A missing florist and a 'boy chief'

For a little while on a pleasant Saturday afternoon, Aurora stared into the heavens.

At about noon on April 28, 1923, a plane wheeled and dipped over the city, spelling out a giant "L" -- 2-miles tall -- in a trail of white smoke. From their front lawns, residents watched the plane buzz through an oversized "U" and curl through a massive "C."

Some Aurorans had probably heard about skywriting -- first demonstrated in England the year before -- but seeing words painted on the atmosphere must have been an astonishing and welcome diversion for a weary town.

By that time, Aurora was a city of deep contrasts. It was growing at an astounding rate, but the expansion was dogged by rumors that Aurora was a wild, lawless outpost.

The police chief estimated that in 1,000 homes -- well more than 10 percent of the city -- bootleg liquor was being brewed in the basement. Cops had confiscated so much moonshine, the illegal liquor was used in municipal vehicles to keep the radiators from freezing.

The booze attracted trouble.

Five years earlier, Chicago gangsters murdered an Aurora police officer on downtown streets. In the previous nine years, three young Aurora women had been beaten to death. All the cases were unsolved, and Chicago papers were calling Aurora "the city of mysterious murders."

Labor unrest also cast a shadow. At the new Burlington Central railroad station, immigrants walked out over poor working conditions, and riots threatened to break out.

Any diversion was welcome, and for a few minutes Aurorans marveled as Capt. Cyril Turner of England's Royal Air Force cut through the air at 100 mph. When he spelled out the entire phrase -- "LUCKY STRIKE" -- the trail stretched more than 6 miles, the largest message ever written in the sky.

Seeing the words, some railroad workers became so excited, they momentarily thought their strike was settled and the pilot had been hired to wish them luck. The stunt turned out to be nothing more than a fantastic advertising ploy by a tobacco company on a tour of 100 American cities.

But even as the city's attention was drawn toward heaven, down below on the West Side -- perhaps beneath the giant "S" in the sky -- the last details of a hideous plot were being worked out.

The horrifying plan was finalized in a humble, one-story house on Indian Trail. It would disgust and captivate residents and put the Fox Valley on the front page of newspapers across the country.

Solving this bizarre crime would change Aurora's reputation and make the town's police chief a law enforcement legend.

It all began to unfold at 6 p.m. the day after the skywriting show, when a tiny candle was extinguished in the City of Lights.

Edward Lincoln was worried about his brother, Warren.

Since Warren's wife and brother-in-law mysteriously vanished in January, the 45-year-old Auroran claimed a man had been following him. The stranger -- a well-dressed, sandy-haired man -- had trailed Lincoln to the movies, lurked behind him while he shopped downtown and lingered outside the large greenhouse next to his home.

A few weeks before the skywriter's visit, Lincoln reported this stranger to police. He was convinced the man was trying to kill him and speculated it might be connected to his wife and her brother. Aurora Police Capt. Fred Grass checked out the story -- even assigned an officer to tail Lincoln -- but police never saw anyone following him.

It was all so unsettling that Edward and his brother worked out a signal: Warren would light a candle in his window if everything was OK.

His story was odd, but Lincoln was a bit peculiar himself. At 5-foot-6, 160 pounds, Lincoln's most prominent feature was his large, bald head and big eyes that made him look like a hawk. Still, he was friendly and likeable. Harmless.

He wasn't shy about his relationship to the famous president. Lincoln's great-great-grandfather and Abe's great-grandfather were brothers. The connection was tenuous. However, when Lincoln later became the focus of national media attention, few papers failed to mention the family lineage.

In 1912, Lincoln married a severe, tall woman named Lina Shoup and began to pursue a law degree. The law career didn't last. In 1918, he had a mental breakdown, an event that would lead him from Mount Pulaski -- 26 miles northeast of Springfield -- to Aurora, the place of all his troubles.

Unable to handle the stress, Lincoln gravitated to horticulture, and he zeroed in on the fertile ground surrounding the Fox River. He bought 20 acres at 355 W. Indian Trail and built a modest home with an impressive greenhouse and became known for his gladiolus and sweet peas.

Still, the move to Aurora didn't ease the stress. Warren and Lina argued. And things got worse when Lina's brother, Byron Shoup, moved in. Lincoln told police their arguments escalated to violence. He claimed Byron had tried to poison him at least three times.

That, Lincoln told the cops, might explain the stranger, who began tailing him shortly after Lina and Byron disappeared. He told his 16-year-old housekeeper the stranger was an assassin sent by his wife. Lincoln decided to take precautions.

Each night, Lincoln put the candle in his window. But at 6 p.m. April 29, the light went out. Lincoln's brother rushed to the house.

There was blood on the window. Papers were scattered everywhere. Warren was missing.

Aurora Police Chief Frank Michels was one of the first officers on the scene. As he walked up to Lincoln's house, he had no way of knowing it was the start of an investigation that would change his city.

By 1923, Frank Michels was known throughout Illinois for his tenacity as an investigator and his long tenure with the department.

Born at the corner of New York and Broadway to a hardworking farmer, Michels took his first job at age 11, leading a blind Civil War soldier through the streets of Aurora. When he was 21, Aurora police bought their first patrol wagon and needed someone to drive the horses. With his farm experience, Michels became an Aurora officer in June 1887.

He quickly stood out for his ability to use his head. Not long after he was hired, Michels tracked down a murderer alone by tracing a cheap watch found at the scene to a Chicago pawn shop.

Michels developed a reputation for working long hours and having no patience for playing politics. His brutal honesty clashed with some -- including the mayor -- but it won over many others, like the angry mob that gathered on North Broadway during a particularly nasty railroad strike. The mob looked ready to brawl when Michels leapt onto a car, lectured the crowd for 15 minutes and convinced everyone to head home.

By 1898, just 33 years old -- but with a chubby baby face that made him look much younger -- Michels was named chief of police.

After his promotion, the legend of "the boy chief" only grew.

He remained actively involved in cases, including a few that would help cultivate the persistence and psychological tactics that he would use on the Lincoln case.

To the demanding residents of Aurora, however, Michels was only as good as his last arrest.

When he approached Lincoln's house in 1923, his luster had dulled. Three horrifying -- and still unsolved -- murders had led the public to openly question their chief. Three young, well-to-do women had been beaten to death. Michels personally handled the investigations, but was unable to bring charges.

Undoubtedly, that still stung when Michels arrived at Lincoln's home. Warren was a well known man and the police department would be closely watched.

It didn't take long for Michels to realize that even amid the chaos, there was something odd about the murder scene.

The doors of the house were locked, but a window next to Lincoln's bed was wide open.

Michels noticed blood spattered on the windowsill and a curtain near the bed. A pool of blood and a large club -- perhaps the weapon used in the attack -- were found on the floor of the greenhouse.

Near the home, Michels found a woman's heel print pushed deep into the mud. Down the dirt road, Lincoln's business papers were scattered for 200 yards. Among the papers was a business card: "Milo Durand, private detective." Was this the suspicious stranger?

Michels and Aurora detectives photographed the scene and recorded evidence in notebooks.

They noted: Warren's watch and 67 cents abandoned on a dresser. A half-eaten pie left on the kitchen table. Silent, White and Beautiful, a fictional murder mystery, on the nightstand next to the bed.

Then, along the road, patrolman Lester Wedermaier fished Lincoln's nightshirt and his sleeping cap out of a cistern. The clothes were torn and covered in blood. Wedermaier also found a woman's glove.

Michels told the public he was looking to question Lina Lincoln, Byron Shoup and Milo Durand about Lincoln's murder. Police sent a bulletin out across the country.

"Lincoln was not killed in the house, of that we are sure," Michels told reporters. "He was hit over the head with the club while he slept."

But the boy chief didn't tell the press that he already had his own theory, one that would prove his investigative skills were as sharp as ever.