Fingerprint Matching in 1968

From Hellhound On His Trail: The Electrifying Account of the Largest Manhunt In American History, by Hampton Sides (Knopf Doubleday, 2010), Kindle pp. 238-239:

AT THE FBI Crime Lab in Washington, the fingerprint expert George Bonebrake spent the early-morning hours of April 5 poring over the contents of the package that had been couriered up from Memphis. A slight, fastidious man, Bonebrake was one of the world’s foremost authorities on dactyloscopy, the study and classification of finger and palm prints. Bonebrake had worked as a fingerprint examiner for the FBI since 1941. His was an esoteric profession within the crime-fighting universe—more art, it was said, than science, a closed world of forensic analysis predicated on a foundation of facts so incredible that a thousand bad TV detective shows over the decades had done little to diminish the essential mystery: that the complex friction-ridge patterns on human fingertips and palms, unique to every individual on earth, carry trace amounts of an oily residue excreted from pores that, when impressed upon certain kinds of surfaces, can be “raised” through the use of special dusting powders or chemicals—and then photographed and viewed on cards.

As far-fetched as the discipline seemed to most laymen, fingerprint analysis by 1968 had been the standard technique of criminal identification for more than half a century. It replaced a bizarre and not terribly accurate method of French origin called the Bertillon system, which required the careful measuring of a criminal’s earlobes and other anatomical parts. Fingerprinting wasn’t perfect, but it was the best system in existence for narrowing the pool of potential culprits in many situations. In many cases, fingerprinting was a godsend, providing the breakthrough that solved the crime.

In 1968, the FBI categorized fingerprints according to the Henry classification system, which was developed by Britain in the late nineteenth century. The system recognizes three primary friction-ridge patterns—arches, loops, and whorls. Loops, the most common pattern, are assigned a numerical value according to the number of ridges contained within each pattern found on each digit. Loop patterns can be further described as “radial” or “ulnar,” depending on which direction their microscopic tails point.

Bonebrake got started with his meticulous work shortly after dawn. Most of the prints that he found were fragments or smudges that contained little or no information of value. The twenty-dollar bills that Mrs. Bessie Brewer had provided yielded no usable prints whatsoever. Eventually, however, Bonebrake was able to lift six high-quality specimens from the Remington rifle, the Redfield scope, the Bushnell binoculars, the front section of the Commercial Appeal, the bottle of Mennen Afta aftershave lotion, and one of the Schlitz beer cans.

Most of these prints appeared to come from different fingers, but already Bonebrake could tell that two of the prints—those taken from the rifle and the binoculars—were from the same digit of the same individual. Both seemed to have been deposited by a left thumb, and, upon further study, the print pattern would turn out to be unmistakable: an ulnar loop of twelve ridge counts.

This was an important find. The FBI had the fingerprints of more than eighty-two million individuals on file—a number obviously too large to work with, as fingerprint examiners had to do all matching the old-fashioned way, by hand, eyeball, and magnifying glass. This tiny little detail, however, narrowed the search considerably: an ulnar loop of twelve ridge counts on the left thumb. Bonebrake’s task was still formidable, but now he had something definite on which to draw comparisons. He made large black-and-white blowups of all six of the latent prints, and then he and his team got started.

Polish Guide for Hebrew Gravemarkers

In an old Jewish shop in the Village Museum of Kielce (Muzeum Wsi Kieleckiej), I came across a very interesting poster to help Polish Jews inscribe gravestones in Hebrew.

Przykładowe Symbole Zawodu Zmarłego
Example Symbols of the Profession of the Deceased

Gęsie pióro - symbol skryby przepisującego Torę lub pisarza i literata
Goose feather - symbol of a scribe copying the Torah or a writer and intellectual

Wąż eskulapa - symbol lekarzy
Snake of Aesclepius (Caduceus) - symbol of a medical doctor

Możdzierz - symbol aptekarzy
Mortar - symbol of an apothecarist/pharmacist

Ekierka i cyrkiel - symbol inżynierów i architektów
Square and compass - symbol of engineers and architects

Lira lub harfa - symbol muzyków
Lyre or harp - symbol of musicians

Zegar - symbol zegarmistrzów
Clock - symbol of watchmakers

Napisy Nagrobne na Macewach
Tombstone Inscriptions on Matzevah
(with two columns, Hebrew column omitted here)

Tu pochowany (po nikbar) Here is buried
Ojciec father
Matka mother
Admor (nasz nauczyciel, pan i mistrz) rebbe (our teacher, lord, and master)
Cadyk (błogosławowionej pamięci) tzadik (of blessed memory)
Syn son
Córka daughter
Mężczyzna man
Kobieta woman
Kobieta (niezamężna) woman (unmarried)
Kobieta (zamężna) woman (married)
Moja żona my wife
Kohen (członek rodu kapłańskiego) Cohen (member of a priestly family)
Zmarł died

Miesiące
Months
(listing Hebrew month names with roughly overlapping Polish months)

image here

Polish Realia: Bee Dances

Taniec pszczeli Bee dance

Pszczoły przekazują sobie informacje za pomocą "pszczelych tańców." Jest to system zożłonych figur, jakie zakreślają poruszając się po plastrze.
Bees transmit information to each other through "bee dances." It is a system of complex figures that they circle as they move around the comb.

Kierunek tańca zbieraczki na plastrze jest wyznaczany położeniem pożytku w stosunku do słońca.
The direction of the forager's dance on the comb is determined by the position of the resource in relation to the sun.

Taki system przekazywania informacji pozwala dotrzeć na pożytek oddalony nawet kilka kilometrów od ula.
Such a system of information transfer allows you to reach the resource even a few kilometers away from the hive

Zbieraczka powracająca do ula przekazuje informacji o tym, jak daleko jest pożytek. Robotnice pozostają w bezruchu a tańcząca zbieraczka uderza przy każdym ruchu odwłocha w ich wyprostowane cułki.
The forager returning to the hive provides information about how far away the resource is. The workers remain motionless, and the dancing forager hits their erect antennae with every movement of her abdomen.

Rodzaje tańca pszczelego Types of bee dance

Tańce werbunkowe zbieraczek informują pszczoły w ulu o obesności pożytku i jego polożeniu względem ula.
The foraging dances inform the bees in the hive about the usefulness of the resource and its position in relation to the hive.

Taniec alarmowe wykonują pszczoły zbieraczki po przyniesieniu do ula pokarmu zanieczy-scczonego szkodliwymi substancjami. Polega on na ruchu tych pszczół torze spiralnym lub zygzakowatym z jednoczesnym potrząsaniem odwłokiem.
The alarm dance is performed by foraging bees after bringing food contaminated with harmful substances to the hive. It consists in the movement of these bees in a spiral or zigzag path with simultaneous shaking of the abdomen.

Taniec czyszczący ma zachęcić inne pszczoły do czyszczenia ciała tancerki, która wstrząca ciałem i przestępuje z nogi na nogę.
The cleansing dance is supposed to encourage other bees to clean the body of the dancer, who shakes her body and steps from foot to foot.

Taniec radości, czylie grzbietowo brzuszną wibrację odwłoka, wykonują robotnice przygotowujące młodą matkę do lotu godowego.
The dance of joy, which is the dorsal abdominal vibration of the abdomen, is performed by workers preparing the young mother for the mating flight.

Taniec masażowy wykonywany przez robotnicę pobudza jej towarzyszki do "masowania" jej żuwaczkami i języczkiem.
The massage dance performed by the worker stimulates her companions to "massage" her jaws and tongue.

Image here.

Polish Realia: Abbreviations

AK < Armia Krajowa = Home Army (under foreign occupation)

al. < aleja = ave., avenue (usually broader than an ulica)

c.k., c. i k. <  cesarsko-królewski, cesarski i królewski = imperial-royal, empire of Austria and kingdom of Hungary (< German k.k., k. u k. = kaiserlich-königlich, kaiserlich und königlich)

gen. broni < generał broni = lt. gen., lieutenant general, lit. general of arms

godz. < godzina = hrs., hours

im., < imienia = name, named for (in many institutional names), as in Teatr im. Stefana Żeromskiego w Kielcach Stefan Zeromski Theatre in Kielce, or Stowarzyszenie im. Jana Karskiego Jan Karski Association

LO < liceum ogólnokształcące = general secondary school

m.in. < między innymi = inter alia, among others

NFZ < Narodowy Fundusz Zdrowia = National Health Fund

n.n. < nomen nescio = name unknown (on grave markers)

np. < na przykład = e.g., for example

obj. < objętościowo = [by] vol., volumetrically

oddz. < oddział = dept., branch, unit

os. < osiedle = estate, neighborhood

pl. < plac = pl., place, plaza

ppłk < podpułkownik = lt. col., lieutenant colonel, lit. subcolonel

ppor <podporucznik = 2lt., second lieutenant, lit. sublieutenant

pw.  <= pod wezwaniem = of, dedicated to, lit. under summons, as in Kościół pw. św. Krzysztofa Church of St. Christopher

r. < rok = year, as in 2026 r.

RP < Rzeczpospolita Polska = Republic of Poland

SZ RP < Siły Zbrojne Rzeczypospolitej Polskiej = Armed Forces of the Republic of Poland

s.p. < świętej pamięci = in loving memory, lit. sacred memory (on grave markers)

sp. z o.o. < spółka z ograniczoną odpowiedzialnością = LLC, lit. company with limited responsibility

st. szer. < starszy szeregowy = PFC, private first class, lit. senior 

św. < święt = st., saint

tj. < to jest = i.e., that is

ul. < ulica = st., street

wag. < waga = wt., weight

wew.  < wewnętrzny = (tel.) ext., extension, lit. int. < internal

ZSRR < Związek Socjalistycznych Republik Radzieckich = USSR, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics

Assassin's Lair, Memphis, 1968

From Hellhound On His Trail: The Electrifying Account of the Largest Manhunt In American History, by Hampton Sides (Knopf Doubleday, 2010), Kindle pp. 145-147:

JUST ONE BLOCK west of the Lorraine, on South Main Street, stood a tumbledown rooming house run by a middle-aged woman named Bessie Brewer. The sign in front of the soot-darkened brick building at 422½ Main blandly announced APARTMENTS/ROOMS beneath an advertisement for Canada Dry’s Wink soda—THE SASSY ONE.

A resident of Bessie Brewer’s rooming house would later describe the place as “a half-step up from homelessness.” Its long corridors were narrow and dark, with blistered walls and cracked linoleum floors that smelled of Pine-Sol. Mrs. Brewer’s establishment was a haven for invalids, derelicts, mysterious transients, riverboat workers, and small-time crooks—rheumy-eyed souls who favored wife-beater T-shirts and off-brand hooch. Mostly white middle-aged men, they blew in on wisps of despair from Central Station a few blocks to the south and from the nearby Trailways and Greyhound terminals.

The guest rooms were upstairs on the second floor, above a grease-smeared joint with striped awnings called Jim’s Grill that sold Budweiser and homemade biscuits and pulled-pork BBQ. Rich smells from Jim’s kitchen curled upstairs, coating the flophouse tenants in a perfume of charred carbon and year-old frying oil. The tiny rooms, furnished with scuffed Salvation Army furniture, sweltered through the heat of the afternoon, even though many of the windows were crammed with ventilation fans that vigorously thunked away. For eight bucks a week, Mrs. Brewer’s tenants were satisfied with what they got and rarely complained. Among the long-term guests in her establishment were a deaf-mute, a tuberculosis patient, a schizophrenic, and an unemployed drunk who had a deformed hand. A homemade sign on the wall near Mrs. Brewer’s office admonished, “No Curseing or Foul Talk.”

AT AROUND THREE o’clock that afternoon, Eric Galt spotted Mrs. Brewer’s shingle on South Main and pulled the Mustang up to the curb alongside Jim’s Grill. A few minutes later, Loyd Jowers, the owner of Jim’s Grill, looked through the grimy plate-glass windows and saw the Mustang parked out front.

Galt had apparently been casing the neighborhood for the past half hour or so and noticed something: some of the rooms at the back of Mrs. Brewer’s rooming house enjoyed a direct view of the Lorraine Motel. He observed that while a few of the rear windows were boarded up, several remained in use; their panes, though dingy and paint smudged, were intact.

Galt stepped out of the car, opened the door at 422½ Main, and climbed the narrow stairs toward Bessie Brewer’s office. At the top of the stairs, he opened the rusty screen door.

Galt rapped on the office door and Mrs. Brewer, her hair done in curlers, opened it as far as the chain would allow.

“Got any vacancies?” he asked.

A plump woman of forty-four, Mrs. Brewer wore a man’s checked shirt and blue jeans. She had been the rental agent at the rooming house for only a month. The previous manager had been forced to leave after a sordid incident that was covered in the local papers: apparently, he’d gotten into a quarrel with his wife and ended up stabbing her.

Mrs. Brewer appraised the prospective tenant. Slim, neat, clean shaven, he sported a crisp dark suit and a tie and looked to her like a businessman. She wondered why such a well-dressed person would show up at her place—and what he was doing in such a raw part of town. “We got six rooms available,” she said. “You stayin’ just the night?”

No, Galt replied, for the week.

Mrs. Brewer promptly led him back to room 8, a kitchenette apartment with a refrigerator and a small stove. “Our nicest one,” she said. “It’s $10.50 a week. You can cook in there.” Galt glanced at the room without venturing inside and shook his head: this room wouldn’t do. The window was on the west side of the building, facing Main and the Mississippi River. “No, see, I won’t be doing any cooking,” he mumbled. “You got a smaller one? I only want a room for sleeping.”

Mrs. Brewer studied Galt. He had a strange and silly smile that she found unsettling. She described it as a “smirk” and a “sneer,” as though he were “trying to smile for no reason.” She padded down the hall to 5B and turned the doorknob, actually a jury-rigged piece of coat-hanger wire. “This one’s $8.50 for the week,” she said, throwing open the door.

Galt stuck his head inside. The room had little to recommend it—a musty red couch, a bare bulb with a dangling string, a borax dresser with a shared bathroom down the hall. A little sign over the door said, “No Smoking in Bed Allowed.” The ceiling’s wooden laths peeked through a large patch of missing plaster. Yet one attribute immediately caught Galt’s eye: the window wasn’t boarded up. A rickety piece of furniture partially blocked the view, but with just a glance he could see the Lorraine Motel through the smudged windowpanes.

“Yeah,” Galt abruptly said, “this’ll do just fine.”

Mrs. Brewer did not bother to mention that her last long-term tenant in 5B, a man known as Commodore Stewart, had died several weeks earlier and the room had not been rented since. She was happy to fill it again, but being naturally suspicious, she was a little surprised by how quickly her new guest had made up his mind.

Beale Street Blues, 1968

From Hellhound On His Trail: The Electrifying Account of the Largest Manhunt In American History, by Hampton Sides (Knopf Doubleday, 2010), Kindle pp. 103-105:

THE MARCH BEGAN. King, Abernathy, Lee, and Lawson locked arms in the front, and began walking, as police helicopters whirred overhead. They left Clayborn Temple and slogged along Hernando Street for a few blocks, jerking and halting, trying to find the right pace. Then they turned left onto Beale, the avenue of the blues, and marched west, in the direction of the Mississippi River.

In the rear, no one bothered to form orderly lines. The kids were jostling and shoving, sending forward wave after wave of people stumbling and stepping on heels. “Make the crowds stop pushing!” King yelled. “We’re going to be trampled!”

Soon they passed W. C. Handy Park, named for the prosperous bandleader and composer who first wrote down the blues and shaped the form into an internationally recognized genre. As it happened, this very day was the tenth anniversary of W. C. Handy’s death, and someone had laid a wreath beside the bronze statue of the beaming bluesman standing with his trumpet at the ready.

But this Beale was a faded version of the street that the Father of the Blues had known; had he been alive to see it now, he would have despaired at its mirthless state. In Handy’s heyday, it was the Main Street of Negro America, a place of deep soul and world-class foolishness, of zoot suits and chitlin joints, of hoodoos and fortune-tellers, with jug bands playing on every corner. The street smelled of tamales and pulled pork and pot liquor and lard. Day and night, Beale throbbed with so much authentic and sometimes violent vitality that, as Handy put it in one of his famous songs, “business never closes ’til somebody gets killed.”

For more than a century, blacks from across the Mississippi Delta came to Beale to experience their first taste of city life. Workers came from the levee-building camps, from the lumber and turpentine camps, from the cotton fields and the steamboat lines. The only confirmed studio photograph of Robert Johnson was taken on Beale—a ghostly image of the long-fingered bluesman posing in a fedora and pin-striped suit with his well-worn guitar. Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, and B. B. King came here to play some of their first city gigs. The South’s first black millionaire, Robert Church, made his real estate fortune on Beale. Black doctors, black photographers, black dentists, black insurance companies, black mortuaries, black newspapers, hotels and restaurants “for coloreds only,” African-American parades as a counterpart to the all-white Cotton Carnival—Beale was a place where the concept of “separate but equal” had one of its more spirited and convincing runs.

“If you were black for one Saturday night on Beale, you’d never want to be white again,” the Stax Records legend Rufus Thomas once quipped.

By the spring of 1968, however, most of the great clubs and theaters—the Daisy, the Palace, the Monarch, P. Wee’s Saloon, Club Handy—were boarded up or gone altogether. Though there were still reputable businesses closer to Main, much of Beale had become a drab drag of busted concrete and liquor stores and pawnshops, populated by winos and petty thieves. As King tramped west on Beale, past Handy’s statue, separate was most assuredly not equal. The blues was on its sickbed, it was said—a moribund music, an era dead and gone. Now a column of proud but anxious men carried signs in the direction of city hall, headed for an uncertain future.

Memphis 'Walking Buzzards', 1968

From Hellhound On His Trail: The Electrifying Account of the Largest Manhunt In American History, by Hampton Sides (Knopf Doubleday, 2010), Kindle pp. 75-77:

FEBRUARY 1, 1968, was a rainy day, the skies leaden and dull. On Colonial Road in East Memphis, the spindly dogwood branches clawed at the cold air. A loud orange sanitation truck, crammed full with the day’s refuse, grumbled down the street, past the ranch-style houses, past the fake chalets and pseudo Tudors, where the prim yards of dormant grass were marred only by truant magnolia leaves, brown and lusterless, clattering in the wind.

At the wheel of the big truck was a man named Willie Crain, the crew chief. Two workers rode in the back, taking shelter in the maw of its compacting mechanism to escape the pecking rain. They were Robert Walker, twenty-nine, and Echol Cole, thirty-five, two men who were new to sanitation work, toiling at the bottom of the department’s pay scale, still learning the ropes. They made less than a hundred dollars a week, and because the city regarded them as “unclassified laborers,” they had no benefits, no pension, no overtime, no grievance procedure, no insurance, no uniforms, and, especially noteworthy on this day, no raincoats.

The “tub-toters” of the Public Works Department were little better off than sharecroppers in the Delta, which is where they and their families originally hailed from. In some ways they still lived the lives of field hands; in effect, the plantation had moved to the city. They wore threadbare hand-me-downs left on the curbs by well-meaning families. They grew accustomed to home owners who called them “boy.” They mastered a kind of shuffling gait, neither fast nor slow, neither proud nor servile, a gait that drew no attention to itself. All week long, they quietly haunted the neighborhoods of Memphis, faceless and uncomplaining, a caste of untouchables. They called themselves the walking buzzards.

The truck Walker and Cole rode in—a fumy, clanking behemoth known as a wiener barrel—was an antiquated model that the Department of Public Works had introduced ten years earlier. It had an enormous hydraulic ram activated by a button on the outside of the vehicle. Though the city was in the process of phasing it out of the fleet, six wiener barrels still worked the Memphis streets. These trucks were known to be dangerous, even lethal: in 1964, two garbage workers were killed when a defective compactor caused a truck to flip over. The faulty trucks were one of a host of reasons the Memphis sanitation workers had been trying to organize a union and—if necessary—go on strike.

Having completed their rounds, Crain, Walker, and Cole were happy to be heading toward the dump on Shelby Drive—and then, finally, home. They were cold and footsore, as they usually were by day’s end, from lugging heavy tubs across suburban lawns for ten hours straight. The idea of wheeled bins had apparently not occurred to the Memphis Sanitation Department. Nor were home owners in those days expected to meet the collection crews halfway by hauling their own crap to the curb. So, like all walking buzzards across the city, Walker and Cole had to march up the long driveways to back doors and carports, clicking privacy gates and entering backyards—sometimes to the snarl of dogs. There they transferred the people’s garbage to their tubs while also collecting tree cuttings, piles of leaves, dead animals, discarded clothes, busted furniture, or anything else the residents wanted taken away.

Now, as Crain, Cole, and Walker headed for the dump, their clothes were drenched in rain and encrusted with the juice that had dripped from the tubs all day. It was the usual slop of their profession—bacon drippings, clotted milk, chicken blood, souring gravies from the kitchens of East Memphis mingled with the tannic swill from old leaves. Plastic bags were not yet widely in use—no Ziploc or Hefty, no drawstrings or cinch ties to keep the sloshy messes contained. So the ooze accumulated on their clothes like a malodorous rime, and the city provided no showers or laundry for sanitation workers to clean themselves up at the end of the day. The men grew somewhat inured to it, but when they got home, they usually stripped down at the door: their wives couldn’t stand the stench.

Walker and Cole died horrible deaths.