by Bridget Heos
Dedication
To my partner in crime, Justin
Contents
Dedication
Introduction: From Darkness to Light
Chapter 1: A Whiff of Garlic: The First Poison Tests
Chapter 2: Bodies of Evidence: Autopsies and the Rise of Medical Examiners
Chapter 3: Elementary, My Dear Watson: The First Detectives
Chapter 4: Not without a Trace: The Introduction of Crime Scene Evidence
Chapter 5: Fingerprints Are Forever: Early Fingerprint Evidence
Chapter 6: Bang! Bang! You’re Dead: The Birth of Firearm Analysis
Chapter 7: Blood Is Thicker: The First Blood Pattern Cases
Chapter 8: Grave Matters: Hidden Bodies
Chapter 9: Dem Bones: Forensic Anthropology Beginnings
Chapter 10: To Catch a Killer: Criminal Profilers
Chapter 11: One in a Trillion: The Dawn of DNA Evidence
Glossary
Notes
Bibliography
Photo Credits
Acknowledgments
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About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Introduction: From Darkness to Light
At 3:45 a.m. on August 31, 1888, Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols was found dead in a London gateway—one of the first victims of Jack the Ripper. Just half an hour before, a policeman had walked by the gateway and found it empty. The murder must have occurred minutes before the body was discovered. So where was the killer now?
At first, police investigated those connected to Nichols—her ex-husband, for instance. But he had no motive. By now, he and Polly were living separate lives: he was caring for four of their five children near Old Kent Road in South London, and she was living as a prostitute in the East End. When three more victims were found the next month—all prostitutes and all with similar wounds—police knew the killer must be a stranger. Even today, stranger killings are difficult to solve. That was true more so then, when forensic science was in its infancy. The case poses the question: If the London detectives had had the tools that modern forensic scientists have, would Jack the Ripper be known today by his real name? Would some of his victims’ lives have been saved?
An 1888 issue of the Penny Illustrated Paper features sketches of one of Jack the Ripper’s victims and the suspected killer.
Perhaps. But the fact is, today’s forensic science is built on innovations of the past. At the time of the Jack the Ripper murders, detectives did use several cutting-edge techniques, including crime scene photography and criminal profiling. Later, investigators would add to these, creating an arsenal of scientific tools that would help catch dangerous criminals. Techniques now include gathering trace evidence; testing bodies for poison; conducting autopsies; studying decomposed bodies; examining blood evidence; profiling criminals; testing DNA evidence; and analyzing bones, fingerprints, and markings on bullets.
Put simply, forensic science is the use of science to solve crimes. Though the following mysteries may seem to be ripped from the pages of crime novels, they are very real. Each describes the tragic taking—and breaking—of lives. That’s why forensic science is so important: it brings about justice for victims, peace of mind for communities, just punishment for the guilty, and freedom for the innocent.
Forensic science is far from perfect, however. As DNA testing became available, it helped to prove hundreds of prisoners innocent when, in many cases, less accurate forensic science methods such as bite mark analysis had been used to convict them in the first place. Forensic science disciplines are now being reviewed to determine their validity and to ensure that experts are clear about what forensic science can and can’t tell us.
Soon after the dawn of DNA evidence, forensic science invaded pop culture. It was propelled by the popularity of CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, which first aired in 2000 and unleashed a wave of similar crime shows. But forensic science is actually older than most people might think. In fact, it’s ancient. A Book of Criminal Cases, written around 270 CE, describes the work of Zhang Ju, a Chinese coroner who solved murders through the careful examination of victims’ bodies. In one case, he needed to determine whether a man had died in a fire or was murdered and then placed in the fire to cover up the crime. The coroner put two pigs in a fire, one alive and the other dead. Then he examined the pigs’ bodies. The pig that died in the fire had ashes in its mouth; the pig that was already dead didn’t. The man didn’t have ashes in his mouth either, proving to Zhang Ju that the victim must have been dead prior to the fire. Later in China, the book The Washing Away of Wrongs provided a textbook to other coroners. For instance, it described how to tell if a person had died from drowning or had been dumped in the water postmortem.
Anatomical diagrams from The Washing Away of Wrongs, a thirteenth-century Chinese crime-solving manual
Unfortunately, such ingenious forensic science didn’t spread throughout the world. In England during the Middle Ages, crimes were examined by a crowner, so named because he was appointed by the crown, or king, and seized the property of criminals for the crown. In the case of murder, the crowner (which term gradually changed to the modern word coroner) was also charged with examining the body and investigating the crime—but to little avail, as he was neither a doctor nor a detective, but essentially a money collector. Crime wasn’t investigated in any scientific way. The focus instead was on punishment. Whoever the crowner pointed a finger at was arrested and tortured or killed. Well into the 1800s, people were hanged publicly for murder, but also for minor offenses like pickpocketing. This was thought to deter crime, but even at the hangings, pickpocketing was rampant. It was clear that a new system was needed—both to eliminate cruel and unusual punishment and to ensure that when grave crimes did occur, the right people were punished. Crime needed to be fought not with fear but with science.
The Idle Prentice Executed at Tyburn, plate 11 from Industry and Idleness by William Hogarth, depicts the rampant pickpocketing that occurred at hangings in the 1700s.
1
A Whiff of Garlic: The First Poison Tests
Some of the first scientific tests related to murder cases were for poison, and arsenic in particular. Arsenic has been called “inheritance powder” and “widow-maker” for its popularity among murderers of the greedy variety. It was a favorite weapon because it made the death look like it was from natural causes. Before modern plumbing and safe food handling, serious stomach ailments like dysentery and typhoid fever were common, and even healthy people could suddenly die from these diseases. So if someone suffered from a bout of vomiting and diarrhea, it would likely be chalked up to illness. Even when suspicions arose, there were no tests for poison. All that changed with Mary Blandy, an Englishwoman accused of poisoning her own father in 1751.
Mary’s father, Francis Blandy, was seeking a nobleman for her to marry. To attract the best of suitors, Mr. Blandy started a rumor that his daughter’s dowry was £10,000 (more than $1 million today), though, in fact, he had little money. Mary had several men interested, all of whom her father deemed subpar. Finally, she met Captain William Henry Cranstoun and fell in love. Her father swooned, too—William was the son of a lord and lady. Little did father or daughter know that the fine young gentleman would be their undoing.
In 1747, a year after the couple met, William proposed to Mary but also shared some troubling news. A Scottish woman was claiming to be his wife. Mary believed William when he assured her that it wasn’t true, but she didn’t tell her father. Mr. Blandy found out in a letter from William’s great-uncle. At first, Mary’s father believed William’s story, too, or went along with it anyway, apparently swayed b
y the young man’s good name. Mr. Blandy was supposedly overheard saying that he hoped to one day be the grandfather of a lord. And so the engagement continued—for a while. But when a year passed and William still hadn’t straightened out his marital problems, Mr. Blandy grew impatient. He ordered Mary to break things off until William was free to marry. (In fact, he never would be. Unbeknownst to the Blandys, the courts had said that William was to remain married to his wife in Scotland.)
With Mr. Blandy standing firm, things took a murderous turn. William sent Mary a packet of chemicals that he called a “love philter,” which would supposedly change her father’s mind about their engagement. First, Mary put the potion in her father’s tea, but when he left it untouched, two of the maids, Susan Gunnell and Ann Emmet, drank the remains and became violently ill. Mary then put the potion in her father’s gruel. He ate the gruel twice in one day, vomiting violently both times. Because Mary nonetheless insisted that a new pot of gruel not be made, Susan became suspicious and told Mr. Blandy that Mary must be trying to poison him. Mr. Blandy urged his daughter to confess, to no avail.
Still, the evidence was mounting. Some of the servants found a packet of chemicals that had belonged to Mary in the embers of the fireplace. By now, Dr. Anthony Addington had been called in to care for the patient. Addington agreed with the servants that Mr. Blandy was suffering from poison. The doctor was determined to prove it, too, through a simple sniff test. When heated, arsenic gives off a garlic odor. Addington threw the packet of chemicals onto a hot iron, and indeed, it emitted a whiff of garlic. Though the test would not be considered definitive today, it was groundbreaking at the time.
Meanwhile, feeling the case closing in on her, Mary wrote a letter of warning to William:
Dear Willy:
My father is so bad, that I have only time to tell you, that if you do not hear from me soon again, don’t be frightened. I am better myself. Lest any accident should happen to your letters, take care what you write. My sincere compliments. I am ever yours.1
This letter was discovered before it could be sent and was shown to Mr. Blandy, who rather forgivingly said, “Poor love-sick girl! What will not a woman do for the man she loves?”2
Finally feeling a change of heart, Mary apologized to her father for making him deathly ill, but she denied knowing what the powder would do. Mr. Blandy forgave her and died three days later. The courts would not be so understanding. Addington testified that the powder was arsenic, and Mary was found guilty. When she was brought to the hangman on April 6, 1752, she asked him not to hang her too high, lest the onlookers see up her skirt. Mary may have been a murderer, but she was a modest murderer.
Through the years, tests for arsenic became more exact. In 1806, Dr. Valentine Rose, a professor of medicine in Berlin, developed a test that didn’t require samples of the poisonous substance. Instead, the corpse could be tested. First, the stomach was cut up and boiled until it was liquid. The liquid was then filtered and treated with nitric acid. This converted arsenic into arsenious oxide, for which there was a known test. Rose’s test led to the conviction of one of Germany’s most prolific serial killers, Anna Zwanziger.
The execution of Miss Mary Blandy
Orphaned at age five, Anna moved from family member to family member in her native Bavaria (now a part of Germany). At age fifteen she married a much older lawyer, who was an alcoholic. When he could no longer support Anna and their two children, she became a high-end call girl. Her husband died, and Anna’s prostitution led to a pregnancy and adoption. After that ordeal, Anna gave up prostitution and went to work as a maid, with the intention of marrying one of her employers.
Her first position was with Justice Wolfgang Glaser, who had recently separated from his wife. The wife soon returned, however, and a jealous Anna began poisoning her. Mrs. Glaser died a month later, but it wasn’t the happy ending Anna had hoped for. Wolfgang never proposed. Anna moved on to the home of Justice Grohmann. He was ill when she arrived and died of a violent stomach ailment soon after. Her next job was for Justice Gebhard and his pregnant wife. Soon after giving birth, she, too, became sick. On her deathbed she accused Anna of poisoning her, but apparently that wasn’t enough to rouse the judge’s suspicions. When friends of the judge fell ill while visiting the house, they blamed Anna as well. The judge finally sent her packing.
Before leaving, Anna prepared coffee for two of the maids and milk for the baby. Oddly, no one questioned the safety of drinks prepared by an accused poisoner, and all three ingested them and became very sick. Thankfully, they recovered, and Anna’s treacherous farewell became her undoing. Police were called in and found arsenic in the salt box, which they believed to be the source of the poison in the drinks. They tracked down Anna, who had two packets of poison with her. Mrs. Glaser’s body was exhumed, and investigators used Rose’s test to find arsenic in her stomach. Anna confessed and was beheaded in 1811.
In spite of better and more frequent tests for poison, its use as a murder weapon remained common throughout the nineteenth century. To stop would-be poisoners, England enacted the Arsenic Act in 1851. Under the new laws, druggists could sell arsenic only by prescription, or to customers they knew personally. Arsenic sales had to be recorded in a poison register, and arsenic was to be colored with soot or blue indigo so that it wouldn’t be mistaken for flour or sugar.
The new laws didn’t stop Mary Ann Cotton, who was either one of Britain’s most prolific serial killers or the world’s unluckiest woman. In all, three husbands, ten children, five stepchildren, her mother, her sister-in-law, and a lover died of illnesses, most while in Cotton’s care. Some of the deaths may have been natural, but others were certainly not. Her final spree occurred in 1871, when within a short span, her husband, child, stepson, and lover all died of stomach ailments. Mary Ann was left with one stepson, Charles. Hoping to marry again, she consulted with a government official, Thomas Riley, about putting Charles in a workhouse (homes for the poor that had horrible working and living conditions). Riley said it could be arranged, but only if Mary Ann went with the boy. Mary Ann balked at the idea and said, “I won’t be troubled long. He’ll go like all the rest of the Cotton family.”3 That shocked Riley, as the boy looked perfectly healthy. Less than a week later, Charles died with Mary Ann by his bedside; she was supposedly trying to nurse him back to health.
Riley reported his conversation with Mary Ann to the police, who ordered a coroner’s inquiry and an autopsy. But it was rather a rush job. Dr. Kilburn, and his assistant, Dr. Chalmers, examined the body just an hour before the inquest began—on a table in Mary Ann’s house, no less. At first, they ruled the death to be from natural causes, and the boy was buried. But that was not the end of that. Dr. Kilburn had brought home the boy’s stomach and stored it in a cupboard. Around that time, newspapers began reporting that Mary Ann was a poisoner. Dr. Kilburn decided that perhaps he should test that stomach after all. It was riddled with arsenic. Mary Ann was arrested.
The other bodies from the Cotton house were exhumed and found to contain arsenic as well, but Mary Ann went on trial only for the murder of Charles, whose case was the strongest. It was learned that she had gotten around signing the poison registry by sending a child to buy the arsenic, and when that didn’t work, a neighbor. Her defense attorneys claimed that fumes from the wallpaper (which at the time commonly contained arsenic) had caused the deaths. The jury didn’t buy it. After deliberating for only an hour, they found Mary Ann guilty of murder, and on March 24, 1873, she was hanged.
People sometimes cope with evil and tragedy in strange ways. When Mary Ann was hanged, children made up a song about her:
Mary Ann Cotton
She’s dead and she’s rotten.
She lies in her bed
With her eyes wide oppen;
Sing, sing, oh what can I sing?
Mary Ann Cotton is tied up with a string.
Where? Where? Up in the air
Sellin’ black puddings a penny a pair.4
&
nbsp; (Black pudding is a kind of sausage that is popular in Great Britain.)
Though forensic science eventually stopped Cotton in her murderous tracks, the fact that Charles may have been her twenty-first victim—and that his murder was found out only after the press ran stories about Mary Ann—shows that the system for detecting foul play wasn’t working. That was true in America as well as Europe. Case in point: the 1895 death of Evelina Bliss—allegedly at the hands of her own daughter—was investigated solely because of a chance visit from a friend.
Life hadn’t gone as planned for Mary Alice Livingston. She had grown up wealthy and well educated and had a vivacious personality. Yet in an age when marrying well was the key to establishing oneself socially and financially, her first relationship had resulted in a pregnancy—but no marriage. That happened a second time . . . and a third. Ten years later, she found herself pregnant with her fourth. Though unmarried, she went by Mary Alice Fleming to avoid the stigma of never having wed.
To top things off, her own mother was on her case. A fourth pregnancy with no husband? How would she afford that? She couldn’t support the children she already had. Mary Alice was living in a hotel in Harlem—supported by her stepfather, Henry Bliss (who was separated from Mrs. Bliss). Mary Alice’s father had been Robert Swift Livingston, a wealthy landowner who had married Mrs. Bliss when she was a teenager and he was eighty-one. When he died, he left Mary Alice and her mother money, but Mary Alice wouldn’t have access to her $80,000 share (more than $2 million today) until the death of Mrs. Bliss. The mother and daughter lived close to each other, and on Friday, August 30, 1895, Mary Alice sent Mrs. Bliss some clam chowder. Whether it was an act of kindness or murder is at the crux of this case.
That day, Mary Alice’s ten-year-old daughter, Gracie, had gone to her friend Florence’s house, her fourteen-month-old sibling in tow. Walter, Mary Alice’s teenage son, was hanging out with friends downtown. Mary Alice ordered room service from the Colonial Hotel Restaurant—clam chowder and lemon meringue pie. When the girls returned to the hotel room with the toddler, Mary Alice sent them with the pie and a tin pail of chowder to Mrs. Bliss’s house. The grandmother welcomed the girls inside, poured the soup into a pitcher, and sent the pail home with the girls.