work-related illness; all we can do is present what we know and let our readers decide for themselves. We will say that given his position as one of the original Beauty Squad, it might be enough for us to take a minute to think of him on this, the anniversary of his passing, and pray that he continues to rest in peace as we thank him for his service.

Myers' passing marked a significant loss for the department, as he had been a dedicated and respected officer and a pioneer in the traffic section of our agency. His contributions to the Beauty Squad will always be remembered, and his death serves as a reminder of the risks stress places on its law enforcement officers. Let us honor his memory and remember the sacrifices made by all those who serve to protect our communities.

David Marshall Simmons
August 11, 1958 — October 27, 2023