Free The Mad Sculptor by Harold Schechter Page A

10:00 a.m., hopped a bus for Washington, D.C.
    He spent all Monday afternoon walking around the city, strolling to the White House and visiting the National Gallery. With his face plastered all over the front pages, he assumed he’d be arrested any minute and was surprised when no one recognized him. During his entire time as America’s most wanted fugitive, he made no effort to alter his appearance and was much amused by the newspaper stories describing him as a “master of disguise” who might be going around in female clothing.
    After his afternoon of sightseeing, he made his way to the freight yards. He “had done a lot of bumming,” he explained afterward, “but had no freight car experience. I decided to go whatever way the freight went.” He found a vacant boxcar, climbed inside, and went to sleep.
    When he woke up the following morning, Tuesday, April 6, the train was moving and he had company—“a regular bum who gave me all sorts of tips.” The two traveled all the way to Willard, Ohio, where Irwin got off. From there, he hitchhiked to Akron, then caught another ride to Cleveland, arriving there on Thursday, April 8. He had settled into his new life pretty comfortably by the time that pantry girl, Henrietta Whatsername, recognized him. 1
    He had hurried from the kitchen and kept on going until he reached his hotel. He knew he couldn’t stay on the run forever. His arrest was inevitable—probably sooner rather than later, now that he’d been recognized. Why not make a splash by giving himself up? Not to the cops but to someone who appreciated his importance, who had once called him a “mad genius” on his nightly broadcast—America’s most popular newspaper columnist and radio commentator, Walter Winchell.
    Quickly gathering his belongings, he made straight for the bus terminal, only to find that he was two bucks short of the twelve-dollarfare to New York City. So he bought a one-way ticket on the next bus to Chicago.
    Now, seated by a window in the sleek, blue-and-white Super Coach, he debated his next move. It suddenly occurred to him that he could make good money by turning himself in to a newspaper—certainly more than that double-crosser Lamkie had gotten for peddling his life story to the tabloids.
    It was 6:30 Saturday morning when he arrived in Chicago. He spent a few hours wandering around Lake Shore Drive and the Loop. Spotting a movie marquee announcing an exclusive newsreel of the June 22 Joe Louis–Jim Braddock heavyweight match, he bought a thirty-five-cent ticket and, after taking in the footage of the bout, stayed to watch the main feature, Wings Over Honolulu , starring Ray Milland and Wendy Barrie. 2
    Afterward, he found the nearest drugstore, shut himself inside the rear telephone booth, and dialed the number of the Chicago Tribune . Connected to the city editor, he identified himself as Robert Irwin and was answered with an irate “Take it somewhere else, buddy. I don’t have time for monkey business.” When the editor slammed down the phone, Bob slipped another nickel into the coin slot and called the Chicago Herald and Examiner . 3
    Created from the merger of two Chicago newspapers, Hearst’s Herald and Examiner was famed for its old-school, bare-knuckled journalism. Its no-holds-barred approach was epitomized by night city editor Frank Carson. In 1920, for example, following a sensational murder-suicide involving the head of a prominent Chicago advertising firm and his mistress, Ruth Randall, Carson managed to steal a pivotal piece of evidence—Randall’s diary—from the safe at police headquarters. He then copyrighted it and announced his plan to publish it in sections over the course of a week. When authorities howled that Carson was preventing the coroner’s jury from seeing the diary, he “cheerfully announced that the jury was not going to be deprived of the document—they could read it in the Herald and Examiner in daily installments.” 4
    Carson’s crime