That blasted the theory that he might have been a criminal seeking to get by on a phony address. But it did not clear him of suspicion of murder. As to his presence at the house around the time Pauline was killed, he had a ready explanation.
“I had a package for that street number but it was not for Sterling Avenue,” he said, explaining that he had made a wrong turn and got into the wrong street. Not until he visited the house and saw the name on the door did he realize he was on the wrong street, he said.
It took only a few minutes to verify his story. After a bit more questioning we returned empty-handed to headquarters. We were thoroughly irritated. Twenty of us were working on the case and we knew exactly nothing about the killer. It was at this juncture that Police Commissioner James W. Higgins called me into his office.
“Jim,” he said, “this is a tough nut to crack, and it appears to me as though two or three men will get farther than a mob.”
I nodded, waiting for him to go on. He continued:
“I’m assigning you, Detective Sergeant George Maloney and Sergeant Charles Sheehan to the job. You’ve got carte blanche. Get to it, and good luck.”
That put the three of us squarely in the middle. From our past experience with Commissioner Higgins, we knew that he was a good boss. And he expected results!
We went back into a huddle over a cup of coffee. Methodically, Maloney, Sheehan and I went back over every known angle of the case, debating each point in hopes of shedding new light on the mystery.
One, two, three hours sped by. Reluctantly, we came to the conclusion that the entire investigation thus far had been off the correct track.
It was not until then that light began to dawn. If the killer had not been a sadist or a revenge murderer, then he must had some other reason for going to the house. And that reason might very well not have been murder!
In an instant my mind had grasped the significance of the thought. That was it. The murder was not paramount. It was a side issue! Why then had the killer gone to the house?
It was at this point that an incident which had occurred a few weeks previously correlated itself with the problem at hand. The wife of a well known Buffalo attorney had returned to her home in North Buffalo one afternoon and surprised a husky, good-looking young man in the act of ransacking the place. He threatened her with a pearl-handled revolver and fled.
A daylight burglar! It clicked. Maloney, I knew, had been checking on such a criminal. There had been a wave of daylight lootings and all were in the general vicinity of the murder house. How foolish not to have thought of that before! But was it the right answer? The burglar only entered homes where no one was present, and Pauline had not left the place. That seemed a flaw.
Maloney wrinkled his brow when the matter was put up to him.
“I have been trying to get a line on a daylight burglar all right, Jim,” he said, “but he always works in places where everyone’s out.”
I told him that had occurred to me, that I could not shake off the conviction that this was the right trail. Sheehan listened and made notes.
“You may be right,” he agreed, “at least we should check it.”
Maloney brought out his notebook and recounted to us his investigation into the depredations of the daylight marauder. He had visited the home of every victimized householder. The attorney’s wife was the only one who had seen the man. She had described him as rugged and good looking. From her story we knew the thief carried a revolver. And Pauline Sokolowska had been killed by a revolver bullet.
The thief, Maloney continued, stole money exclusively. Valuable gems he disregarded, even if the cash totaled only a few cents. One of his most recent jobs he had been in a Colvin Avenue home not a dozen blocks from the murder house. There the burglar had entered, either by means of a duplicate key, or through an unlocked door. He had extracted $17.50 from an envelope addressed to a missionary society and departed leaving everything else unmolested.
But where was the connection between the daylight burglary and the Sokolowska murder? The thing preyed on my mind. I dragged the other two back to the murder house again. Once again we went over the place. It was then that I noticed a thing that had been mentioned in our description of the place at the time of the killing but which otherwise had gone unheeded.
A book Pauline had been reading had been found beside a couch in the parlor. It lay open, pages facedown on the rug as though someone lying on the sofa might have dropped it there when overcome by drowsiness. Was this part of the answer?
My mind raced and we argued the matter excitedly. Suppose Pauline had been lying down reading when the burglar had entered. Maybe the girl was dozing and did not hear him come in but then awoke. A tussle followed. She had fought desperately, we knew, for in his report the medical examiner said there was skin under her nails. She must have scratched her attacker.
We were more hopeful. Our job now was to find a burglar with a revolver and probably a scratched face.
“What about it, George?” I asked Maloney. “Have you any ideas as to who the daylight burglar might be?”
He rubbed his chin reflectively. “I’ll tell you, boys,” he answered. “I haven’t been able to shake off the thought it’s somebody from the neighborhood. Else how would he know when the people would be out?”
“The attorney’s wife didn’t recognize him,” Sheehan pointed out.
“True,” admitted Maloney, “but the chances are he knows more about the people in the neighborhood than the people in the neighborhood know about him. He cases his jobs mighty well. There’s never been anybody home — before.”
“Well,” observed Sheehan, “what do we do now, make a house-to-house canvass?”
I shook my head. That sounded too much like an impossible task. “Why not check our burglar file?”
The suggestion met with approval and the next hour found us in the bureau of identification deep in photos and records of burglars who had exhibited efficiency in casing their jobs, who worked by day, and who lived in the general vicinity of the murder house.
It was a tedious job and one that we were often tempted to drop. Only the conviction that we were on the right track kept us at it. We learned that day that patience truly has its rewards. In the midst of our checking we suddenly came upon one name that stuck out from the rest like a sore thumb.
“James Lewis Venneman,” I read.
We exchanged glances. In that instant each of us knew what was revolving in the other’s mind. Venneman was known to us. He lived on Colvin Avenue not a great distance from the murder house, and right smack in the neighborhood where the daylight burglar had been working.
We needed no folder to remind us of Venneman’s reputation. At seventeen he had been sent to the Elmira reformatory after an altercation in a West Side poolroom. Surrounded by a gang of young men, Venneman had drawn a revolver and threatened to shoot.
Subsequently police had found in his possession a list of houses many of which had been entered by a thief who specialized in stealing money. And after the listing of each home was a brief descriptive paragraph, such as “Two-story; porch; windows unlocked, man and woman away all day.”
All told there were 50 such notations. Sixteen were crossed off. Investigation revealed those 16 places had been entered.
We knew further that Venneman now was employed in an auto agency which was located in the general vicinity of the murder scene. We needed to talk to Venneman. In a few minutes we were headed for the auto agency. But we did not find our man there.
“He didn’t come in today,” said his boss.
“Is he in the habit of laying off?” Sheehan asked.