Read The Interpretation Of Murder Online
Authors: Jed Rubenfeld
The Interpretation Of Murder (13 page)
On the eastern bank of the Hudson
River, sixty miles north of New York City, stood a massive, sprawling,
red-brick Victorian institution built in the late nineteenth century, with six
wings, small windows, and a central turret. This was the Matteawan State
Hospital for the Criminally Insane.
The Matteawan asylum had relatively
little security. After all, the 550 inmates were not criminals. They were
merely criminally insane. Many had not been charged with a crime at all, and
those who were had been found not guilty.
Medical knowledge of insanity in 1909
was not a perfected science. At Matteawan, some 10 percent of the occupants
were determined to have been driven insane solely as a result of masturbation.
Most others were found to suffer from hereditary lunacy. For a substantial
number of inmates, however, the hospital's doctors were hard-pressed to say
what had made them mad or, indeed, if they were mad at all.
The violent and raving were packed
into overcrowded rooms with padded walls and barred windows. The others were
hardly watched. No medication was on offer, no 'talking cures.' The organizing
medical idea was mental hygiene. Hence the treatment consisted of early rising,
followed by mild but time-consuming labor (principally planting and tending
vegetables on the thousand-acre farm surrounding the hospital), prayer service
on Sundays, a punctual but vapid supper in the refectory at five, checkers or
other wholesome diversions in the evening, and an early bedtime.
The patient in room 3121 passed his
days in a different fashion. This patient also had rooms 3122-24. He slept not
on a cot, like the other inmates, but on a double bed. And he slept late. Not a
reader of books, he received by post several of the New York dailies and all
the weekly magazines, which he read over poached eggs while his fellow patients
were marched en masse out to the farm for their morning labor. He met with his
lawyers several times a week. Best of all, a chef from Delmonico's came up by
rail on Friday evenings to prepare his supper, which he took in his own dining room.
His champagne and liquor, he liberally shared with the small staff of Matteawan
guards, with whom he also played poker at night. When he lost at poker, he
tended to break things: bottles, windows, occasionally a chair. So the guards
saw to it he did not lose much: the few nickels they sacrificed at cards were
more than made up for by the payments he made them to ensure his exemption from
the hospital's rules. And they pocketed what was for them a small fortune when
they brought in girls for his recreation.
This was not, however, so easy to do.
Getting the girls in was not the problem. But the patient in 3121 had definite
tastes. He liked his girls young and pretty. This requirement alone made the
guards' job a hard one. Worse still, when they found a satisfactory girl, she
would never last more than a couple of visits, notwithstanding the lavish
remuneration. After a mere twelve months, the guards had well nigh exhausted
their supply.
The two gentlemen emerging from room 3121
at one o'clock on Tuesday, the last day of August 1909, had given considerable
thought to this difficulty - and had resolved it, at least to their
satisfaction. They were not guards. One was a corpulent man wearing a highly
self-satisfied expression under his bowler hat. The other was an elegant older
gentlemen with a watch chain draped from his vest pocket, a gaunt face, and a
pianist's hands.
Mayor McClellan's description of the
events at the Acton residence left the coroner sputtering.
'What's the matter with you, Hugel?'
asked the mayor.
'I was not informed. Why wasn't I
told?'
'Because you are a coroner,' said
McClellan. 'No one was killed.'
'But the crimes are virtually
identical,' Hugel objected.
'I didn't know that,' said the mayor.
'If you had read my report, you would
have!'
'For God's sake, calm down, Hugel.'
McClellan ordered the coroner to take a seat. After the two men reviewed the
crimes in more detail, Hugel declared that there could be no doubt: Elizabeth
Riverford's murderer and Nora Acton's attacker had been one and the same man.
'Great God,' said the mayor quietly. 'Must I issue a warning?'
Hugel laughed dismissively. 'That a
killer of society girls is haunting our streets?'
McClellan was puzzled by the
coroner's tone. 'Well, yes, I suppose, or words to that effect.'
'Men do not attack young women
arbitrarily,' Hugel declared. 'Crimes have motives. Scotland Yard never caught
the Ripper because they never found the link between the victims. They never
looked. The moment they decided they were dealing with a madman, the case was
lost.'
'Great God, man, you're not
suggesting the Ripper is here?'
'No, no, no,' replied the coroner,
throwing up his hands in exasperation. 'I'm saying that the two attacks are not
random. Something connects them. When we find the connection, we will have our
man. You don't need a public warning, you need to protect that girl. He already
wanted her dead, and now she is the only person who can identify him in court.
Don't forget: he doesn't know she lost her memory. He will undoubtedly try to
finish the job.'
'Thank heavens I moved her into the
hotel,' said McClellan.
'Does anyone else know where she is?'
'The doctors, of course.'
'Did you tell any friends of the
family?' asked Hugel.
'Certainly not,' said McClellan.
'Good. Then she is safe for now. Has
she remembered anything today?'
'I don't know,' said McClellan
gravely. 'I haven't been able to get through to Dr Younger.' The mayor
considered his options. He wished he could have called up old General Bingham,
his longtime police commissioner, but McClellan had pushed Bingham into
retirement only last month. Bingham had refused to reform the police, but he
was himself incorruptible and would have known what to do. The mayor also
wished Baker, the new commissioner, had not already proved so inept. Baker's
only subject of conversation was baseball and how much money could be made in
it. Hugel, the mayor reflected, was one of the most experienced men on the
force. No: in homicides, he was
the
most experienced. If he didn't
consider a warning necessary, he was probably right. The papers would certainly
make hay of it, sowing as much hysteria as they possibly could and heaping scorn
on the mayor as soon as they learned, as they certainly would, of the loss of
the first victim's body. Then too, McClellan had assured Banwell that the
police would try to solve the case without publicity. George Banwell was one of
the few friends the mayor had left. The mayor decided to follow Hugel's advice.
'Very well,' said McClellan. 'No
warning for now. You had better be right, Mr Hugel. Find me the man. Go to
Acton's at once; you will supervise the investigation there.
And tell Littlemore I want to see him
immediately.'
Hugel protested. Cleaning his
spectacles, he reminded the mayor that it was no part of a coroner's duties to
gallivant up and down the city like an ordinary detective. McClellan swallowed
his irritation. He assured the coroner that only he could be trusted with a
case of such delicacy and importance, that his eyes were famously the sharpest
on the force. Hugel, blinking in a way that appeared to express perfect
agreement with these assertions, consented to go to the Actons'.
Directly Hugel left his office,
McClellan summoned his secretary. 'Ring George Banwell,' he instructed her. The
secretary informed the mayor that Mr Banwell had been calling all morning.
'What did he want?' asked the mayor.
'He was rather blunt, Your Honor,'
she replied.
'It's all right, Mrs Neville. What
did he want?'
Mrs Neville read from her shorthand
notes. 'To know "who the devil murdered the Riverford girl, what was taking
the blasted coroner so long to finish the autopsy, and where his money
was.'"
The mayor sighed deeply. 'Who, what,
and where. He's only missing when.' McClellan looked at his watch. The
when
was running short for him as well. In two weeks at most, the candidates for
mayor had to be announced. He had no hope of the Tammany nomination now. His
only chance was as an independent or fusion candidate, but that kind of
campaign required money. It also required good press, not news of a spree of
unsolved attacks on society girls. 'Ring Banwell back,' he added to Mrs
Neville. 'Leave word for him to meet me in an hour and a half at the Hotel
Manhattan. He won't object; he has a job near there he'll want a look at in any
event. And get me Littlemore.'
A half hour later, the detective
introduced his head into the mayor's office. 'You wanted to see me, Your
Honor?'
'Mr Littlemore,' said the mayor, 'you
are aware we have had another attack?'
'Yes, sir. Mr Hugel told me, sir.'
'Good. This case is of special
importance to me, Detective. I know Acton, and George Banwell is an old friend
of mine. I want to be kept abreast of every development. And I want the utmost
discretion. Go to the Hotel Manhattan on the double. Find Dr Younger and see if
any progress has been made. If there is any new information, call here at once.
And Detective, make yourself inconspicuous. Word must not get out that we have
a potential murder witness at the hotel. The girl's life may depend on it. Do
you understand?'
'Yes, sir, Mr Mayor,' Littlemore
replied. 'Do I report to you, sir, or to Captain Carey at Homicide?'
'You will report to Mr Hugel,' said
the mayor, 'and to me. I need this case solved, Littlemore. At any price. You
have the coroner's description of the killer?'
'Yes, sir.' Littlemore hesitated.
'Um, one question, sir? What if the coroner's description of the killer is
wrong?'
'Do you have reason to think it
wrong?'
'I think - ' said Littlemore. 'I
think a Chinaman might be involved.'
'A Chinaman?' the mayor repeated.
'Have you told Mr Hugel?'
'He doesn't agree, sir.'
'I see. Well, I would advise you to
trust Mr Hugel. I know he is - sensitive - on some points, Detective, but you
must bear in mind how hard it is for an honest man to do his work in relative
obscurity, while dishonest men attain wealth and renown. That is why corruption
is so pernicious. It breaks the will of good men. Hugel is extremely capable.
And he thinks highly of you, Detective. He asked specifically that you be assigned
to this case.'
'He did, sir?'
'He did. Now get going, Mr
Littlemore.'
I was leaving the hotel when I ran
into the girl and her servant, Mrs Biggs, about to do their shopping. A cab was
just pulling up for them. Because the street bed, rutted with dirt and dry mud,
was unfit, I lifted Miss Acton into the carriage. As I did, I noticed
uncomfortably that her tiny waist almost fit into my two hands. I sought to
assist Mrs Biggs as well, but the good woman would have none of it.
To Miss Acton, I said I looked
forward to seeing her tomorrow morning. She asked what I meant. I was
referring, I explained, to her next psychoanalytic session. My hand was resting
on the open door of her cab; she yanked the door shut, dislodging me. 'I don't
know what is wrong with all of you,' she said. 'I don't want any more of your
sessions. I will remember everything by myself. Just leave me alone.'
The cab drove off. It is hard to
describe my feelings as I watched it rattle away. Disappointed would not quite
be adequate. I wished my too-solid body might break up and disperse into the
dirt of the street. Brill should have been the analyst. A medical journeyman, a
town general practitioner, would have been better, so abysmally had I imitated
a psychoanalyst.
I had failed before even beginning.
The girl had rejected analysis, and I had been unable to change her mind. No: I
had caused the rejection, pressing too hard before the groundwork had been
laid. The truth was that I had been unprepared to find she could speak. I had
forgotten Freud's own speculation that she might recover her voice overnight.
Her voice ought to have been a boon to the treatment, the luckiest possible
development. Instead, it disrupted me. I had pictured myself as the patient and
infinitely accommodating doctor. Instead, I had dealt with her resistance
defensively, like a blundering amateur.
What would I say to Freud?