In the late summer of 1871, New York City was a thriving hub of commerce and culture, its bustling streets and strategic position at the mouth of the Hudson River making it a cornerstone of American trade. The post-Civil War economic boom had drawn thousands of immigrants seeking better lives, and the expanding railroad system, anchored by Grand Central Depot, fueled relentless urban growth. Central Park offered a serene escape from the city’s relentless energy, while the docks and depots hummed with the constant movement of goods and people. On the hot afternoon of Saturday, August 26, 1871, a twelve-year-old boy named Alexander Potts, known to his friends as Paddy, was loitering near the Hudson River Rail Depot.
He often spent his time there, hoping to earn a few coins by helping passengers carry their bags. That day, he noticed a lady who seemed unfamiliar with the process of buying train tickets. She wished to check in a trunk, and Paddy guided her to the ticket counter, watching as she purchased a ticket for Chicago. When the express man arrived with her trunk, the lady appeared pleased and relieved.
Paddy assisted a porter in moving it to the freight office, but he noticed the trunk was oddly heavy for its size. At first, he thought little of it. The lady carried herself with an air of unassuming normality, giving no cause for suspicion. But when the trunk was checked, she shook hands with the express man—a gesture Paddy found strange.
Intrigued, he searched the station for her, but she had disappeared, likely having boarded a train. He mentioned his concerns to a porter, who dismissed him at first, but Paddy was persistent. Eventually, the porter alerted the baggage master. The baggage master, a veteran of the station, was familiar with the typical weight of luggage.
When he tried to lift the mysterious trunk, he found it unusually heavy. With reluctance, he opened it. As the lid creaked open, a putrid odor filled the air, and the porters stepped back, covering their faces. Beneath the blankets lay the body of a young woman, unclothed and curled in the fetal position, her golden hair stark against the horror of the discovery.
The trunk bore no address, and the identity of the woman was unknown. The police were immediately summoned, and the press soon seized on the case, sensationalizing it as the Great Trunk Mystery. The only witness who could remember the woman and the express man was young Paddy. He told police that the express man’s cart had the name “Trip” or “Trap” written on its side.
The lead seemed promising, and investigators tracked down a man named Mr. Trap, but Paddy could not identify him as the one who had delivered the trunk. The body was transported to Bellevue Hospital and placed in the dead room for public recognition under the supervision of Warden Brennan. Even in death, the woman remained in the fetal position, a disturbing suggestion that she had been placed in the trunk while still alive.
The post-mortem examination revealed the tragic truth: she had died of acute metroperitonitis, the result of a botched termination of a pregnancy. Just two days later, an express man named William Hicketts came forward. He had read about the case in the newspapers and believed he was the one who had transported the ill-fated trunk. He lived at the corner of 27th Street and First Avenue and told police that on August 26, a lady had asked him to collect a trunk from 687 Second Avenue and deliver it to the Hudson River Rail Depot.
She had paid him a five-dollar bill, and he returned four dollars in change. Inspector Walling summoned Paddy, who confirmed that Hicketts was indeed the man. The two accounts aligned, save for one detail: Hicketts denied shaking hands with the lady. The address Hicketts had given led police to the residence of Dr.
Jacob Rosenzweig. Rosenzweig was an enigmatic figure who claimed sporadic Russian and German heritage, though he was originally from Poland. He had abandoned a former life running a beer saloon for the more lucrative, clandestine profession of terminating pregnancies. Operating under the pseudonym Dr.
Asch, he had earned a grim reputation as one of the city’s most prolific abortion practitioners. At the time, New York’s abortion laws were relatively lenient, allowing the procedure before quickening, and enforcement was lax. The city was awash with abortionists who openly advertised their services, and Rosenzweig was no exception. Inspector Walling dispatched Sergeant Rooney and another officer to 687 Second Avenue to arrest the doctor.
When they arrived, he was not home, and it was not until early evening that he returned, trying to enter his house unnoticed. He was spotted and taken into custody. When interviewed, he denied any knowledge of the trunk or the express driver, appearing genuinely surprised to be suspected. The police had still not identified the woman who had accompanied the trunk to the station, so Inspector Jameson went to the house on Amity Place where Rosenzweig often operated.
Officers covered the exits, and an elderly woman who gave her name as Mrs. Asher lived there, along with a number of young women who occupied rooms. Paddy Parks was again called upon, but he said none of them were the lady he had seen at the station. Neighbors confirmed that a trunk had been removed from the property on August 26, and a disturbing portrait emerged.
Every morning, young women gathered outside the house, eagerly awaiting the doctor’s arrival. As rumors spread that Rosenzweig was involved in the death, crowds gathered outside his residence, driven by fascination with the site where the young woman had met her end. The identity of the victim remained elusive, even as hundreds of curious onlookers filed past her body at Bellevue, masking their noses with cloths soaked in carbolic acid. A reporter from the New York Times, who had previously visited Rosenzweig’s practice for an article titled “The Evil of the Age,” recalled encountering a young blonde woman and believed she was the same one found in the trunk.
But the critical breakthrough came from Dr. Theodore Klein, a physician in Paterson, New Jersey. He contacted Warden Brennan, believing the deceased to be Miss Alice Bowlsby, a patient who had not returned home after a recent trip to New York. Dr.
Klein noted a distinctive vaccination scar beneath her left elbow, and a dentist, Dr. Joseph Parker, corroborated the identification based on dental work he had performed. Alice Bowlsby was just twenty years old, a beloved figure known for her sweetness and gentle disposition. She taught Sunday school and helped in her family’s dress shop.
Her widowed mother, who had harbored anxieties about Alice’s absence, was plunged into inconsolable grief. She told police that on the fateful day, Alice had worn a white dress adorned with intricate pleats and frills, with a striking blue sash around her waist. The person who suffered the most profound consequences was Walter F. Conklin, the son of a prominent Patterson alderman.
A clerk in a silk mill, he had frequently visited the Bowlsby home. In the wake of Alice’s death, he became the target of local gossip. Just before lunch, while working at Dale’s Mill, he entered the chamber where the silk was stored, turned a gun to his own head, and fired. His farewell note read: “I’ve long had a morbid idea of the worthlessness of life and now to be obliged to testify in this affair and cause unpleasantness in my family is more than life is worth.
Goodbye dear father mother brother and sister. ”
The press had bestowed on Rosenzweig the sinister nickname “the Fiend of Second Avenue. ” The evidence against him mounted, and a small but damning piece of evidence sealed his fate: a delicate handkerchief bearing the name A. Bowlsby, discovered among his possessions.
Despite this, the doctor proclaimed his innocence. In the courtroom, Rosenzweig was defended by William Howe, a master of legal strategy renowned for defending New York’s most notorious criminals. Howe sought to dismantle the chain of circumstantial evidence, arguing there was no proof Alice Bowlsby had ever visited the defendant’s residence. He presented an Ann Bowlsby from Brooklyn who claimed the handkerchief, stating she had known the doctor for years and had left it there unwittingly.
Howe also noted that Alice’s mother had not personally identified the body, nor had any relatives provided formal identification. He suggested an alternative theory: that Walter Conklin, who had taken his own life, might have committed the murder. Despite Howe’s efforts, the jury remained unpersuaded. They found Jacob Rosenzweig guilty of second-degree murder, and the judge sentenced him to seven years of hard labor at Sing Sing prison.
Alice Bowlsby’s tragic death triggered widespread anger and condemnation throughout New York. Protests against rampant malpractice led to new medical licensing legislation aimed at eradicating illegal practices. The New York Times was at the forefront of the campaign, portraying Alice as a victim of her circumstances, a young lady of modest means whose charm and grace could sometimes prove more perilous than any other gift. An appeal led to a new trial, as it was successfully argued that the judge had allowed unfair use of testimony from a former patient.
The second trial was scheduled for November 1872. However, in April 1872, New York enacted a law making these practices illegal. Since the death had occurred before this law, Rosenzweig could not be tried under it, and the new law also repealed the old one, leaving no legal basis for prosecution.
Jacob Rosenzweig was reluctantly released from prison, having spent less than a year incarcerated.