The Crime of the Century; Or, The Assassination of Dr. Patrick Henry Cronin

by Henry M. Hunt

HOW BURKE WAS CAPTURED.

It was an inspiration, and a fortunate one, that induced Chief McRae, of the Police Department of Winnipeg, to turn his steps toward the railroad depot on the afternoon of Sunday, June 16th. Just why he did so he was never able to satisfactorily explain even to himself. He had with him, however, that eagle eye and that acuteness of perception which had not only made his name famous in the criminal annals of Manitoba, but also made it a menace and a terror to transgressors of the law. When, some days before, he had received a request from the police authorities of Chicago to be on the watch for a man named Delaney, he had issued general instructions to members of his force that any individual answering the description should be arrested on sight, while at the same time the principle details were impressed upon his own memory. One of the first persons he encountered upon reaching the depot was a man whose appearance instantly arrested his attention. He was an athletic looking fellow of excellent proportions, about twenty-six years of age and fairly well dressed. His face was red and freckled, his eyes gray and his hair brown. There was a deep scar on the front part of his head on the left side, another over his left eye tending downward, and a third, very deep, on the back of his head, below the rim of his hat. Nearly six feet in height, he looked like a man well able to take care of himself, and the termination which was wrought in every line of his countenance showed that he was possessed with sufficient nerve to assist in carrying out the details of any dark deed. Observing that he was being watched, the man looked furtively around, pulled his slouch cap well down over his eyes and endeavored to hide his features in the shadow of the building. In a few moments he walked to the rear, across the vacant lot, strolled back again and boarded a Canadian Pacific express, which was about to leave for Montreal. The Chief followed and took a seat behind the suspect, but the latter immediately stuck his head out of the window so that McRae could not see his face.

Not to be trifled with, however, the latter went out of the car and walked along the platform. When he reached the window he found it closed, and looking through, saw the man on the other side of the car with his head again out of a window. These actions served to confirm his suspicions, and McRae boarded the train. At this moment it began to pull out, and realizing that it was a time for prompt action, he stepped up to the suspect, placed his hand on his shoulder, and told him that he was wanted. The man turned pale and red by turns, but made no reply, and grabbing up his valise, he meekly followed his captor out of the car and on to the platform. Here the Chief asked him several questions, and failing to get satisfactory replies decided to take him to the station. Donald E. McKinnon, one of the most experienced members of the city force, was acting as desk sergeant at the time.

"What is your name?" he asked, as the Chief brought in his prisoner.

"W. J. Cooper," was the reply.

McKinnon proceeded to search him. In his pockets he found several small articles, the sum of $58.20 in cash, a railroad ticket to Montreal, and a steamship ticket from the latter city to a European one. On the back of this the name of W. J. Cooper was written.

"I must caution you now," said Chief McRae, "that anything you admit may be used against you now as evidence, if you should be brought to trial. Now, is that your name written on this ticket?"

"Yes—No," answered the prisoner, after considerable hesitation.

"Well, what is your name?" continued the Chief.

Again more hesitation—"Martin Burke," the prisoner replied, finally.

"What other names have you got?"

"Well, I sometimes go by the name of Delaney."

MARTIN BURKE

The Chief was now satisfied that the man so badly wanted in Chicago was in his clutches, and he hastened to apprise Superintendent Hubbard by telegraph of the fact. This done, he resumed his examination of the prisoner.

When asked where he came from, he replied "Chicago," but that he had not traveled direct, having first gone to Hancock, Michigan, where he had visited a man named John F. Ryan. This man, he said, had a homestead, although he corrected this latter and said that he kept a store. He went on to say that he had written to Ryan since his arrival in Winnipeg, and that he was on his way to the old country. While making these statements he was extremely nervous and excited, and this caused Chief McRae to remark:

"What have you done that you are so nervous?"

Burke made no reply. He was asked why he had adopted the name of W. J. Cooper, and replied that he did so because he was being watched by two or three men. In Chicago, he said, he had resided at the corner of Erie and Sedgewick streets, and he gave the names of several people in that neighborhood whom he knew, including a saloon keeper. Burke was placed in a cell, and the officers proceeded to examine his valise. In it they found several articles of clothing, including a light colored felt hat, considerably crushed, and with about a three-inch brim. On the sweat band there were ink marks, which had evidently been applied to obliterate some name or ownership mark. There was also a slip of paper, which proved to be a receipt for the sum of five dollars, paid by W. J. Cooper to Alexander Calder, on account of a ticket to Liverpool.

Inquiries were next made concerning Burke's movements from the time he arrived in the city. It was found that he first put in an appearance on the Thursday prior to his arrest, and put up at the Russell House, a second-class hotel, without registering. On Saturday he appeared at Caldwell's office and inquired the price of a ticket to Queenstown or Liverpool, by way of Montreal. He was told and giving his name as Cooper, he handed out $5 as a deposit, adding that he would call and pay for the ticket on the following day. He was told that the office was not usually open on Sunday, but that if it was necessary the agent would come down and issue the ticket. From here he went to the telegraph office, where he wired to somebody in Chicago for the sum of $200. This came later in the day, and was paid to him. Late that night he wrote and mailed several letters, and on the following morning—Sunday—called for his ticket and paid for it.