No. 1 Sgt. Quinn to Mrs. Lafayette in 1939

Mrs. Laura Lafayette

c/o Sergeant Henry, 42nd Precinct

2600 N. Halsted St.

Chicago, IL 60613

December 1, 1939

Dear Mrs. Lafayette,

When your husband, Julien H. Lafayette, the theatre organist, disappeared in 1917, I was the detective who took your complaint. This was at the police station at 28th and Main Street.

I recall that day because it was my wedding anniversary. At my window, I could see that the sun was starting to melt the snow. I tossed my jacket over my shoulder. Announced to the boys that I was leaving early, to surprise my wife, whose lovely handwriting this is for she takes my dictation. She reminds me that I forgot to pick up flowers, but allowed me that afternoon to give an excuse, your situation. We agreed that we had it pretty good, and here we are now in old age.

That day at the station when you walked by with your three young kids, the boys dropped their work. Our clerk Rovena told you that I was the only one open. She pointed to the end of the line. You floated by like you were on ice skates and came to rest in front of me. Only you forgot to rest.

I tried to take your report, but we had two false starts. Your softness did not match your style. You were put together real nice, but I had to ask you twice to speak up. Asked you to help me help you. Told you a few lines I sometimes say to the women: I was on your side. A line was crossed. You had to turn on him. His shame belonged to him, not you. Don’t let your kids see you this way. Give it to me plain. Focus on details.

I asked your oldest boy, “How does your father part his hair?” The boy surprised me with his confidence. “Like me,” he said. Added that Julien was blonde. Told me that he was clean. That caused a melting in you. And we finally got the real performance. Where did Julien hide his friends? What could Julien not live without? How did he need to be seen?

Now, I wasn’t going to bother writing to you, but my dear wife said I should. If she were in your shoes, she’d want to know. Well, your husband is dead. Died last month in Indiana. We saw a lady at Mass who reminded me of you. Mentioned it to my wife. She nudged me to find you, to let you know we found him. Tracked you down by way of an old friend. The son of your old attorney. He owed me a favor. Had to play the dying card. And that’s no play. True. Imagine what help we’d get from our comrades if we were dying every day. He came through decent.

My wife was always interested in your case. She knew who you were, recalling your headliner contralto concerts in the theaters. And how you helped the boys through the war at Camp Taylor. She was there, too, to clean the floors. She remembered how you got close to boys during the flu epidemic, not just singing and paying for the musicians. But by changing their bedding and helping them back into their cots and rags.

This file—the report—is the last cold case now lying on the dining room table. Tomorrow my wife will take the originals from this file to the station in the care of Detective Harrison. And these pages are a summary of that folder. Perhaps just enough for you to shut it down, if needed.

When we caught him the first time, I knew we had him because of his flare. The way you described him was his curse. Like a prince in the plays. Tall, never wearing a hat so he could pick at his scalp, but otherwise of careful dress, culture, and poise. We knew that his organ shoes, narrow and smooth at the bottom, just like you said, would never let him run far, so we got him at the theatre just like you told us. But in 1919 he slipped out of the one-sized handcuffs while on chain of prisoners for transfer.

In 1922 when we caught him the last time, he was with a gambling friend whose hair was too long for you theater types, like a mop it was. His friend was not as classy and not a good influence. I thought to turn him over and wipe the floor with it as an example for Julien to turn right. When I realized Julien had more leadership over this slimy guy and here I was listening to his lying tongue swimming in bad breath, I wanted to wipe his mouth with the same mop, but only after I had used it on the floor of jail cell No. 5, where the criminals against children are placed. Pity the man who fears not the Lord but the men he feels indebted to. It is for the Lord to place him in the right cell.

Kindly pray for his soul, and mine.

Copyright 2025 Christine Friesel