City of Scoundrels: The 12 Days of Disaster That Gave Birth to Modern Chicago by Gary Krist Page B
Authors: Gary Krist
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I’ve thought all the way through this case—that you have a diseased mind.” He paused and said: “Tell me the truth, my man.”
Fitzgerald lowered his eyes. Then, at exactly 8:13 a.m., he finally told the truth: “I did it,” he said. “I killed her.” 16
Chicago after World War I stood at a pivotal moment in its evolution, struggling to accommodate a vastly diverse population and invent for itself a new, uniquely modern identity. The man entrusted with leadership of the city through this critical time was its irrepressible and highly controversial Republican mayor, William Hale Thompson (standing).
Chicago skyline ca. 1925
A former athlete and self-styled cowboy, Thompson was nothing if not colorful. Regarded by some as a blustering demagogue, he was to many others a genuine hero, hailed as “the People’s David” or “Big Bill the Builder”—the one man who could corral Chicago’s warring factions and lead the way to a “Greater Chicago.”
The brain behind the Thompson phenomenon was the notorious Fred Lundin, known to insiders as “the Mayor’s Mephistopheles.” Masking his ambitions behind an eccentric milquetoast persona, Lundin hoped to use his protégé’s popularity to build a political machine to rival New York’s Tammany Hall.
Many powerful enemies stood in the way of Lundin’s plans. Among them were the publishers of the city’s two most influential newspapers—Robert R. McCormick of the Chicago Tribune (left) and Victor F. Lawson of the Chicago Daily News (right).
The most powerful enemy of the Thompson-Lundin organization, however, was Frank O. Lowden, the Republican governor of Illinois. A former ally of the mayor, he was now determined to see control of the city wrested from an administration he considered hopelessly corrupt.
July 1919 proved to be a turning point in this conflict, as the city was hit by an unprecedented eruption of violence, technological disaster, and sordid crime. The crisis began with the bizarre crash of the airship Wingfoot Express.
The blimp caught fire in flight and crashed through the skylight of the Illinois Trust and Savings Bank in the heart of the Loop, killing thirteen and injuring dozens more in what is regarded as the country’s first major aviation disaster.
The very next day, six-year-old Janet Wilkinson went missing on Chicago’s North Side. For days, the city was consumed by the mystery of the child’s disappearance. When suspicion was cast on a seemingly innocuous friend of the family, Chicagoans were appalled, leading many to wonder whether their own neighbors could be trusted.
But the real chaos set in a few days later, when a racial incident at a crowded South Side beach spiraled into one of the worst race riots in American history. The bloodshed intensified when, two days into the riot, a transit strike paralyzed the city, forcing hundreds of thousands of commuting workers onto the dangerous streets.
Calls for the National Guard to restore order ultimately forced the mayor and the governor into a confrontation that would have far-reaching consequences for the city’s future.
Caught up in the summer crisis were numerous Chicagoans of greater or lesser fame. Carl Sandburg (left) reported on the riot for the Chicago Daily News. Ring Lardner (right) was a columnist for the Tribune.
Activist Ida Wells-Barnett (left) worked to help the victims of the rioting in the city’s Black Belt. And young Emily Frankenstein (right), seen here with her fiancé, Jerry Lapiner, recorded the unfolding events in her diary.
The effect of the 1919 crisis was to leave Chicago a chastened but, in many ways, a stronger city. While dreams of implementing architect Daniel Burnham’s wildly ambitious Chicago Plan were never fully realized, the city did see remarkable urban improvements in the 1920s.
Today, showpieces such as the Magnificent Mile of Michigan Avenue make Chicago perhaps the most architecturally distinguished city in the Americas—in
Fitzgerald lowered his eyes. Then, at exactly 8:13 a.m., he finally told the truth: “I did it,” he said. “I killed her.” 16
Chicago after World War I stood at a pivotal moment in its evolution, struggling to accommodate a vastly diverse population and invent for itself a new, uniquely modern identity. The man entrusted with leadership of the city through this critical time was its irrepressible and highly controversial Republican mayor, William Hale Thompson (standing).
Chicago skyline ca. 1925
A former athlete and self-styled cowboy, Thompson was nothing if not colorful. Regarded by some as a blustering demagogue, he was to many others a genuine hero, hailed as “the People’s David” or “Big Bill the Builder”—the one man who could corral Chicago’s warring factions and lead the way to a “Greater Chicago.”
The brain behind the Thompson phenomenon was the notorious Fred Lundin, known to insiders as “the Mayor’s Mephistopheles.” Masking his ambitions behind an eccentric milquetoast persona, Lundin hoped to use his protégé’s popularity to build a political machine to rival New York’s Tammany Hall.
Many powerful enemies stood in the way of Lundin’s plans. Among them were the publishers of the city’s two most influential newspapers—Robert R. McCormick of the Chicago Tribune (left) and Victor F. Lawson of the Chicago Daily News (right).
The most powerful enemy of the Thompson-Lundin organization, however, was Frank O. Lowden, the Republican governor of Illinois. A former ally of the mayor, he was now determined to see control of the city wrested from an administration he considered hopelessly corrupt.
July 1919 proved to be a turning point in this conflict, as the city was hit by an unprecedented eruption of violence, technological disaster, and sordid crime. The crisis began with the bizarre crash of the airship Wingfoot Express.
The blimp caught fire in flight and crashed through the skylight of the Illinois Trust and Savings Bank in the heart of the Loop, killing thirteen and injuring dozens more in what is regarded as the country’s first major aviation disaster.
The very next day, six-year-old Janet Wilkinson went missing on Chicago’s North Side. For days, the city was consumed by the mystery of the child’s disappearance. When suspicion was cast on a seemingly innocuous friend of the family, Chicagoans were appalled, leading many to wonder whether their own neighbors could be trusted.
But the real chaos set in a few days later, when a racial incident at a crowded South Side beach spiraled into one of the worst race riots in American history. The bloodshed intensified when, two days into the riot, a transit strike paralyzed the city, forcing hundreds of thousands of commuting workers onto the dangerous streets.
Calls for the National Guard to restore order ultimately forced the mayor and the governor into a confrontation that would have far-reaching consequences for the city’s future.
Caught up in the summer crisis were numerous Chicagoans of greater or lesser fame. Carl Sandburg (left) reported on the riot for the Chicago Daily News. Ring Lardner (right) was a columnist for the Tribune.
Activist Ida Wells-Barnett (left) worked to help the victims of the rioting in the city’s Black Belt. And young Emily Frankenstein (right), seen here with her fiancé, Jerry Lapiner, recorded the unfolding events in her diary.
The effect of the 1919 crisis was to leave Chicago a chastened but, in many ways, a stronger city. While dreams of implementing architect Daniel Burnham’s wildly ambitious Chicago Plan were never fully realized, the city did see remarkable urban improvements in the 1920s.
Today, showpieces such as the Magnificent Mile of Michigan Avenue make Chicago perhaps the most architecturally distinguished city in the Americas—in
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