* * *
—
“I have been thinking too much lately,” William Hightower sadly told his attorney. “I get the queerest notions now. I feel sort of lonely.”
In his jail cell before his October trial Hightower reflected on his life—his lost loves, his business failures, and his murder charge. His one stroke of luck was the addition of a new attorney, E. J. Emmons, who volunteered to represent Hightower pro bono. He had grown fond of the kooky baker when Emmons watched Hightower give away cookies to the children in Bakersfield, where he said he once owned a shop.
“I don’t want to give up the dearest of all things, freedom,” Hightower lamented. “But they’ve got me bound up by a chain of circumstantial evidence so strong I will never be able to break it.”
He seemed to be right, because when his trial began on October 5, the district attorney presented a list of clues that all pointed to Hightower as the killer. The hearing began with the grim story of the midnight search for the priest’s body as told by newspaper reporter George Lynn on the stand. The trial lasted less than a week, and during that time, the prosecutor paraded more than a dozen witnesses through the court, each adding to the chain of circumstantial evidence against William Hightower. The housekeeper and the neighbor, the only two witnesses on the night of the kidnapping, were scheduled to take the stand to positively identify him, but the neighbor had since left town, leaving Wendel as the only witness.
“There was good light,” said housekeeper Marie Wendel. “The man wore dark glasses. He refused to come into the house, but I could see him plainly.”
There was now no mention of the small, dark foreigner. The prosecutor dismissed that misidentification as stress, not xenophobia.
One man said Hightower had rented a 1920 model Ford touring car with a self-starter on the night of the kidnapping and he had been gone for several hours. Witnesses placed Hightower near Salada Beach less than a month before the murder, and one week afterward he had been loitering near the flapjack sign. A man in Nevada testified that he sold Hightower a .45-caliber revolver. It had been a bewildering day for William Hightower, but what would happen next was just simply sad.
“I call Mrs. Lee Putnam as the next witness,” announced District Attorney Franklin Swart.
The courtroom stirred. The newspapers had made it clear that this woman, Doris Shirley (now Doris Putnam, as she had recently married), was Hightower’s former sweetheart. The twenty-four-year-old sat demurely in the witness chair, perfectly hatted and clutching a small purse. She was dressed in a black cloak, a brown dress, and dark silk stockings. Shirley faced the jury with the glamour of a Hollywood actress as her new gold wedding band glowed. Hightower still thought she was beguiling—he seemed skittish as she sat there. He ripped paper into small bits or scribbled quickly on a pad before suggesting that his attorney ask his former lover a specific question.
“No,” Emmons firmly replied, “it would be unwise to ask that.”
Shirley described how she met Hightower in Utah two months before Father Heslin’s murder and then they traveled to San Francisco, where they lived together for about a month. The day before the priest’s murder, Shirley had rendezvoused with Lee Putnam, the man she would marry just a month later. On the day of the kidnapping on August 2, Shirley was supposed to meet with Hightower, but instead she went to the theater with Putnam. Hightower’s devotion to her had been futile—she was in love with someone else.
Shirley quickly renounced her former lover, denying his claim that they drove to San Jose and back on the night of the kidnapping. Reporters noted how dejected he seemed as he furrowed his brow and shook his head at her.
“I left San Francisco with Putnam because I wanted to get away from Hightower,” Shirley testified.
When his defense attorney began a coarse cross-examination, Hightower tugged at Emmons’s arm and demanded restraint. As Shirley ambled past his table toward her new husband, Hightower whispered softly, “Your memory is woefully short, little girl.”
On October 11, Hightower took the stand in his own defense, and as expected, he was a terrible witness. He rambled and then repeated those ramblings until he was interrupted. Hightower was clearly outmatched, and his testimony severely damaged his defense. The forensic evidence was also presented and, while a revolver was important, a knife would be the key clue.
“Bad Day for Hightower,” declared one local newspaper headline. “Little Grains of Sand May Be Big Factor in the Conviction of Man at Redwood City.”
On the third day of the trial, Oscar Heinrich stepped on the stand and presented his case against William Hightower. He guided the jury confidently through each step of scientific reasoning and procedure. He showed them huge photographs of grains of sand, describing the differences between them: color, texture, size, and grain. He explained how a petrographic test revealed the variations in the mineral composition and organic materials in the sand, even its luster. Those small differences, Oscar said, told a story about the two samples of sand in William Hightower’s case. The grains found in Hightower’s room and the sand from Father Heslin’s burial site on Salada Beach most likely came from the same place, an important piece of circumstantial evidence.
During cross-examination, Hightower’s attorney questioned the science—he pointedly asked Oscar if all the sand on the Pacific Coast was similar. Oscar replied that he didn’t know, but he did know that there was a variation in types of sand, and he could say that both samples of sand appeared to come from identical sources—a detail that created a stronger case against Hightower.
“This evidence was considered the strongest produced by the prosecution to connect Hightower with the murder of Father Heslin,” wrote one reporter.
The prosecutor walked over to Oscar and asked about handwriting analysis, his assertion that Hightower was a baker based on the unique writing on the ransom letter. Oscar pointed to two huge photographs, each with the letter D. One came from the ransom note and the other from Hightower’s own writings.
“Look at that letter D,” he told the jury. “The particular feature connecting the two writings, a feature that at first glance did not appear, lies in the inability of the writer to make a perfectly straight downward stroke.”
Jurors took notes and stared at the massive pictures as Oscar pointed to another set of photos.
“Now the S shows a very distinctive tallying on three points,” he said. “The feature of the capital S as found in the ransom letter is the initial and terminal stroke. There is a very highly individualized movement consisting of a horizontal loop made from right to left.”
The jury listened closely and stared at the loops—Oscar was mesmerizing as he looked each juror in the eye. The criminalist’s forensic work was determining William Hightower’s fate.
* * *
—
After spending two days on the witness stand, Oscar was no longer needed in court, which was welcomed news because he was absolutely spent. He had not written a letter to John Boynton Kaiser for weeks, an unusual deviation in their schedule. They were devoted pen pals, co-dependent confidants who filled a void with each other that neither seemed to quite understand. Their marriages to their wives, while ostensibly loving and stable, appeared to be banal at times. But these two pedantic, uptight men always seemed to loosen up around each other, both in person and on paper. When Oscar failed to send one of his witty notes for almost a month, Kaiser grew concerned. The librarian mailed a casual letter to Oscar meant to provoke a quick response and maybe even a little panic from the reliant criminalist.
“Farewell to criminals and their detection, for the time being,” joked Kaiser about his challenging new position at the library. “Fortunately I have sent you enough references to keep you busy till you retire a millionaire.”
Kaiser wasn’t exaggerating. By 1921, Oscar had received hundreds of books from him, and virtually every one had been used
in his criminal cases. Kaiser had spent years handpicking books just for Oscar—the criminalist suspected that the librarian was a bit jealous of Oscar’s seemingly glamorous life as a scientific detective.
“Our copy of Lucas ‘Forensic Chemistry’ came yesterday and I spent several hours looking it over last night,” wrote Kaiser. “On my scientific mind it makes a very good impression from the standpoint of scientific completeness and accuracy.”
But there was still no response from Oscar, who was in the midst of the Hightower trial. And that really seemed to irk Kaiser. He was hoping to collaborate with Oscar on a series of articles about using science labs to solve crimes, so he sent his friend a short list of potential titles—all dry as dust, unfortunately. Crafting a unique, catchy title for an article aimed at the layman was almost an art form, and Kaiser wasn’t quite gifted at it.
Inside his lab, Oscar thumbed through the letter and paused at one sentence. Now he was irked. He stared down at a name: “Chauncey McGovern.” Kaiser had made an innocent gaffe when he encouraged Oscar to read a fascinating Literary Digest article entitled “A New Way to Trap Forgers,” written by Oscar’s acerbic foe.
“It occurs to me that you may wish to write the Literary Digest sometime on this subject yourself pro or con and commenting on Chauncey McGovern’s work,” the librarian wrote.
Kaiser had likely forgotten how much Oscar despised McGovern. The criminalist ignored the letter. When more than a month went by with no response from his friend, a frustrated Kaiser shot off a telegram, and Oscar finally replied, but not kindly.
“Your idea on articles which you have suggested is not bad,” Oscar wrote. “Your titles however are rotten, absolutely too ponderous to get anything over . . . not as the title for a short story. You’ll do better to head it ‘How to Shoot a Husband and Get Away With It’ or something like that.”
Oscar’s complicated murder cases, his financial concerns, along with his competition with McGovern, were all straining their friendship. The criminalist didn’t seem to appreciate being pressured by his best friend. And he certainly disliked being reminded by Kaiser of all people that McGovern was considered a legitimate expert. Kaiser was wounded but tactful with his response.
“Your unflattering comments on the titles I suggested carefully noted,” Kaiser delicately replied. “However you’re all wrong. I was contemplating serious articles and not merely short stories.”
Kaiser’s response was mature until its finale—he couldn’t allow Oscar to win a battle of egos every time. Weeks earlier, the librarian had convinced Oscar to buy a Dictaphone for recording dictations because the forensic scientist had often complained about his secretary’s poor typing skills. Kaiser mocked him in one final jab that was sure to injure the criminalist, even if it was draped in sarcasm.
“By the way, I wonder whether you have a real Dictaphone voice,” Kaiser said. “There are so many errors in your letter.”
Bickering was not unusual for the pair, but insults were rare. However, repairing Oscar’s friendship with Kaiser would have to wait, because Hightower’s defense team was presenting closing arguments.
* * *
—
William Hightower’s attorneys were hobbled from the beginning. The judge refused to grant them most of their requests, and he frequently sided with the prosecutor during objections.
The jury retired around two o’clock on October 13, and as Hightower watched the jurors exit, he chewed bubblegum, a habit noted by reporters from the moment the trial began. It seemed to calm him, but it was exasperating to hear. His attorneys hoped that, if there had to be a guilty verdict, Hightower would be spared the death penalty. It was a gamble, because a man who killed a priest certainly didn’t deserve mercy, according to most Americans, but Hightower was so peculiar—several notches above eccentric.
About an hour after the chamber door shut, the jurors requested the ransom letter. About fifteen minutes later, they sent for photographs of Hightower’s own handwriting. They spread them all out on the table, debated, and compared. And then they discussed Oscar Heinrich’s testimony about the sand, the tent, the fibers, and the ransom letters. Each clue, combined with the others, had proven that Hightower was at the murder scene. The jury returned with a verdict in less than two hours. As Hightower stood and faced the jury silently, he continued to chew gum.
“We find the defendant guilty of first degree murder,” said the foreman.
Spectators whispered at first, and then the sounds grew louder before the bailiff shushed the room. Hightower showed no emotion but continued to chew. He listened and then turned to his attorneys and some reporters nearby.
“Well, boys, I guess you won’t see me for some time,” he said dismally.
But there was one surprise, a remarkable decision from the jury. The panel recommended life imprisonment for William Hightower and not the gallows, even though he had murdered a priest. He would spend the rest of his life in San Quentin State Prison. Oscar Heinrich was often a proponent of capital punishment in particularly heinous crimes, but he agreed that mercy in this case was appropriate.
“In my opinion the case got away from Hightower,” Oscar wrote to Kaiser, after the two had reconciled. “When the priest stuck his head in the tent and found there was nothing there, he put up a fight.”
Oscar reminded Kaiser that Father Heslin was a tall, burly man, one certainly capable of overpowering a lanky kidnapper like William Hightower.
“The priest was so powerful that I am satisfied that he was killed in this fight with no original intention on the part of Hightower of doing him any serious injury,” concluded Oscar.
And he was proud that he had been able to contribute to the case.
“The knife connected him definitively with the tent and the grave and was the big thing in the case,” he explained. “According to the jury it was the particular thing which brought about the conviction.”
But there were still concerning questions in William Hightower’s case—he had always maintained his innocence, despite the evidence. He had never wavered.
“Regardless of what the jury and the public may think,” Hightower said, “I am innocent. Yet I knew I was going to be convicted.”
One of the most troubling questions involved motive—if William Hightower had kidnapped the priest for ransom money, why did he kill him before negotiations even began? If it had been a hate crime against a Catholic clergy, why send a ransom note at all, and why lead the police directly to the body? There had been nothing to connect him to the case until he approached the archbishop’s mansion. Oscar speculated that it was a type of atonement for Hightower—he had hoped to be caught. Or maybe there was no real answer, just a tragic diagnosis.
William Hightower turned out to be little help with those questions. He lived as a recluse inside San Quentin, working in the prison’s furniture factory and writing poetry for almost forty-four years—four decades without treatment for a mental illness. He lost each of his appeals, but in 1965 he was released at age eighty-six, the oldest inmate of the California prison system.
“I have no feelings, no bitterness against anybody,” he insisted. “I’m going out.”
William Hightower died just a few months later in a halfway house, alone and unrepentant. He never admitted to killing Father Heslin.
Oscar Heinrich’s stomach churned again, a visceral reminder of his stress. All of America now knew that he was the star witness in William Hightower’s murder trial—E. O. Heinrich, as readers knew him, had doomed the monster who murdered a beloved priest. Oscar was confident, buoyed by well-deserved public accolades. He sifted through dozens of articles, each one mentioning his name. He adjusted his spectacles. His head ached occasionally when he missed an afternoon nap. But there was another reason.
Oscar told few people, maybe even just Kaiser, that over the last month he had felt nearly crushed under the strain
of two remarkable investigations, not just one. With William Hightower finally convicted, Oscar Heinrich could now concentrate on the most notable case of his career—one that had begun a month earlier, while Hightower was still awaiting trial. The criminalist looked over at a thick manila folder and eyed its handwritten label. It read: “Fatty Arbuckle.”
5.
Damnation:
The Case of the Star’s Fingerprints, Part I
As he held the waxen print close to the blood-stain, it did not take a magnifying glass to see that the two were undoubtedly from the same thumb. It was evident to me that our unfortunate client was lost. . . . “It is final,” said Holmes.
—Arthur Conan Doyle,
The Adventure of the Norwood Builder, 1903
Virginia Rappe was dying. Her abdomen ached on Thursday, September 8, 1921. The twenty-six-year-old was lying in a posh hotel room, one that managed to make her feel both spoiled and distressed. A showgirl named Maude Delmont drifted around her. By then, the older woman no longer reeked of alcohol, but it had taken more than a day for the rancid smell of whiskey to disappear.
Three days earlier, Rappe had collapsed at a party in San Francisco, and now Delmont was comforting her. They were acquaintances, not confidants, but Delmont was the only one who volunteered to stay. Rappe moaned, held her stomach, and whispered secrets to the showgirl.
At least three doctors hovered over her hotel bed, pressing her abdomen and prodding her body. They questioned Rappe, and she had tried her best to respond despite the morphine. The physicians gently examined her, but they found no signs of injury, no telltale evidence of sexual assault or physical abuse except for a few minor bruises. They asked about the party—Rappe admitted she had consumed orange blossoms, a drink of equal parts gin and orange juice, which was sometimes blended with sweet vermouth or grenadine. There were bottles of scotch, gin, wine, and bourbon flung around an adjoining suite—all of it illegal.
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