More important is the timing of Hauptmann’s essential retirement from the carpentry business. It coincides almost exactly with the payment of the ransom. Investigators found that as of April 1, 1932, he had no cash assets. Yet he would have us believe that an immigrant tradesman who had never shown a previous ability to make big bucks in the investment world is suddenly, while professional investors are losing their shirts, able to support his family comfortably enough in the stock market to afford fine new furniture and an expensive radio? You have to look at the background of the individual under suspicion, and in this instance, it doesn’t add up.
After Hauptmann’s arrest, ransom bills stopped turning up. On the other hand, let us remember that more than half of the ransom money was never found.
THE RANSOM NOTES
Altogether there were fifteen ransom notes. The expert firepower the prosecution arrayed on this point during the trial was impressive. There was little question that Hauptmann spoke in much the same way that the notes were constructed, and many of his letters and word formations taken from random samples of his writing were extremely close. For example, Hauptmann both said and wrote signature as singnature, as was repeatedly seen in the notes.
Hauptmann’s defenders have made the case that what the experts were really saying was that he wrote in the same European style as the actual writer and that any number of people from Hauptmann’s background would have compared as closely as he did. I am not a graphologist, though I have worked with a number of them over the years. While it is not an exact science, the evidence suggests to me a pretty close connection between the ransom notes and Bruno Hauptmann’s handwriting, style, syntax, and spelling.
At one point fairly early in the investigation, an analyst at Scotland Yard concluded that the interlocking-circles signature suggested a writer with the initials BRH. B came from the blue circle, R from the red, and H from the holes punched in the paper. I would wonder about this, since by the time of the kidnapping Hauptmann was thinking of himself as Richard rather than Bruno, but, hey, if this story is true, it’s pretty impressive. With all of my experience in criminal personality profiling and psycholinguistic analysis, I freely admit it’s not something I would ever have come up with.
THE EYE AND EAR WITNESSES
The prosecution made a big deal about all of the people who could identify Bruno Hauptmann at various stages of the case. These included Lindbergh neighbors who saw him cruising around the area before the crime, the taxi driver who came to Condon’s house, Condon himself, Lindbergh, the cashier at the movie theater in Greenwich Village, and the gas station attendant who wrote the license number on the gold note that led to Hauptmann.
Of all of these, Condon’s ID is the most important. He was the only one who spent extended time with Cemetery John and had two real conversations with him. Condon was unwilling to identify Hauptmann in a police lineup. Yet by the time the case got to trial, he stated in no uncertain terms that this was the man he had seen. What happened between those two events?
What probably happened is that the police and/or prosecutors got to him. Hauptmann was a pretty good match for the description of Cemetery John. A pile of evidence had been assembled against him and the police were confident they had the right man. But Condon wasn’t completely sure the man in the station lineup was the one he had dealt with and he took his role as a witness seriously enough that he neither wanted to condemn a possibly innocent man nor divert a police investigation by giving an iffy ID. But by the time of the trial, someone must have appealed to him with a variation of the following:
“Dr. Condon, we know that Hauptmann is our guy. He even matches up with your physical description. All we need is for you to confirm that in court. If you do, we’ve got him. If you don’t, it’s going to confuse the jury, give the defense something to run with, the brutal killer of that dear little baby is going to go free, and the Lindbergh family you admire so much will never be able to heal.”
Condon was just the kind of narcissistic personality to whom this kind of appeal would be effective. You let someone sit with this awhile and he gets surer and surer. That’s why I always want eyewitness testimony corroborated with some other type of more objective evidence.
The same scenario could have occurred with Lindbergh: “Colonel, we’ve got the right guy, the one who took your child from you. You said yourself he had a German accent. All you have to say is that this is the German accent you heard.”
Each of the other witnesses had his own motivations. One of the neighbors had been promised reward money. The other encounters were so casual that even a probable ID would have been impressive to a jury. And aside from a few highly questionable witnesses, the police and prosecution were unable to place Hauptmann at the crime scene.
I’m not saying these identifications were erroneous. All of these people may have seen and/or heard Bruno Richard Hauptmann. Or they may not have. I’m only saying that none of these identifications, including Condon’s and Lindbergh’s, seems sufficiently reliable to me to be authoritative. I don’t count them one way or another in our search for what really happened.
One interesting note, though. If the ID by Cecile Barr, the movie theater cashier, was accurate, then Hauptmann was in possession of Lindbergh ransom bills substantially earlier than he claimed he received the shoe box of money from Fisch.
THE CHISEL
Along with the ladder, a three-quarter-inch Buck Brothers chisel was found at the crime scene. Presumably, it was to be used to pry open the window or shutters if necessary. When Hauptmann’s carpenter’s toolbox was examined, the three-quarter-inch chisel, and only that chisel, was missing. This isn’t a smoking gun, but it’s pretty damning circumstantial evidence, especially when taken with everything else.
In The Airman and the Carpenter, Ludovic Kennedy claims that two three-quarter-inch chisels were actually found in Hauptmann’s garage—one a Buck Brothers and the other a Stanley—and that they remained in police custody until Anthony Scaduto came across them. We asked Mark W. Falzini, the New Jersey State Police archivist, about this. Falzini has a comprehensive knowledge of the case and the evidence, but no personal opinion on Hauptmann’s guilt or innocence. He told us that he has no idea where Kennedy’s and Scaduto’s information comes from. No such chisels were ever in police custody.
Yet another example of whose information you want to go with.
THE NUMBERS BEHIND THE DOOR
On Monday, September 24, 1934, four days after the discovery of ransom currency in Hauptmann’s garage, NYPD inspector Henry D. Bruckman discovered an address and a telephone number written in pencil on a piece of wooden door molding inside a closet in Hauptmann’s son’s bedroom. The number turned out to be Dr. Condon’s old telephone number before he had it changed to an unlisted one; in other words, it was Condon’s number at the time of the encounter with Cemetery John. The address was Condon’s as well. Bruckman also found two serial numbers written on the molding, one for a $500 bill and another for a $1,000 bill.
When questioned about it by Bronx County district attorney Samuel J. Foley, Hauptmann conceded that the handwriting looked like his, but didn’t specifically recall writing it and continued to maintain that he had nothing to do with the kidnapping. As to why he might have written the telephone number where it was found, he could only suggest that he must have been reacting to news reports of the kidnapping.
“I must have read it in the paper about the story,” he told Foley. “I was a little bit interest, and keep a little record of it, and maybe I was just in the closet and was reading the paper and put down the address.”
What?
Ludovic Kennedy suggests that the evidence was probably planted as a joke by one of the newspaper men who had access to the apartment; in fact he even proposes a name. And then why would Hauptmann write down a telephone number when he didn’t even have a telephone?
Let’s take the second part first. You write down a phone number even if you don’t have a phone at h
ome because you have to call the go-between, even if it’s from a public phone booth. And if you’re going to call this person, you have to know his number. If this is part of an illegal activity, you’re going to want to hide the number, and the inside of your son’s closet is as good a place as any.
As to the possibility of a plant: sure, very possible in those days when crime scenes were not as carefully protected as they are today (and still they’re often not protected as well as they should be). But what I can’t get past is, why would someone as careful as Hauptmann admit that this was his handwriting if he wasn’t certain it was?
I would have expected him say, “I have no idea what it is or how it got there, and this is the first time I’ve seen it in my life. If you say it’s a piece of evidence, then someone planted it!”
But that isn’t what he said. So either he wrote it there or had strong reason to believe that he did and didn’t want to get caught up in any more lies.
THE MAJESTIC ALIBI
One of the more controversial aspects of the Hauptmann defense was when he actually started work at the Majestic Apartments. He claimed that on March 1, 1932, the day of the kidnapping, he was working there until 5 P.M., which would have made it difficult for him to have been at the Hopewell house at the right time. The prosecution claimed that time and pay records indicated Hauptmann had not started working at the Majestic until March 16.
Ludovic Kennedy puts forth evidence that worksheets showing Hauptmann was on the job as a carpenter in Manhattan on March 1 were tampered with to make it look as if he had not started until after March 15, the next pay period. Prosecutor David Wilentz and the Bronx district attorney had seen these records and had them handed over to NYPD for “safekeeping.” The payroll records were never seen again. The sheets showing that Hauptmann quit on April 2 appear to have been tampered with. The defense subpoenaed the Majestic timekeeper, Edward Morton, to bring his time sheets to an extradition hearing, but Morton failed to show up. Enough muddiness exists on this issue to throw serious doubt on the prosecution’s contention about where Hauptmann was—or wasn’t—on March 1.
RAIL SIXTEEN
This is the single most important piece of evidence upon which the case against Bruno Richard Hauptmann hinges. It remains one of the most famous pieces of evidence in the history of modern criminology, right up there with the JFK “magic bullet” and the Simpson case glove.
First, let us consider the ladder itself. It has often been described as “crude” and “homemade,” but when you actually look at it closely, it is pretty ingenious. It seems crude because it is so light and the rungs are so much farther apart than on a normal ladder. Well, it had to be light to carry easily, and when Mark Olshaker and I examined it, we thought that whoever built it knew exactly how far apart the rungs could be spaced and still allow climbing; in other words, no more than absolutely necessary.
The sectional structure is equally ingenious. The first two sections fold together on hinges, and the third section fits onto the second section if it is needed. This ladder had been thought through and designed by someone who could visualize the finished product.
Someone like a carpenter.
And don’t forget the ladder sketches found in Hauptmann’s notebook.
Then we get to the two prongs of Arthur Koehler’s research. The first used wood samples and cutting-blade patterns to pinpoint the most likely location where the lumber was prepared, shipped, and sold. Can it be just an amazing coincidence that the place he came up with was right there in the Bronx? Even more amazing, Hauptmann once worked for National Lumber and Millwork. Of course, like everything else about this case, some have questioned Koehler’s research methods, techniques, and assumptions, but I have seen no compelling argument that his analysis was incorrect.
And now we come to the heart of the ladder case. On Wednesday, September 26, 1934, two days after Henry Bruckman had found the phone number and address on the molding inside Manfred’s closet, police were once again looking around Hauptmann’s attic for clues. According to the official account, they noticed a gap in the floor; one floorboard about eight feet long in the southwest corner had been removed. Where the board was missing, there were empty nail holes in four successive joists where it would have been hammered down. Koehler determined by matching grain patterns and nail holes that rail sixteen of the kidnap ladder had been the board removed from the attic. It could have been, based on the prosecution’s theory, that Hauptmann ran out of lumber at the last minute and so had to use what was on hand.
But like everything else, this theory has also been disputed. Hauptmann’s defenders point out that the police had been poking around the attic several times before they noticed the gap. Is this the kind of thing you miss? Then they also point out that the police had exclusive access to the apartment for several days after the arrest. They wouldn’t even let in the FBI. The matter was “cleared up” as a misunderstanding about jurisdiction according to a memorandum of September 28, 1934, from J. Edgar Hoover, who, though annoyed, seemed to accept the police explanation. But technically speaking, if you’re going to plant evidence, this would be the time.
The opportunity was there and so was the motivation. But let’s look at the big picture. We’ve examined the ladder and Arthur Koehler’s analysis of the matching grain patterns and find it compelling, despite a several inch gap between the end of rail sixteen and the rest of the board still in place in the attic.
What this means is that if police did plant evidence, they would have had to remove the actual rail sixteen from the ladder and replace it with a substitute cut from a certain piece of board. They would have then have had to remove a board from Hauptmann’s attic floor and replace it with the remainder of the board from which the substitute rail sixteen had been fashioned, being careful to create new nail holes that lined up with the existing nail holes in the four joists underneath. They would have had to destroy the original rail sixteen but make sure that the substitute looked enough like it in terms of grain, coloration, contour, and distress marks so that if anyone happened to compare it with one of the original photographs taken just after the crime, they couldn’t tell the difference.
And then, on top of all that, the men who pulled off this switcheroo would have had to be awfully damn sure than anyone and everyone involved in the conspiracy was completely reliable and that no one would spill. Because if even one person did, not only would the case against Hauptmann be in terrible jeopardy, but each of them would be out of a job and facing serious penitentiary time for tampering with evidence. It’s one thing to try to influence witnesses to be a little more authoritative in their identifications. It’s quite another to out-and-out falsify evidence, especially when the FBI already has its nose out of joint and would like nothing better than to slam the police. Making a payroll book that almost no one’s seen before disappear is one thing if you want to tamper with evidence. Making a piece of the ladder disappear is quite another.
Though I do wonder why a carpenter who had access to plenty of lumber would have to cannibalize his own attic for a piece of wood, for these reasons, I find it extremely difficult to believe that rail sixteen did not actually come from the spot the police and prosecution said it did.
PUTTING TOGETHER THE PIECES
I think there has to be serious question as to whether Bruno Richard Hauptmann got a fair trial. Forgetting even the circus atmosphere and the nation’s call for blood, particularly against a foreigner whose country had been on the opposite side in the Great War, other factors stood strongly against him. His own lead counsel, Edward Reilly, privately thought his client guilty and stated that he hoped Hauptmann would get the chair. Reilly was at odds with the rest of the defense team for his poor handling of several aspects of the case and spent a total of thirty-eight minutes with Hauptmann before the trial. Reilly came up with only one handwriting expert, whose testimony was lackluster, and drove away another expert who was convinced she could prove the handwriting on the notes was no
t Hauptmann’s. Reilly’s five-hour summation was chaotic and lame, delivered after a drinking bout at lunch. Most people there thought he was intoxicated.
If we take into account not only Hauptmann’s lead attorney making a mess of the case, but also the strong possibility that witnesses were swayed and that Hauptmann was abused by the police while in custody, what can we still say about the case against him? Not whether he got a perfect trial or even a fair trial, but whether or not he was the right guy.
You may have noticed something curious in the way this narrative unfolded. In relating the events following the night of March 1, 1932, I generally referred to the kidnappers in the plural. In fact, the existence of multiple offenders was the working assumption of both the New Jersey State Police and the FBI. Yet once Bruno Hauptmann was arrested, all thought of more than one person’s involvement seems to have evaporated. In fact, once Hauptmann was identified, most, if not all, serious work to uncover any other suspects ceased.
Does this make sense? I don’t think so.
A couple of evidentiary items suggest more than one person. The first is Dr. Condon’s belief that he heard some discussion between Cemetery John and another individual during his telephone conversation. The second is the impression by both Lindbergh and Al Reich that John had lookouts at the cemetery observing the car and looking for police.
Then there are the details in the notes themselves. I don’t pay serious attention to whether a ransom note speaks of I or we. In itself, that’s meaningless in determining if more than one person is involved. What I tell my people is to stand back and look at what the entire communication is saying. And in this case, an elaborate story was presented about how the baby was being cared for by two nurses on board a boat. Clearly, this did not happen. The baby was dead and discarded the very night of the abduction.
The Cases That Haunt Us Page 22