“Lock me up. I’ve just shot my wife.”
Emmet Kirgan, Cincinnati’s chief of detectives, looked at the man in disbelief. George Remus bounced back and forth in front of the desk, then sank into a chair and surrendered. At the time rich, famous, powerful, and feared, he was widely hailed as “King of the Bootleggers,” and Kirgan recognized him right away. Frank McNeal, another Cincinnati police officer in the room, stopped for a moment, unsure how to proceed. Kirgan stood quickly, grasping what Remus had admitted. Murderers usually had to be caught…
Was this a criminal mastermind of the illegal whiskey trade, or a wife-murderer who got off on a technicality?
Earlier that day, George felt the blood slick on his hand and looked down in horror. His white silk shirt — crisp and unsoiled only several minutes before — was now awash in red. The pearl-handled pistol heavy in his grip, Remus glanced up, turning toward the street. He heard the women’s screams and the cries of children who had been playing nearby. He searched for an escape, his eyes darting left and right in the morning sunlight that washed over Eden Park.
