‘PACA PACER

FICTION SHOWCASE

September 22, 1983

 

By Ryan Malone

 

THE MURDER OF H.C. MEAD

On a real night in 1872, Waupaca’s only banker, Henry C. Mead,

was brutally murdered by unknown thieves. 

The event woke the sleepy town of Waupaca

and sparked a wild but hopeless search for the killer. 

Based on a true story.

 

            “You’re all making a terrible mistake.”

            Tab Pryor’s voice was quiet and calm.

            “No, Mr. Pryor, you have made a mistake.  You were fool enough to kill Henry Mead and stay in Waupaca.  Why else would a dependable night watchman suddenly turn up in the mayor’s office and hand in his registration papers.  It doesn’t make you look good.”

            It was Tuesday, October 10, 1872.  A small party of four, led by Pinkerton Agency Detective Johnson and Waupaca Sheriff Ed Williams, unlocked the door to the town’s bank.

            As they stepped inside, the fourth member of the group, the town’s mayor, Dr. L.D. Manchester, watched Pryor’s face carefully for tell-tale signs of worry or stress.

            “Shall we step into the back?” queried Johnson.

            “Yes,” answered Pryor coolly, “By all means.”

            The scene had not been changed, but the banker’s body had been removed and prepared for burial.  Splattered blood, dried in the open air, covered the walls and floor.

            “Seems a shame about Henry’s kin,” said the sheriff.

            “How’s that?” asked Manchester.

            “Well, I asked them if they wanted to offer a reward for the killers.  Turned me down flat.”

            “Probably just came to town to get a cut of the poor man’s hundred thousand,” replied the mayor.  “Come on now, Tab, move along.”

            As he looked around the room, Tab Pryor noticed the blood and the scattered papers on the floor.  Turning his head to the far wall, his eyes stopped.

            “Recognize something?” asked Johnson.

            Tab looked at the bloody handprint on the wall.  He cleared his throat.

            “No, nothing,” he said.

            “We’ll see if we can do something about your failing memory,” the detective said as he led his suspect to a wooden bucket on the floor.

            The water was cold and felt good on Pryor’s sticky palm.  Grabbing the watchman’s wrist, Johnson brought up his hand and placed it next to the print on the wall.  He let the moisture soak into the wood before he released his grip.  Pryor lowered his hand.

            “I’ll be damned,” whispered Johnson.

            The four men stared at the two prints on the wall.

            They did not match.

           

            If you ask me, that Johnson fellow as a no good sort.  Folks are talking about how he got paid off.

            One day this Johnson walks up to the mayor’s office and starts yelling about how old Mead’s killer is still living right here in Waupaca.  Said he knew just where to find him too.

            Well, the detective takes off into the woods and that was the last anybody ever seen of him.

            I was there when they called in another detective.  The folks in town weren’t going to stand for another Pinkerton man.  He came all dressed up in a fancy suit passing out calling cards saying: “J.A. Allen, Investigator, Mooney and Boorland Agency, Chicago.”

            I suppose I should mention who I am.  Thomas A. Mooney.  Born and raised in this town, with never a notion to go anywhere else. 

            These days farming is my trade, but time was when I worked at the courthouse, taking down testimonies and court proceedings and such.  Stenographer, they call it.  Nice man named Spencer’s working there now.

            My days weren’t usually filled with excitement, but it kept food on the table and let me pass on details of the Mead case to the folks in town.  The ones that weren’t official court secrets, of course.

            It’s hard to believe that after all these years, the town is still talking about the murder.  Things died down some, but after that Vandecar fellow as arrested, it all started up again.

            Detective Allen didn’t waste any time.  He went right to work, and before long brought in three new suspects.

            Everyone’s sure it was Alfred Vandecar who did the killing.  A man of no morals that Vandecar.  They caught up with him in Marshfield at his place of business – a small place the people here call of house of ill fame.

            They arrested Tommy Welch about a week later on January 16.  He was doing some logging on the Willow River.

            Even I was taken back some when they brought in Doc Freeman’s son, Charles. He’s a young hellion alright, slow with a thought and quick with a fist, but I can’t imagine him robbing and killing an old man.

            Well then, after the town settled down and stopped talking about lynching, they set up a preliminary examination for Alfred Vandecar.  Even called in Judge Cate from Stevens’ Point for defense, not that it did much good.  As far as Waupaca was concerned, Vandecar was guilty as soon as Under-Sheriff Briggs made a statement.

            “All the evidence,” he told the papers, “goes to show that on the Saturday night of the murder, Freeman and Vandecar came into a saloon at Steven’s Point where Welch was particular that there should be no killing and it was agreed that it was to be a plain robbery and nothing more.”

            During the examination, Freeman said that Vandecar had told him to stop wasting his time breaking his back on the railroad for a dollar-fifty a day.  There is big money in Waupaca that would be easy for them to get at.

            Alfred Vandecar shook his head with rage and cried, “The whole business is a lie!”

            To make a long story short, they decided to hold the accused for trial, without bail, and to hold Welch and Freeman as witnesses, with a bail of $1,500.

            There was so much screaming and hollering going on during the trial that it was all I could do to take it all down.

            When it was all over, after the jury spent almost 45 hours behind a closed door, they had to let the man go.  With the evidence presented by the district attorney, they couldn’t hold Alfred Vandecar for anything.

            Now it seems every other day we get a new theory about the killing of Henry Mead.  Not one of them has been proven true.

            You can be sure that the killer is still around, though.

            A man by the name of Buckskin Reilly was shot down in cold blood as he slept in his jail cell one night.  Apparently, a fellow inmate told him something he wasn’t supposed to hear.

            Myself, I’m a firm believer in justice, but I wish they’d just lay the whole fool thing to rest.  For all I know, Mead’s killer is hundreds of miles away, causing trouble for other folks.

            I reckon the Grand Jury will do what they have to.  As for me, I have a barn that needs painting and a tired old body that needs some sleep.

           

            Judge Webb cleared his throat and looked over the twelve faces that were staring into his eyes.

            “Gentlemen,” he began, “for the first time in many years, [a grand jury] has been called for in Waupaca County.  You have been called to investigate the circumstances attending the death of H.C. Mead, who, it is believed, was murdered on or about October 7, 1872.

            Webb paused for effect.  Twelve men waited silently for his next words.

            “It is believed,” continued the judge, “that he as murdered with the most fiendish atrocity and that more than one person participated in the foul crime.”

            Rising from his chair, one jurer, Ambrose McDonald, commented, “How are you sure?”

            “Please no interruptions.”  Webb glared at the man.

            McDonald returned to his seat. The judge sighed.

            “The years that have passed have failed to show the authorities the criminals.  The purpose of the grand jury is the discovery and prosecution of the participators in that awful crime.”

            “You shall select one of your number as a clerk, who shall keep correct record of all witnesses and their testimony.”

            “Since he seems to have a strong interest in the case, A.S. McDonald will act as foreman, and will have power to swear witnesses.”

            McDonald’s face flushed red.

            Judge Webb dismissed the twelve men, who after working several days, indicted eight men, who, they thought, were related to the murder.

            If you ask me, no judge, jury, or detective on this earth is going to catch up with the fellow that killed old Mead.

            Judge Webb’s high and mighty grand jury spent too much time and too much money doing absolutely nothing.

            Oh, sure, they arrested a few men – even traced down poor Tab Pryor and brought him back.  Didn’t find out a darned thing though.

            The whole thing has torn the town apart.  People aint’ as friendly as they used to be, and you can wager that all of them lock their doors at night.  Yes, sir, the whole thing has made folks here crazy.

            Editor Gordon of the Post ran an editorial, indirectly accusing Mayor Lea himself of the murder.  Fred wasn’t at all pleased with that.  He’s trying to get five thousand dollars in a slander suit.

            People keep investigating and examining, testifying and accusing, but they keep getting the same results – nothing.

            I had to fill in for that Spencer gent in court today, and walking to the courthouse, I passed by the bank.

            It looked small and lonely all boarded up in the spring sunshine.  A little whitewash here and there and Henry Mead himself would be proud.

            And you know something else?  It looked innocent.  A stranger walking down the street would never guess it was the scene of the biggest mystery to be uncovered in the state of Wisconsin.

            Yes sir, if walls could talk, there’s a little white bank in Waupaca that has quite a story to tell.

            Mead’s Bank still stands today on Jefferson Street in Waupaca, a local historic site according to the Waupaca Historical Society.

            The skull of Henry Mead can still be seen today at the Waupaca Courthouse.

            Although the story you have read is based on fact, it is also based on theory.

            There is no proof that the night watchman Tab Pryor ever spoke with Mead on the night of the murder.  During the investigation, Pryor claimed that he was out of town.  No evidence or witnesses brought before the court could prove him wrong.

            Another popular theory dealt with the murder itself.  Some people believed that while Mead was balancing his books, he was shot through an open window.  While the robbers were at their work, Mead regained consciousness and stumbled through the room, marking the walls with his own blood.  He finally managed to sit in his chair, where the robbers took his life with a club.

 

Mead Murder

 

            The trial of Alfred Vandecar was later believe to be nothing but a ploy used by detectives to collect the reward money.

            The killer or killers were never found.

            The murder of H.C. Mead remains as much a mystery today as it did on October 7, 1872.

 

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            NOTE:  Thomas A Mooney is a fictional character, created to show passing time.  All other characters and dates in the “Murder of H.C. Mead” are historically accurate.  (NOTE:  Murder was in 1882 not 1872)

 

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            ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:  Story based on and illustrations reprinted from “The Deadly Vendetta,” an early newspaper account of the tragedy.  (“The Evening Tribune”  Origin and date unknown.j)

 

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            I would like to thank Hutchinson House curator Linda Cross for copying this article for me.  It was at the Waupaca Historical Society’s museum that I “discovered” this information and I would like to thank the staff, including Mary Nelson and Zilpha Davis, for making me feel at home, and for giving me the experience of actually living in a nineteenth century atmosphere.