Oscar subjected the grains from the tent and the hilt of the knife to petrographic analysis, a microscopic procedure used to help determine the source of the rock that makes up each grain. A petrographer, like Oscar, would use a specially designed optical microscope to identify minerals and rocks within the grains of sand by using polarized light and special prisms. When Oscar switched on the light, the different elements that composed the sand became visible in contrasting colors. He listed each element and compared them to the elements in the grains of sand in the tent—and they matched. It was more valuable circumstantial evidence.
The petrographic test had never been used before on sand in a criminal case anywhere in the world. It was a brilliant innovation, one that is still heavily relied upon in forensics today. It was the first of many adaptations Oscar developed out of necessity, because the field of forensics was evolving so rapidly.
The first mention of forensic geology (aside from A Study in Scarlet, an 1887 Sherlock Holmes novel) came from German forensic scientist Hans Gross in 1893, who had suggested in a textbook that studying the soil from a suspect’s shoes might be useful in linking him to a crime scene.
In 1904, another German forensic scientist, Georg Popp, was the first to use geology to solve a murder—the strangulation of a seamstress in Frankfurt. Popp placed material found on a handkerchief at the crime scene under his microscope; he spotted bits of coal mixed with grains of minerals and linked the physical evidence to a worker in a coal-burning gasworks who was already under suspicion. It was a landmark case that encouraged other European experts to develop their own ideology about trace evidence.
In 1910, French scientist Edmond Locard developed one of the fundamental theories of forensic science known as Locard’s Exchange Principle. “Whenever two objects come into contact, there is always a transfer of material,” he concluded. A killer would unknowingly carry trace evidence from the crime scene, and he would likely leave evidence there, too. A forensic scientist was tasked with uncovering those clues.
In 1921, Oscar was determined to use geology to shore up the case against William Hightower. The results of his petrographic test found that the grains of sand on the tent in Hightower’s room and on the jackknife in his pocket seemingly matched with the sand at the gravesite. Modern forensic geoscience experts would later laud Oscar, praising him as the first to “extend geological, petrographic investigative techniques to sand, soil, paints and pigments.” It was an extraordinary discovery, an inventive technique that made forensic history. He had also proven that some cord found at the gravesite was made of similar fibers as cord found in Hightower’s room. But, detectives wanted to know, would Oscar’s evidence be enough to send a killer to the gallows?
By early September, the prosecutor had buttoned up his case against William Hightower, but there were still some troublesome details. What if there was a second man—a small, dark foreigner? What if Dolly Mason was real?
* * *
—
Reporters following William Hightower’s case fixated on his bizarre demeanor, particularly his preposterous story about a missing woman who had snitched on a foreigner with a violent hatred toward Catholics. But soon Hightower’s batty behavior would also become a focus of his murder trial. Hightower had hoped to assist the police, he insisted repeatedly, by leading them to the priest’s body. They might have never recovered Father Heslin without his help. Hightower didn’t seem guilt-ridden or remorseful. He seemed desperate to convince detectives that he would never hurt a priest. Everyone who interviewed him agreed that William Hightower really thought he was innocent, but why wouldn’t he simply admit his guilt with so much evidence against him? A look at his troubled history offered a few clues.
One year earlier, Hightower wrote to a lender who fronted money for a business that would produce candied fruit. He lamented his recent divorce, his money troubles, and his mental health for the failed venture.
“Five years on the brink of bankruptcy, and losing my wife, left me in a condition both mentally and physically where a rest and a change of scene was necessary,” he wrote.
Hightower had certainly suffered from an untreated mental illness, which was likely schizophrenia, but his attorneys never pursued a formal insanity plea. A judge could have assigned Hightower to an insane asylum, a sentence that might have seemed preferable to the gallows. Or perhaps not.
In the 1920s, there was very limited knowledge of psychosis and almost no useful treatments for schizophrenic patients. Mortality rates in asylums were five times that of the general population because of overcrowding. By the 1920s, unqualified doctors were given carte blanche to use chemicals, surgeries, and incarceration to cure mental illness. Psychiatry had not yet entered universities. Hightower surely suffered from a mental illness, but instead of receiving treatment, he faced a murder trial and perhaps the gallows.
And despite his professional successes, in the fall of 1921, Oscar Heinrich was also struggling with his own mental health as he grappled with immense anxiety. Of his knowledge and intellectual gifts, he had little doubt. But his finances continued to be a problem. And despite financial struggles, he had recently signed a lease on a new office in San Francisco at 25 California Street, a much-needed expansion for his thriving business. He was struggling with multiple cases, and his body was suffering from nervous indigestion from the stress.
“I find that I have to make an engagement in court with about three days’ work and one day to do it in,” he told Kaiser, “that I get along better if I don’t eat anything at all as the stress of the work absolutely paralyzes any digestive process.”
Oscar’s habitual fretting had turned to mania—he would regularly spend twenty-four hours with no sleep as he toiled away in his lab downstairs. Oscar was evaluating evidence and writing reports at a maddening pace. And he was irked by phone calls from rival experts who managed to rile him even more than his noisy boys, who played loudly above his laboratory. For example, the criminalist was infuriated when elderly handwriting analyst Carl Eisenchimmel called an unexpected press conference to brag about his “leadership” on Hightower’s case, despite contributing almost nothing of note to the prosecution’s case.
“He has hustled around to the newspapers and told them that he was in sole charge of the case on the handwriting end,” complained Oscar to Kaiser. “It merely indicates the old man’s fear that perhaps out of it I may get some mention which might be equal to his own.”
Oscar deeply resented being treated as a subordinate, especially to other so-called experts. “Were it not for the fact that this is a criminal matter of extraordinary interest I would have declined the assignment,” he wrote to Kaiser. “I am keeping out of his way as much as possible, hoping that this case will be his final appearance in responsible matters.”
* * *
—
William Hightower looked alarmed as the rubber tubes tightened against his chest, and in fact, everyone in the room was concerned. He squirmed as his pulse quickened. Two months before Hightower’s trial began, San Mateo’s district attorney made an unusual decision, one that would change the way suspects would be interrogated in America. The method was unorthodox, and the machine had never been used before in this context, but the investigators wanted clear, concise answers. They needed them.
This would be a trying day for William Hightower, even before he was strapped to that distressing machine. As prosecutors were compiling their final arguments, one of Hightower’s fictional characters suddenly appeared to the shock of police and prosecutors, who were convinced that their suspect was a loon. In early October, a gorgeous, brown-eyed brunette strolled into the Hall of Justice on the arm of her new husband.
“Doris Shirley,” she replied when asked her name.
She was indeed real and not a figment of Hightower’s wild imagination, but that was the end of the good news for the murder suspect. Shirley denied having any involvement in
the killing of a priest. She was not with Hightower on a long drive, as he said, during the night of the kidnapping. She had been preparing for bed at their shared room around eleven when he finally arrived home. She had ruined his alibi, a horrible blow to his defense. And yet William Hightower was still enchanted by the pretty Doris Shirley.
“Whatever she says is all right,” he said when told she would not support his story. “Even if she’s going to marry another fellow I still love her. Maybe her memory is just short.”
Police were assembling a profile of William Hightower, and it was dumbfounding. Was he guilty and brilliant, innocent and unlucky, or perhaps guilty and insane? Oscar believed that there was only one method that could test Hightower’s ability to tell the truth: “the apparatus.” And the newspapers were willing to pay the bill to discover the results. He called his good friend August Vollmer, Berkeley’s police chief. Oscar needed a new tool for this case, and Vollmer might just have the solution.
Hightower had hoped that this cruel day was finally over when a guard awoke him around midnight in his second-floor cell and led him downstairs to a large room. Vollmer and the district attorney stood against the wall as a tall, handsome man in a stylish suit stretched out his hand. He was Dr. John Larson, a fledgling police officer with the Berkeley Police Department, but one with quite a reputation—the first American police officer to earn a doctorate degree, one in physiology, the study of how a living organism functions. For his master’s thesis Larson theorized how fingerprints could predict evil tendencies.
The twenty-eight-year-old was a thoughtful investigator, a learned cop with an educational background in medicine and a fascination with complicated forensics. In the next hour, John Larson would earn another important distinction—the first person to use the polygraph, his own invention, in a criminal case. And William Hightower, in the midst of a swift mental breakdown, would be his first experiment.
Larson’s test was divided into three sections: The first part used control questions—name, age, and hometown—to establish normal blood pressure and respiration. The second set of questions was used to monitor reactions to commonplace questions, perhaps a favorite meal or the name of a pet. The third section contained the combative questions about the priest’s murder.
As Larson’s boss at The Berkeley Police Department, August Vollmer had an excellent opportunity to make history. And the results would certainly help Oscar bolster the case against Hightower. The criminalist applauded his friend for moving the needle on improving criminal investigations with this new invention. Oscar’s fragile ego was threatened by numerous people, but never by Vollmer. This device would change the justice system, Oscar predicted, and he was pleased to be involved in its first case.
In 1915, Harvard University psychology professor and lawyer William Marston invented the systolic blood pressure test, the first of its kind. It measured blood pressure intermittently, which wasn’t especially useful during police interrogations.
Even though Marston was intrigued by science, he was mesmerized with Hollywood; he would later create the character of Wonder Woman, a superhero who brandished the magical golden Lasso of Truth to force criminals to tell the truth. Marston had dreamed that his device could be his own secret weapon, so in 1921, Dr. Larson took Marston’s blood pressure test and enhanced it.
Larson asked UC Berkeley’s physiology department to develop a new machine, one that would test blood pressure continuously (rather than intermittently), as well as measure heart rate and respiration. Larson and others theorized that those readings would indicate if someone was lying. He named it the “cardio-pneumo-psychograph,” but August Vollmer would later dub it a “lie detector” in the newspapers.
By late summer of 1921, Larson had developed a portable polygraph machine using a breadboard as the base; in August, he and Vollmer hauled it forty miles south of Berkeley to Redwood City to use for the first time on a murder suspect.
It had taken Larson a half hour to set up all the equipment before Hightower slid into the wooden chair and put his arm on the table. The suspected killer felt weak—he hadn’t eaten in days, and he slept poorly in jail. He was interrogated almost daily.
The media declared Hightower guilty even before trial with headlines like: “Story of Hightower Is Gradually Being Broken by Police.” In Redwood City mobs threatened to kill Hightower as vengeance for the murder of Father Heslin, while the police tried to keep him alive for his upcoming trial.
“He will be spirited out of the city, when we feel it is safe,” said the district attorney. “We will take no chances with a lynching.”
The cornerstone of the defense’s case was the memory of a pair of eyewitnesses. Father Heslin’s neighbor and housekeeper had both reported that the kidnapper was a short, dark foreigner, not a tall, lanky Texan. But now the women revised their statements—they were mistaken. Father Heslin’s housekeeper, Marie Wendel, even offered a melodramatic response when she confronted Hightower in prison.
“My God! It’s him!” cried Wendel. “It’s the man who took Father Heslin away. The face, the features. Oh, I—!”
The housekeeper collapsed as Hightower stared down at her, slightly confused. Wendel was clearly an unreliable eyewitness, which might not be surprising to modern-day defense attorneys.
Eyewitness misidentification is the leading contributing factor to wrongful convictions, according to the Innocence Project, a nonprofit legal organization that works to exonerate wrongly convicted people. Investigations can be derailed by unreliable identifications, either witnesses who knowingly accuse an innocent person or those who might be traumatized by the crime itself, like the survivor of a deadly shooting. Despite proof that traditional lineups can offer inaccurate results, eyewitness identification is still among the most commonly used evidence in criminal cases. In William Hightower’s case, valuable time was lost because of the ethnic bias of unreliable witnesses.
Hightower, haggard and emotional, continued to ramble to the police and the press. He lamented about whippings he had received as a child and sulked over his struggles with writing musical poetry. The press speculated he might be angling for an insanity plea, but that never came.
“My head seems to swell when I think,” Hightower told a guard. “It seems there’s going to be an explosion. I wonder if I’m going crazy.”
The next day he made a bold statement to the district attorney.
“I’m through,” Hightower said sadly. “I don’t care what happens. I’ve been unlucky all my life.”
It was late that same night, and he was trapped in an uncomfortable wooden chair at the end of a taxing day. Hightower eyed the odd contraption and the two young men standing beside it. The machine had wires, a glass bulb, and two needles suspended just above a wide strip of black smoked paper. Tubes encircled Hightower’s chest, and a cuff was strapped to his left biceps. The hands of Larson’s assistant, Philips Edson, were smudged from the black paper as he flipped on several switches. Larson knelt by Hightower, his hand pressing a stethoscope against his suspect’s right arm.
The needles scratched funny markings onto the paper as the sheet rolled over two wooden cylinders. The three instruments spit out results during the hour-long interview. Hightower answered each query calmly, and then John Larson asked the most important question:
“Did you murder Father Heslin?”
“No,” was Hightower’s confident answer, but Larson’s machine seemed to violently disagree. The scratches became erratic.
“The suspect was covering up important facts on every crucial question asked,” declared Dr. Larson to the press. “There were marked rises in Hightower’s blood pressure, accelerations and marked irregularities as well, following the vital questions.”
August Vollmer called the test “infallible.”
“Mere embarrassment or fear are registered in different ways,” explained a newspaper report. “Berkeley police
say there is but little chance of making a mistake.”
That wasn’t true, and even in the 1920s, astute judges suspected that Larson’s invention might be rubbish. Just two years later in 1923, the United States Supreme Court ruled on the landmark case of Frye v. United States, which concerned a murder trial where the suspect tried to have a polygraph admitted into court to help his defense. The court ruled against the suspect, contending that the polygraph had not gained “‘general acceptance’ in the relevant scientific community.” It had not been peer reviewed by researchers or appropriately tested to use in court, and it wasn’t known whether it had a high rate of error.
The Supreme Court’s decision was superseded in 1993, when the justices decided that all forensic science, including the polygraph, could be admitted in federal courts if it passed new criteria called the Daubert standard. The forensic technique in question had to prove that the “underlying reasoning or methodology is scientifically valid and properly can be applied to the facts at issue.” The expert analyzing the evidence must also have valid credentials for using the technique.
Modern scientists agree that there are far too many variables that might control heart rate and respiration, things like mental illness or certain medications. And there is no marked difference between embarrassment, fear, or anxiety. August Vollmer was wrong, and yet, since he introduced the invention in 1921, polygraphs have been used in countless criminal investigations, including federal cases. There are people sitting in prison right now because of one piece of junk science that was pioneered by a good cop.
Guilty, concluded the men controlling the machine attached to William Hightower in 1921, and when he returned to his cell, he collapsed in near hysteria. Oscar wasn’t surprised—he knew August Vollmer (and science) could help him shore up his case against a priest’s killer.
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