Benedict G. Fischer, St. Paul Police Patrolman

Henry Heinbaugh

In December of 1923 Henry Heinbaugh was held as a “suspicious person” by the Des Moines police. By 1930, Heinbaugh was married, a father, and a step-father. He owned a radio (a sign of being able to afford something nonessential), and was working as a barber in Detroit, the same city where his friend, Lee Harris, was arrested in 1924.

Lee Harris

In January of 1924 Harris, now using the aliases Harold Springer and Leroy Conway, was arrested in Chicago for assault to kill. Although no public record of the outcome of that arrest can be readily accessed, it appears that Harris was not detained long. Later that year, on October 16, he was arrested in Detroit for armed robbery and was held there for sentencing. Typical sources of public records do not reveal anything about Lee Harris’s life after that time.

R. C. Warren

R. C. Warren was off parole one year after he was discharged from Stillwater. During the time he was on parole, Warren was restricted to living in Minnesota. During this time he worked, but was not able to consistently find full-time employment. Three months after he was off parole, he wrote a letter to the State Board of Parole stating his belief that the Board was responsible for his rent and grocery bills while he was on parole. The Parole Board disagreed. It does seem, though, that he was able to turn his life around. In 1930, Warren worked as a painter. He and his wife had three more children, and owned a modest home and a radio. At some point he and his wife moved to California where he continued to work as a painter. R.C. Warren died in 1955.

Benedict G. Fischer

Life was a difficult for many people during World War I and the 1920s. It was no easier for Ben with his right arm paralyzed. Nonetheless, when the draft law changed to require registration from older men, Ben complied and registered for the draft one year after he was shot.

Fischer family lore says that the police were willing to take Ben back on the police force, but its insurance company would not allow this because he had been considered disabled after he was shot. He was placed on pension in December of 1921. In 1929 and 1930 his pension was $70 per month. This was a rather generous pension for that time, but it was only half his pay as an active police officer in 1920.

Ben and Tina’s daughter, Florence, remembered that it was difficult for Ben to do simple things for himself. For example, activities as undemanding as eating were a severe problem because for years he could not raise a fork or spoon to his mouth. The nerve damage caused by the bullet to his neck probably also caused the mood changes Ben experienced, including sudden bouts of crying.

The Fischer family had to struggle to get by. Running a household for a family of five – Alberta was born in 1919 – must also have been difficult for Tina. In fact, several quilts Tina made for her family were made out of the black, navy, and brown scraps of cloth Ben was given by a neighborhood tailor. Although perhaps seen through the indistinct lens of childhood memory, Florence and Alberta remembered that for years they ate the same food almost every day – mostly peas – because, again, they could not afford much else. In 1930, the Fischer family did not own a radio, this at a time when 40 percent of American families did.

Until the time he was placed on disability, Ben always considered himself a policeman. During this time, Ben rehabilitated himself and gradually regained the use of his right arm. He tried to pick up odd jobs as he could, occasionally working as a railroad switchman (1923) or a laborer (1927), but most of the time he was not able to find employment.

At the start of the Great Depression, Ben was fortunate enough to start another career: constable at large of St. Paul, serving court-ordered papers to individuals involved in civil suits, and sometimes repossessing their belongings. There were two constables at large in St. Paul at this time, each with a two-year term of office. In the early years of his bid for election, Ben’s campaign cards showed a photograph of him in his police uniform next to the phrase “ex-policeman of St. Paul.” Ben lost his first race for election in 1928, but he ran again in 1930 and won. In 1932 he ran for the third time but lost to another St. Paul police officer. 1934 began a string of wins until he lost the 1942 election. With no comment on the power of incumbency, Ben won the 1944 election and every subsequent one including the last time he ran, in 1972, when he was 90 years old. He intended to run in 1974 but missed the filing deadline by one day, an error that was probably orchestrated by his two daughters. He tried to make the case that since he had been in city hall during the time he could have filed, city officials should have taken that as his de facto filing. City officials did not buy that argument, bringing Ben’s career as constable to an abrupt yet honorable end.

Ben was always quite the lively character. Whether it was sneaking his children into the state fair without paying during the Depression, telling Alberta he was bringing her a fresh chicken to cook for her family’s dinner while neglecting to mention that it hadn’t been plucked of its feathers yet, teaching a granddaughter to drive by directing her the wrong way on a one-way street because it was a shorter route, buying scraggly Christmas trees late on Christmas eve because that’s when he could get the best price, or learning to dance the “mashed potatoes” in the early 1960s, he was always his own person. His son-in-law still says that Tina would just roll her eyes and smile whenever she learned of another of Ben’s antics.

Ben (top row, fourth from the left in the photo above) was very proud that his eldest grandchild, Richard Fischer (Herb’s son), became a police officer. When he was growing up, Richard heard Ben’s stories about life on the police force. Ben would tell him about how the police didn’t always have shotguns when he first joined the police force, and how they didn’t particularly want to publicize widely that they were finally purchased. Most importantly, though, Ben told Richard how much he loved being an officer and walking his beat every day. He loved getting to know all the people he served and protected. This was why he joined the police force. It wasn’t like “modern times” when cops rode in cars and had less contact with the everyday folks. These stories – and Ben himself – inspired Richard to join the force. Once, when Rich was working undercover and ripped his shirt, he stopped at Ben’s house to have Florence sew it up and then get right back to work. Rich retired from the Minneapolis Police Force with more than 30 years of dedicated service.

To Ben, all people were the same. Rich or poor; young or old; of any race, creed, or religion – we were all people with our own stories to tell, and we were all people to be respected and accepted with all our faults and frailties. Ben was not one to hold a grudge probably because he didn’t judge people to begin with. This might be why he never talked with his grandchildren about the time he was shot and the fact that nobody went to prison because of this assault. His grandchildren knew of the long scar on the back of this beloved man’s neck, but never heard him say a word about the man who shot him.

In his late 80s or early 90s, Ben’s daughters took away the keys to the Model A Ford (with the original “ah-ooo-ga” horn) he had driven throughout his career as constable – the only car he ever owned. When this happened, Ben started hitch-hiking. This trusting old soul would, on occasion, walk over to Snelling or University, pull out his neatly-ironed white handkerchief, and wave it at passing drivers until someone would stop. He’d then open the door, commandeer the car, and give directions to where he wanted to go. No one ever turned him down.

Ben Fischer died in his home on Thomas Avenue at 94 years of age in 1976. His son, Herb, gave the personal information that was recorded on Ben’s death certificate. Herb correctly reported Ben’s birth date, address, and marital status, along with the names of his parents and their birthplaces. When asked Ben’s “usual occupation,” Herb said “police officer.” He got that one right, too.