“What the hell is this?” He shook the undergarment in her face. “I could’ve been killed!”
Jane shook her head. “I’m sorry, honey. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“This slip! I fell all the way down the goddamn stairs…” He went on for some time, describing his fall in graphic detail. Jane stared up at him, waiting for him to wind down.
“It must have fallen from the laundry basket,” she said as his rant faltered.
That set him off again. “I coulda been killed,” he said for the third or fourth time.
“I’m sorry,” said Jane. “I was careless.” After all, he was absolutely right. He was right about the sink drain, and he was right about the slip.
Next time, she thought. Next time she would call the guy.
THE BREWER’S SON
BY LARRY MILLETT
West 7th-Fort Road (St. Paul)
On the morning of June 10, 1892, as the Republican National Convention droned toward its uninspired conclusion in Minneapolis, the news across the river in St. Paul proved to be far more riveting. A great mystery preoccupied the Saintly City, and it seemed to grow more confounding by the hour. As a result, when a special edition of the St. Paul Dispatch appeared on the streets at 10 a.m., copies were snapped up so quickly that the newsboys were sold out within a matter of minutes. The story that everyone wanted to read sprawled across the front page beneath a headline of the size normally reserved for the outbreak of war or the death of a major advertiser. RANSOM VANISHES, screamed the headline above the story, which began as follows:
A shocking development occurred early today in the kidnapping of Michael Kirchmeyer, who yesterday morning was abducted by parties unknown while on his way to work at the brewery operated for many years by his father, Johann, at the foot of Lee Avenue.
The Dispatch has learned that the police late last night set a trap for the kidnappers, who had demanded a $10,000 ransom for the young man’s safe return. At precisely midnight, Johann Kirchmeyer, following new instructions from the kidnappers, personally delivered the money to a wooded area in a ravine near the brewery. Once again obeying instructions, he then returned immediately to his palatial home on Stewart Avenue.
The police, meanwhile, closed in. Under the direct supervision of Chief of Detectives O’Connor, a contingent of his best men secreted themselves in the woods so as to have an unimpeded view of the locale where the ransom had been left. A full moon provided ample illumination for the policemen, who formed what Chief O’Connor described as a “perfect noose” in which the kidnappers would inevitably be caught, or so it was believed.
During the long vigil which followed, however, the police detected not the faintest sign that anyone was trying to steal away with the ransom. As the sun rose, O’Connor’s confidence in his “noose” began to fall. Fearing that his men had somehow been spotted by the kidnappers, the chief called off the surveillance at 6 o’clock this morning.
