Fatal (12 page)

Polite and respectful in public, she was often scurrilous in private, maligning her employers, her patients, and the physicians she worked with in the crudest terms. And her lies grew increasingly bizarre and irresponsible. At one point, she caused a near-panic in her neighborhood by fomenting the rumor that a severe
epidemic of typhoid had broken out in a nearby seminary.

For the most part, however, Jane was regarded as a gem and treated with affection, respect, and gratitude. And no one—not even those who caught glimpses of her uglier side—had any inkling of her darkest secrets: of the things that sometimes happened late at night, while the rest of the household slept and Nurse Toppan was alone with her patients.

These women take great delight in their secret hidden power. In watching the suffering and slow death of her victims, she receives the utmost stimulation. . . . She strives for the will to power which is characteristic of her sadistic nature and obtains this through the anguish and suffering of her victims.

—J. P
AUL DE
R
IVER
,
The Sexual Criminal

G
IVEN HOW GOOD IT MADE HER FEEL TO HOLD A DYING
victim in her embrace, it is hardly surprising that Jane Toppan enjoyed her work as a private nurse. No other profession could have afforded her such choice opportunities to fulfill her twisted needs. The exact number of patients whose lives she ended during her nearly decade-long career remains a mystery, though estimates range as high as 100. Thanks to her own subsequent confessions, however, we do know the identities of some of her victims.

Two of them were her longtime landlords, an elderly couple named Israel and Lovey Dunham. When Jane wasn’t engaged as a live-in nurse, she boarded for several years at the Dunham home at No. 19 Wendell Street, Cambridge.

In May 1895, Jane poisoned seventy-seven-year-old Israel Dunham because, as she later put it, he was getting “feeble and fussy.” His death was attributed to heart failure brought on by a strangulated hernia.

For the next two years, Jane continued boarding with the grieving widow. By the fall of 1897, however, Mrs. Dunham, in Jane’s estimation, had become too “old and cranky.” When the old lady took ill that September, Jane nursed her to death with the usual combination of morphine and atropine dissolved in Hunyadi water, a popular, somewhat bitter-tasting mineral water imported from Budapest.

In killing the Dunhams, Jane was acting on a sentiment she had harbored at least as far back as her nursing school days, when she was repeatedly heard to remark that “there was no use in keeping old people alive.” Another of her elderly victims was a wealthy seventy-year-old widow named Mary McNear.

On Christmas day, 1899, Mrs. McNear left her home in Watertown and traveled by carriage to visit her ailing daughter in Cambridge. On the way, she caught a chill. By the time she returned home that evening, she felt sure she was coming down with a cold.

The following afternoon, a Tuesday, she was visited by her married granddaughter, Mrs. Evelyn Shaw, who found her grandmother in the parlor. She was seated on the horsehair sofa, a woolen shawl around her shoulders, basking in the warmth from the black-marble fireplace. The old lady seemed her usual cheerful self, though she sneezed every now and then and sounded slightly hoarse to her granddaughter.

By Wednesday afternoon, Mrs. McNear had developed a cough. Taking to her bed, she sent for her longtime physician, Dr. Walter Wesselhoeft. Though he detected a bit of congestion in her lungs, Dr. Wesselhoeft seemed unconcerned, and when Mrs. McNear’s relatives proposed hiring a trained nurse to care for the old lady, he dismissed the idea as unnecessary.
All she needed was bed rest, hot tea, and a little cod-liver oil for her cough. There was already a servant in the house who could easily minister to her needs.

Her family was insistent, however, and asked the doctor for a recommendation. Wesselhoeft told them to leave the matter to him. He would send over “one of his best nurses.”

When Evelyn Shaw returned the following day—Thursday, December 28—she found her grandmother under the care of a buxom, pleasant-faced nurse who introduced herself as Miss Jane Toppan. Nurse Toppan had arrived early that morning and immediately taken charge. Her obvious professionalism and affable manner impressed Mrs. Shaw, who was relieved to see how well her grandmother was doing. Seated upright on the bed, her back propped up by feather pillows, the old lady was in high spirits, “laughing and chatting and making plans for some little New Year’s celebration we were going to have,” as her granddaughter would later recall.

After a pleasant visit that lasted an hour or so, Mrs. Shaw returned to Cambridge, feeling much reassured. She had only been home a short time, however, when her grandmother’s coachman arrived in a state of extreme agitation. Something had happened to Mrs. McNear. She had passed out and could not be revived.

By the time Evelyn Shaw got back to her grandmother’s house, Dr. Wesselhoeft was already there, having been summoned by Nurse Toppan. Taking Evelyn aside, he explained that her grandmother had “suffered a stroke of apoplexy.” According to Nurse Toppan, the old lady had just taken a dose of her prescribed medication when “a quiver passed over her face, followed by a second” and she “fell back unconscious.”
Nurse Toppan had immediately gone downstairs to inform the servants that Mrs. McNear had passed out but that they “need not be alarmed, as she would do everything that was necessary.”

The cook, however, Mrs. Grose, had thought it best to notify her family and had immediately dispatched the coachman to Cambridge.

Evelyn Shaw spent a long, sleepless night at her grandmother’s bedside, holding the old lady’s hand and praying for her recovery. Her prayers went unheeded. Early the next morning—Friday, December 29, 1899—Mary McNear died without ever having regained consciousness.

Shortly after the funeral, Mrs. McNear’s relatives discovered that some of her best clothes were missing. Could Nurse Toppan have made off with the items? When they conveyed their suspicions to Dr. Wesselhoeft, however, he became deeply incensed. Jane Toppan, he declared, was “one of the finest women and best nurses he knew.” He “would not listen to anything against her.”

The family decided to let the matter drop. To be sure, as Mrs. Shaw later said, it pained them “to think that someone else might be wearing poor Grandma’s clothes, and she laying in her grave.” But in the end, some missing apparel was a trivial loss compared to the old lady’s death. Besides, in view of Dr. Wesselhoeft’s testimonial, it seemed unlikely that Nurse Toppan had stolen the garments.

That she had done something infinitely worse to their beloved grandmother was a thought that never even crossed their minds.

•   •   •

Considering how Jane felt about old people, it’s hardly surprising that she did away with seventy-year-old
Mary McNear. In another respect, however, Mrs. McNear was an unusual victim. Jane had never set eyes on the old lady until the day of the murder; they were complete strangers to each other. As a rule, Jane preferred to kill people she knew.

This preference is typical of women serial killers, and one of the traits that most distinguishes them from their male counterparts. In general, there is a promiscuous, impersonal quality to male serial murder, reflecting the stereotypical pattern of male sexuality. Whether straight or gay, a male psychopath will generally gratify his cravings on strangers—prostitutes, pickups, random victims snatched from the street. To be sure, he might look for someone with a specific physical trait that turns him on: blue eyes, brown skin, straight dark hair parted down the middle. But when the frenzy to kill comes over him, he will vent it on any available object that matches his fantasy.

By contrast, female serial killers prefer a certain level of intimacy with their victims. Their behavior is a grotesque travesty of the normal responses of women. Inflicting harm on anonymous strangers doesn’t excite them; they achieve their deepest satisfaction in the context of personal relationships. They take pleasure in killing people they are closest to. Husbands and wives. Neighbors and friends. Their nearest blood kin.

Or their foster relations.

In the years since she’d left home, Jane had maintained superficially cordial relations with her foster sister, Elizabeth Brigham. On her occasional trips back to Lowell, Jane always stayed with Elizabeth and her husband, Oramel, who were more than happy to put her up in her old bedroom for a few days or a week. They were pleased that “Jennie” (as they fondly called
her) had succeeded so well on her own. And they enjoyed her company. With her amusing personality, she always managed to brighten up the household. It felt like old times when Jennie came to stay.

Beneath her sociable exterior, however, Jane harbored virulent feelings against her foster sister. Like most psychopathic personalities, Jane Toppan bore a profound grudge against the world. Severely damaged in childhood, such individuals grow up full of envy and malice—and their bitterest hate is reserved for those who seem to have been granted everything in life that they themselves have been denied.

For Jane Toppan, her foster sister was the living embodiment of the world’s inequities. Since childhood, Elizabeth had enjoyed all the advantages that Jane felt herself so unjustly deprived of: wealth, social status, parental devotion, and—later on—the blessings of love and marriage.

Not that Oramel Brigham was exactly a romantic figure. In 1899, he was a portly gentleman of advanced middle age with a double chin, bald dome, and bushy, gray, muttonchop whiskers. Still, as a deacon of the First Trinitarian Congregational Church and depot master for the Boston & Maine Railroad, he was a respected man in the community. And he was utterly devoted to his wife.

For several years, Jane had vacationed each summer on Cape Cod. In August 1899, she invited her foster sister to join her for a few days at her rented cottage in the seashore town of Cataumet. At her husband’s urging, Elizabeth—who had been suffering from a mild but persistent case of melancholia—wrote back to Jane, eagerly accepting the invitation. A few days at the beach, she felt sure, would do her good.

She arrived late Friday, August 25. The following day, she and Jane—wearing white summer dresses and striped sailor caps—carried a picnic basket down to Scotch House Cove, where they spent several pleasant hours, chatting merrily, snacking on cold corned beef and taffy, and basking in the glories of the ocean, sky, and weather.

That night, Elizabeth—feeling slightly drained from her long afternoon in the sun—retired early to her upstairs bedroom. The following morning, she did not respond when called down to breakfast. Shortly afterward, Jane appeared at the house of her landlords. Her sister, she said, had taken sick. Having done all she could to make her comfortable, Jane thought it best to summon a physician.

Late that afternoon, back in Lowell, Oramel Brigham received a telegraph from Jane, informing him that Elizabeth was dangerously ill. Alarmed, he quickly made arrangements to take the first available train to Cape Cod. He arrived in Cataumet early the next morning, Monday, August 28, to find his wife in a coma. According to the physician who had responded to Jane’s summons, Mrs. Brigham had suffered a stroke of apoplexy. Early the next morning, Tuesday, August 29, Elizabeth Brigham died with her tearful husband and dry-eyed foster sister at her bedside.

Shortly thereafter, Oramel began gathering up his dead wife’s belongings for the journey back to Lowell. Glancing into her handbag, he was surprised to discover that it contained only five dollars. While discussing her vacation plans, he and Elizabeth had agreed that she should take no less than fifty dollars with her for expenses.

When Oramel asked Jane if she knew what had become
of the missing money, she claimed ignorance. As far as she knew, Elizabeth had arrived with only the few dollars in her purse.

Taking Jane at her word, Oramel was about to return to his melancholy task when she placed a hand on his arm and told him that Elizabeth had made a final request. Just before slipping into her final coma, she had expressed the wish that Jane be given her gold watch and chain as a keepsake.

The information brought renewed tears to the deacon’s eyes. How like his wife to make such a loving gesture! He turned the articles over to Jane without hesitation, then went back to arranging for his wife’s final trip home to Lowell.

In subsequent years, Oramel never once saw Jane with the gold watch on her person. He assumed that she regarded it as too precious to carry, and kept it safeguarded with her other treasures.

He would not learn the truth until much later, when the police—searching through Jane Toppan’s possessions—found a stash of pawnshop tickets in one of her bureau drawers.

•   •   •

Of all forms of homicide, poisoning is, by its very nature, the most secretive, accomplished by a killer who operates with the utmost stealth and perpetrated on a victim unaware that he or she is being murdered. Unless the killer confesses, it is impossible to tell precisely what took place during the commission of the deed.