Catch a whiff of rum and candor when Jacob Ritter sits to write one morning in 1861. His opening line: "I have killed my wife because she is a witch." When the trains roar through this New Albany, they are quite likely meeting flesh. The men in the saloons are armed and irritated. And the murderous can be most industrious, like the man who was sentenced to death, sold his body to New Albany's first physician, collected the cash, reneged on the contract and then tried to sell his corpse again. Millions have roamed these broad avenues during New Albany's nearly two hundred years. Most have been honest sorts. Others, well…