Latest / Someone Knows: True Crime, Unsolved Cases & the Search for Truth / The Jazz Letter: The Axeman of New Orleans Mystery | Someone Knows
Transcript
- Imagine the sound of a chisel scraping against wood in the dead of night, followed by the heavy, wet thud of an axe finding its mark. It is a silence that does not just fall over New Orleans; it haunts it. We remember them. That is my promise to you, and to everyone whose story gets lost in the footnotes of history. Tonight, we are going back to a city that pulses with a life so vibrant it feels like it could drown out anything dark. But in the early months of 1918, something was creeping through the streets of New Orleans, Louisiana. Something that turned homes into traps and music into a shield. We call him the Axeman, though he never gave himself a name. He was an unidentified American serial killer, active between May 1918 and October 1919, leaving behind a trail of blood and confusion that has never been fully cleaned up. Let’s look at what’s missing. Because in this case, the absence of answers is louder than any scream. It started on May twenty-third, nineteen eighteen. Joseph Maggio, an Italian grocer, and his wife Catherine were sleeping in their apartment on the corner of Upperline and Magnolia Streets. They had no idea someone was watching. The attacker didn’t break down the door. He used a chisel to remove a panel from the back door, leaving the piece of wood and the tool right there on the floor, near where he entered. It was a methodical approach. Precise. Then, he attacked them. He used a straight razor. Catherine’s throat was cut so deeply her head was nearly severed. Joseph survived the initial strike, but the killer wasn’t done. He struck both victims again, this time with an axe. Joseph died minutes later, discovered by his brothers Jake and Andrew. On the pavement outside, the killer wrote a chilling message: 'Mrs. Maggio will sit up tonight just like Mrs. Toney.' It was a reference to another family, Italian greengrocers attacked years earlier. A signature. A warning. Here is where the story gets tangled. When the police arrived, they found bloody clothes in the apartment. The killer had changed into a clean set before fleeing. But he left his weapons behind. A razor, stained with the life of Joseph Maggio, was later found on the lawn of a neighboring property. Police ruled out robbery immediately. Money and valuables lay in plain sight, untouched. This was not about greed. It was personal. Or perhaps, for the killer, it was something else entirely. The razor belonged to Joseph’s brother, Andrew, who owned a barber shop. Andrew told police he had taken it two days prior to get a nick honed. He also said he heard groaning noises through the wall that night. But he blamed his failure to hear the entry or the attack on being intoxicated. The police suspected him. They really did. But they couldn’t break his story. So, he walked free. And the Axeman went silent for a while. Then came June twenty-seventh. Louis Besumer and his mistress, Harriet Lowe, were attacked in the private quarters behind Louis’s grocery at Dorgenois and Laharpe Streets. Louis was struck with a hatchet above his right temple, suffering a possible skull fracture. These crimes were not motivated by robbery. The perpetrator never removed items from the victims' homes. Yet, the majority of the victims were Italian immigrants or Italian-Americans. The press, hungry for panic, sensationalized this aspect, suggesting Mafia involvement despite a total lack of evidence. Some analysts suggested sexual motivation, a sadistic drive specifically seeking female victims. Others hypothesized that male victims were only killed when they obstructed attempts to murder women. But one theory stood out, bizarre and impossible to ignore. A theory about music. On March thirteenth, nineteen nineteen, a letter purporting to be from the Axeman appeared in newspapers across the city. It was typed. Cold. Detached. He claimed responsibility for the crimes and offered a strange bargain. He stated he would kill again at fifteen minutes past midnight on the night of March nineteenth. But he promised to spare the occupants of any place where a jazz band was playing. Think about that. A serial killer offering clemency based on musical preference. On that night, March nineteenth, every dance hall in New Orleans was filled to capacity. Professional and amateur bands played jazz at parties in hundreds of houses around town. The city held its breath. Lights flickered. Music swelled. And then... nothing. No murders that night. The Axeman kept his word. Or maybe he was just teasing us. He didn’t stop there. On March twenty-fifth, he sent another typed letter to all four local newspapers. He demanded justice. And he issued a new test. April second, nineteen nineteen. He would strike again, unless jazz was playing. So, the city prepared. They played louder. They played longer. They believed in the power of the rhythm, in the hope that art could protect them from brutality. And again, on the appointed night, the music played. And the violence stayed away. There were no attacks on April second. Sporadic incidents continued briefly afterward, but the main spree seemed to halt. It stopped as mysteriously as it had started. No arrests. No confessions. Just the lingering question of why. Why jazz? Why Italian families? Why the axe? The Axeman was never caught. His identity remains unknown, though various possible identifications have been proposed over the decades, ranging from organized crime figures to individuals linked to political corruption. None stuck. None were proven. We know he used axes, often belonging to the victims themselves. We know he used razors. We know he left panels and chisels. We know he targeted Italian immigrants. We know he spared those who played jazz. But we do not know who he was. Was he a criminal? A madman? A man with a twisted sense of morality? The truth doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it whispers in the spaces between notes. In the silence after the music stops. We remember them. Joseph. Catherine. Louis. Harriet. They were not just statistics in a cold case file. They were people living their lives, unaware that a shadow was moving through their neighborhood. Their dignity matters. Their stories matter. Thank you for listening. Thank you for holding space for the forgotten. I’m Kristen Cameron. We remember them. This story is drawn from public records and widely reported accounts. Our thoughts are with everyone affected.