
You have never seen his name on the jackets of the many, many books he was essential in bringing to life.
Jim Agnew is the name and he was a lively character on the writers’ saloon circuit for many years until giving up booze nearly two decades ago. But he was ever one of the literary scene’s unseen and unsung masters. He was a researcher and a great one, one of the last of a breed that disdained the ease (and unreliability) of the Internet to dig the old-fashioned way.
Mike Royko called him, simply, “the best crime researcher in America.”
Agnew died on last week and there is an obituary in the Sun-Times Wednesday.
In the wake of his death emerge all manner of memories and appreciations. I recall sitting with him at the bygone Riccardo’s or O’Rourke’s, or the still-thriving Old Town Ale House, and listening to him tell me stories about having gotten to know one of the former cellmates of Nathan Leopold who, along with University of Chicago classmate Richard Loeb, killed 14-year-old Bobby Franks in 1924, in what would be called the “crime of the century.”



Tony Sarabia:
