And seated: Tommy Coleman himself, slouched against the wall, feet up, underneath a portrait of George Washington, at a much-knife-scarred table, the smirk on his youthful face bearing witness to his youthful bravado.
Hays rewarded each young gangster the benefit of his studied glance before descending on Tommy, looming over him.
None of the boys looked away.
“Mr. High,” Tommy pronounced.
“Master Coleman.”
“Are you in search of me?”
“I am.”
“You don’t find me venturing north past Canal Street to do my business, and no leatherhead, not even no high constable, better dare come here to my den if he values his life and the life of his family.” Tommy spoke soberly; Hays hoped more for the impress of his cohorts than for him.
“Is that so?” said Hays.
“I make no idle threat, suh,” Tommy persisted.
“No?”
“No.”
“Do you know why I am here, Tommy?”
“Should I?”
“You were reported outside the Scots church.”
The big grin reappeared. “Church?” Tommy shook his head at the other boys. “Not likely.”
The curtain stirred. A beautiful barefoot girl in the familiar calico dress of a hot corn girl, no older than Tommy, seventeen or eighteen maybe, carrying a cedar bucket suspended from around her neck, entered. A two-year-old in similar garb trailed her. Seeing Hays, the hot corn girl abruptly halted and shrank back against the wall.
The little girl murmured, “Mama.”
Hays studied mother and daughter, noticed something of Tommy in the tot. His auburn-colored hair. His freckled nose. He turned back to Tommy. “The copper sheathing off the steeple is gone.”
Again Tommy shook his head. He grinned, showing prominent white teeth outlined by dull brown. “I do’nah do metal,” he shrugged. “Them native gangs, the Butcher Boys, the True-Blue Americans, they are more likely participants.”
“Not you?”
“Not me. Not mine.”
The little girl murmured, “Da.”
Tommy turned and scooped his daughter off the floor. When he returned his gaze to Hays, the high constable asked, “What about the Hudson shoreline at Weehawken, Tommy? Have you and your tribe done outrage there?”
News of Murder Breaks in the Public Prints
Not much of the murder of Mary Rogers appeared in the newsprints in those first days following the discovery of her body. Only a small mention on July 29 was made of the crime in the Commercial Advertiser:
BODY FOUND FLOATING IN NORTH RIVER
but beyond that nothing.
It wasn’t until the morning of August 1, 1841, that news broke in James Gordon Bennett’s Herald.
MURDER!
cried the headline.
BODY OF SEGAR STORE GIRL FOUND
“The first look we had of her was most ghastly,” began the account. “So much violence had been done to her, her features were scarcely visible.”
When we saw her, she was laying on the bank, on her back, with a rope tied around her, and a large stone attached to it, flung in the water. Her face and forehead so butchered that she had been turned into a mummy.
On her head she wore a bonnet—light gloves on her hands, with the long watery fingers peering out—her dress was torn in various portions— her shoes were on her feet—and altogether she presented the most horrible spectacle that the eye could see.
And so it was, the body of Mary Cecilia Rogers, the Beautiful Segar Girl. It almost made our heart sick, and we hurried from the scene, while a rude youth was raising her leg, which hung in the water, and making unfeeling remarks on her dress.
Bennett demanded nothing less than immediate and full-scale action leading to an arrest.
A CALL TO ALL CITIZENS!
A murder of such atrocious character must be taken from the realm of
mere police report so that especial attention will be paid, and our young
women protected.
After reading this, Hays remained silent for some seconds before wondering of his daughter, “Do you feel like you need protection, Olga?”
“I feel so sorry for her, Papa,” she admitted. They were in the kitchen together. “I am beginning to fear in this city all young women—all women—need protection.”
If anything, his daughter was too much like himself. When he first told her of Mary’s murder, her first concern had been for how much she, the victim, must have suffered.
“Has Balboa arrived yet?” Hays asked her.
“No, Papa, not here yet.”
“Then do me the good service, Olga. Run to the news hut and buy the gamut of newsprints.”
“All?”
“The Commercial Advertiser, the Mercury, the Times, Greeley’s Trib, the Sentinel, the Sun. Whatever you can lay hands on. Whatever the boys are hawking.”
“Certainly, Papa. But I don’t think the Tribune will be in yet. It’s an afternoon paper.”
“No matter. Whatever is available. Take some coins from my pocket purse.”
The newspaper shed, two blocks northwest from their home on Lispenard, stood at the corner of Church and Canal. She returned less than fifteen minutes later carrying eleven papers.
The high constable by this time was fully dressed for the day’s demands, and waiting for her. “Do you mind, dear, would you thumb through
