A sugar argument and a stolen Buick
Scene: about 12:25 a.m. Tuesday, Oct. 29, 1918
Gus Cordogan was adamant. No. More. Sugar.
No matter how much these two guys swore, no matter what sort of fuss they created, waiter Gus Cordogan was not giving them another ounce.
Gus had no way of knowing his resolve would lead to murder.
Standing in the diner on Broadway, he was a patriot, the last line of defense against the government's restrictions limiting each coffee drinker to two lumps — and no more.
Without a doubt, these two jerks at the counter weren't going to change Cordogan's mind. Didn't we just finish a war? Weren't we all supposed to pitch in?
The loudmouth sitting on the third stool had an unforgettable face. It was full of pockmarks, with a prominent nose and big ears.
The scarred man's friend, an ordinary looking fellow around 35, wore a dark brown velour derby that nearly covered his eyes, but didn't hide his distinct jaw or thick blond hair.
Gus didn't know the two belligerent customers were practically royalty in the criminal world. Chicago police were after them for their alleged involvement in half a dozen murders, at least two daring jewelry heists and the attempted murder of a Chicago detective.
Sitting on the other side of the diner, Aurora police Sgt. Daniel Drake didn't know any of that criminal history, either. So maybe it was their obnoxious attitude, or the late hour, that set off Drake's internal alarms. Perhaps it was just old-fashioned police instincts that told Drake there was more to this disturbance than an argument about the flavor of a beverage.
Drake made his way to the corner of Fox and Broadway and found a police box, the officer's only line of communication with headquarters. The boxes were posted throughout downtown and officers checked in every half hour.
Drake called Fred Hess, the detective at the desk.
While keeping an eye on the argument, Drake read the license plate number of the Buick parked at the curb the two rowdies had driven.
"Nine. Nine. Two. Two. Four," Drake told Hess. "To whom is it registered?"
Hess looked it up in the state's automobile register. The license came back to William Von Gundy. But there was a problem: 99224 was supposed to be attached to a Ford, not a Buick.
An argument over sugar just became a stolen vehicle case.
When he was in the Army, Drake had won medals for sharp shooting but he had lost his leg and used crutches now. By himself, Drake knew he couldn't handle these two guys if they decided to bolt.
It was time to call the Swede.
Chapter II
around 12:45 a.m. Tuesday, Oct. 29, 1918
Alfred Olin, 31, was one of the Aurora police department's stars.
Chief C.S. McCarty called him fearless, dependable and an excellent judge of people. And around police headquarters, he was known as "Swede" — even though his family left Europe when he was three.
In his early 20s, Olin had worked at Western Wheel Scrapworks, where his size (he was more than six feet tall with a hefty frame) was an advantage to a laborer.
In 1911, Olin put his heft to another use, joining the Aurora Police Department. Photos of the APD in the early part of the 20th century show row after row of burly mustached men — ready to use their bulk to break up bar fights or give pause to suspects who were just as likely to be carrying a gun as officers were.
Although he lacked the facial hair — he was clean shaven under his bulbous nose — Olin fit right in.
He had quickly moved up through the ranks of the force, earning a good reputation with both the command staff and the public.
As custom, people often invited a police officer to their wedding for luck. Olin was often the officer asked to appear at these ceremonies because, according to Chief McCarty, he had a reputation for being of "gentlemanly manner and generally clean appearance."
Olin drove the department's patrol wagon and, after seven years on the force, he would occasionally fill in for detectives who were absent. The chief had even entrusted him with a new recruit, Lester Wedemaier, who had been in Aurora for less than a week after transferring from Hinckley.
With all his experience and expertise, Olin's comment before he left his home at 276 Clark Street caught the attention of his wife and brother-in-law, who were sitting with him.
"I wouldn't go in to work tonight if they weren't short of men," Olin said.
Only minutes earlier, Olin had been called to headquarters to assist on a possible stolen car case.
Olin's wife watched as he struggled to get on his overcoat. Then, just before leaving, Olin added a prediction to his remark. Perhaps he said something like it a dozen times before on other police calls where nothing went wrong.
But later, reflecting on what happened, Olin's family would have to wonder if the Swede had a premonition as he walked out the door.
"I feel that something is going to happen to me tonight," Olin said.
And then Olin walked out his front door for the last time.
Tomorrow: A tragic error leads to a gunfight on the streets of downtown Aurora.
Notes on first section:
This story was recreated from Beacon News and Chicago Tribune stories after the arrest and during ensuing trial. Gus's last name is not clear. Stories referred to him as Cordigan, Cordogan and Cordigas. We chose Cordogan because that spelling has a history in Aurora, with some local families still using that arrangement
