Blood on the Door: Rumors of a Milwaukee Hermit’s Treasure Lead to a Gruesome End

×

Expand

The little ramshackle home of Valentine Gawronski, a Milwaukee gardener rumored to contain a small fortune.

There had long been rumors about the man who lived in the little shack at the edge of Milwaukee’s Southwest side. He was Valentine Gawronski, a 44-year-old gardener who worked for the city and tended the grounds at Mitchell Park. In the summer of 1922, as the temperatures neared their peak, it seemed that everyone in the neighborhood around South Lincoln and 30th Avenue had heard the talk. There was treasure, it was whispered, hidden in or buried beneath the little garage home that sat all by itself on the outskirts. And Gawronski, known as “the man who walks alone,” was said to be Milwaukee’s most unassuming wealthy resident.

Walter Kenpinski, a burly young man from the area, had heard all of the talk. Kenpinski was just 18, but he stood six-foot-two and weighed 200 lbs.—a mountain of a man for the time. He gave his profession as a “laborer” but worked erratically and had spent time in jail for burglary. He was known to the police as a “old timer,” a seasoned criminal hand. That summer, he had begun to drink heavily—Prohibition-era homebrew and moonshine cooked up locally. “When he drank that stuff, we could do nothing with him,” Eleanor Dancker, his sister, later said. “He seemed to go crazy.”

Late one night, in early July, convinced that Gawronski’s riches could be his to take, Kenpinski showed up on the reclusive man’s doorstep with a revolver. He pushed his way inside and tore through the place, looking for evidence of gold or cash. As he pulled a small notebook from Gawronski’s pocket and shook loose its pages, a $50 bill fell to the floor. In his haste, Kenspinski didn’t notice the bill and Gawronski covered it with his bare foot.

Expand

Valentine Gawronski just wanted to be left alone.

Kenpinski said that Gawronski looked familiar to him. He asked him if he’d ever served time at the old jailhouse on Eighth Street. Gawronski said he hadn’t and, as a matter of fact, he was steadily employed with the city. “You work for the city?” Kenpinski asked. Gawronski knew he’d made a terrible mistake. “That means you get paid on the 5th and 20th?” Kenspinski left, taking only a set of clothing, but Gawronski knew he’d come back after his next payday. Terrified of the man, he acquired a double-barreled shotgun the next day and took to sleeping with it, fully dressed.

A week later, around 3 a.m. on the morning of July 8, Kenpinski returned, satisfied that until he could locate the hermit’s treasure, his humble bi-monthly pay would suffice. Kenpinski pounded on the door. “Open up the door right away. Open it up and be quick about it.” He pulled a pair of silk socks over his hands—a old-timer’s trick to avoid leaving fingerprints—and drove his shoulder into the front door.

“Go away from here,” Gawronski shouted. “Or I’ll blow you up!”

Kenpinski lunged against the door once more, nearly bolting the shack from its foundation. Gawronski pulled both triggers and sent a spray of shot through the door. Gawronski had never fired a shotgun before and the recoil sent him back into the wall. His aim, however, was true, and by the time he gathered himself and stood, Kenpinski was dead, slumped against the front door, nearly decapitated. Gawronski climbed past him and ran to a nearby tavern to call the police.

Eleanor noticed her brother was missing the next morning when she went to wake him. He had been staying with her and her husband and had recently told them that he had found a job that would start on the morning he died. She didn’t think much of his absence at first, since he had been increasingly unreliable as of late. But when she saw an afternoon newspaper that carried word of a drunken man killed in the commission of a burglary, she knew that Walter was dead. It was left to her to identify the body and arrange for a burial.

A week later, a coroner’s jury ruled that Gawronski had been justified in the killing.