The Last Hanging: A Will Haviland-Abigail Carhart Mystery

by M. G. Meaney

  Hopfner stood. At 5 foot 7 and emaciated by the rigors of the past few months, he seemed slight and invalidic compared to his stout jailors. He took three steps to the cot, reached under the pillow and slid out three white envelopes. One was addressed to his sister, one to Sheriff Horton and one to his father, all to be opened after his death.

  Of his sister, Bette, married with three children, he begged forgiveness

  "for all the nasty names I know you have been called and will be called, and my niece and nephews too, because of me."

  "I came into trouble now and then, that I know, but I swear that I did not kill the peddler. Tell this to Sarah, Thomas and Daniel so that they can defend me. Tell them not to get into scrapes. They should behave. You can threaten them that they'll end up like their uncle. That should put them off it. I hope that I will wake up and this will be all a bad dream. God keep you. I love you.

  Forever your loyal brother,

  Theodore"

  To Sheriff Horton he wrote:

  "Though you think me a murderer, or thought me one – you were wrong in this — you and your men still treated me kinder than I expected you to. Thank you for that. I hope someday you will find out I am — was — innocent, and the true murderer found out and punished.

  Theodore Hopfner"

  To his father he wrote:

  ''You I hurt the most of all, though you hid it. Papa, I'm so sorry. Now it doesn't matter, but I tell you, swear to you, Papa, that it wasn't me who did this killing. I know I made you sad by being rambunctious, and I am here because of it, which is more than punishment enough. But I did not kill the peddler. I hope someday they will find the one that did and you can be proud of me again or at least not ashamed.

  "And one last favor I ask you, Papa. Do not let them bury me tomorrow, but put it back until Friday."

  He clung to one last wild hope — that he would not be killed by the hanging and could be resuscitated sometime afterward. He had read of such a thing happening out West.

  ''Take care of Mama. I cannot bring myself to write good-bye to her. Maybe God will make it not necessary.

  Your loving son,

  Theodore"

  His father would lock himself in his bedroom when he unsealed the letter, weep bitterly but silently at its contents, then shove it beneath a pile of papers in a lower drawer and never show it to his wife. He would ignore his son's request for delayed burial, still believing he had killed the peddler and enraged at him for the sorrow and despoiled reputation he had caused the family.

  When Theodore Hopfner was putting on his black execution suit, he had out of habit started to put his belongings into his pockets — comb, brush, pen, paper. Reluctantly, he relinquished the idea that he would have any use for these things after leaving the cell. That habit of living, of needing things for living, for brushing teeth, shaving, combing hair, of having things, drives everyone. It is unnatural to forsake it, to say I will never need this again, never do this or that again. Finally, Hopfner asked for a small box, packed everything and tied it with string. He set it on the cot, looked at it a moment, then untied it. He took out his brown comb and slid it into his right pants pocket, its usual place. And he took out a family photograph made five years before. His father, stern and uncomfortable in his brown, rumpled Sunday suit, was sitting next to his mother, who smiled broadly while trying to hide her callused hands in her black skirt. Bette and himself stood behind them, she smiling happily, he smirking at the artificiality of it. He looked at it a few moments, then placed it gently in the breast pocket of his jacket.

  He re-tied the parcel.

  ''Please give this to my parents," he told Sheriff Horton. "My things."

  The sheriff nodded.

  The Reverend Tilford reappeared. He spoke briefly with Horton. Horton admitted him to the cell, locked it and withdrew with the entire cohort.

  "Theodore, would you like to confess anything to the merciful Lord?" Tilford asked after motioning Hopfner to sit on a chair while he sat on the cot.

  "Reverend, I didn't do it. I don't have nothing to confess," Hopfner said quietly, but with finality.

  "Then let us pray together, and I will administer communion if you will take it."

  ''I will," he said weakly.

  The minister had him kneel. Hopfner's hands fumbled together in prayer. The minister gave him the host and kneeled with him. Both lowered their heads and prayed silently. After a few moments, Hopfner began looking about. A few moments later the minister ended his prayer and motioned him to stand.

  The balding, earnest preacher took Hopfner's hands and stood face to face.

  "Is there anything I can do for you?" Tilford asked.

  Hopfner was going to tell him how he had arranged with the sheriff about the letters and the parcel, and about the delayed burial, but it all seemed too cumbersome to explain in his opiate-induced haze.

  "No,'' the prisoner said. "Just take care of my mother."

  ''1 will be with you ... throughout," the minister stuttered. ''I will stay with you."

  Hopfner looked, uncomprehending. The minister chose not to elaborate.

  One of the jailors, Henry Odell, led the others back to the cell. The key grated in the lock. The iron door sighed open.

  "Everything is ready," Odell announced.

  The young blue eyes looked at the jailor stupidly. Then, Hopfner began to tremble, first his head, then the hands he raised to his chest as if to ward off the forces massed to quell his heart's beating, then his legs. His eyes widened suddenly and he seemed like one seized by convulsions. Reverend Tilford wrapped an arm around him. Hopfner placed a hand on the table, then lowered himself uneasily into the chair.

  "Take deep breaths," the minister advised. "Slow, deep breaths." He could not, after all, resort to the standard consolations that it is not so bad, that this shall pass, that time heals all wounds. And he would not in conscience invoke the one bromide that did apply: that soon it would be over.

  Hopfner hunched, closed his eyes and tried to catch a full breath, but he could not. His chest was taut and forbade him any but the most shallow respiration. He tried to imagine himself strolling along the banks of Indian Brook, then barefoot picking his way across it from smooth cool stone to smooth cool stone, but the trees kept interrupting, trees with nooses dangling from them like leaves. Soon his throat, too, tightened and he gasped for leaden, molasses slivers of air, swaying in his chair.

  Odell kneeled at his side and had him breathe into a small bag. He had seen it help in cases like this. It did. Soon Hopfner breathed more fully thanks to the jailor eager to keep him breathing until the noose could cut off his breath forever.

  Odell and three other jailors stood back and waited four minutes while Hopfner composed himself. The condemned young man seemed to be tapping some inner force. He grew straighter in the chair. Finally, he looked up and pronounced:

  ''1 am ready."

  On his table sat a bunch of daisies sent by a family friend. He plucked one and threaded it into his left lapel.

  He took his comb from his pocket and ran it carefully through his hair three times, from left to right. It did no good. The untamed hair still stood in blond shocks. He replaced the comb, mechanically moved his hands toward his neck to adjust a tie, then lowered them. He wore no tie. The noose would serve that purpose.

  Sheriff Horton and the doctor returned now, along with the man with the gray sack, who introduced himself as Joe Atkinson.

  He was the executioner, from the Tombs Prison in Manhattan, but he did not need to state his business. He was squat but powerfully built, square-jawed and serene. He spoke informationally to Hopfner, like a salesman listing the wonders of a new cleaning gadget.

  "I believe the sheriff went over the procedure with you yesterday. I will tie your hands behind you here, then we will go downstairs. So, I will need you to place your hands behind your back now."

  The sheriff clasped Hopfner gently by the sh
oulders and turned him around. Hopfner awkwardly extended his arms behind him. Atkinson produced a 2-foot-long piece of hemp from the sack and briskly tied Hopfner's wrists together, palms facing.

  ''We'll go now" Atkinson announced.

  Horton nodded at the prisoner and turned him back around. Hopfner moved toward the cell door. He stopped a moment. He turned back and surveyed it one last time.

  The sheriff said: "I will take care of the letters and the package. I promise."

  "Thank you," Hopfner said humbly. "Thank you all."

  ''God bless you," the sheriff said in a warm but professional tone.

  The other jailors murmured "Good luck," or some other hardly appropriate commonplace. What could one say?

  The large jailors formed ranks around the diminutive prisoner in the corridor and began walking past the other inmates, one serving 90 days for stealing preserves from a farm, another in for breaking a man's nose in a saloon brawl, a third in for stealing a vase from a porch. All lined up to watch the famous prisoner pass.

  Two floors down, the cortege stopped on a landing in front of the black door to the courtyard. Hopfner could hear the din of those gathered to take in his last moments. His cell had been on the other side of the building. His attention quickly shifted to Atkinson's gray sack.

  ''I shall place a cap on your head now," the executioner informed his charge. "When I pull it down, you will be able to see out, but they — he did not specify who "they" were — "will not be able to see you." Atkinson did not mention that he would be placing the noose around Hopfner's neck as well.

  Two jailors grasped Hopfner as Atkinson took out the black cloth cap, pointed like a witch's on the top, with ribbons on the peak. He perched it on the forehead to be pulled over the face later.

  Atkinson picked up the sack again, moved behind Hopfner and extracted the noose. Hopfner started when he realized what it was Atkinson had passed over his head. The executioner tightened the noose a bit, but left it slack across the shoulders. He nodded to Horton in front. The sheriff about-faced, took a breath and pushed open the door.

  The noise increased suddenly, then died.

  "Here he comes," Mayor Van Amringe announced to Reverend Haviland and Abigail.

  "And justice shall be done," Haviland intoned, though he was shocked at how much Hopfner had deteriorated from the trial. How small and weak he looked.

  ''And justice shall be done with as much hoopla as suitable," Abigail observed. ''If it is not entertaining, how just can it be?" But even she grew unsettled as the procession moved across the courtyard toward the gallows. She could see him too well, the prisoner. She stepped behind Haviland in case the reality proved too disturbing.

  At one edge of the crowd, Hannah Hopfner let escape a cry, "Oh, my poor boy," and dropped back onto her husband. He seemed determined to take in every detail to redeem the family for the spoiled fruit it had produced.

  At the opposite edge, Elena Jenks watched somberly, as if her attentiveness were required to avenge her husband's death. Her circle and those of the Hopfners and of Reverend Haviland, the killer's captor, formed the forward contingents. The rest of the crowd kept back, as if the chorus from the principals in an opera. But Hopfner himself, hands pinioned behind, black cap poised atop his head, was mounting the steps now to claim center stage. He took a step, brought up the other foot, then climbed to the next step and paused, then the next, like a toddler learning to walk. The jailors stood behind, the steps too narrow for the contingent to flank him. Atkinson had scurried behind the gallows and mounted from the rear. He waited on the platform. Reverend Tilford followed Hopfner. On the platform the jailors hastily fanned out around the prisoner, now stopped short of the rope, unsure what to do and unwilling to rush the proceedings by walking to the rope himself.

  As soon as the jailors were back in position, however, Atkinson went to his side and gently urged him forward, positioned him beneath the idle rope, then turned him around to face the steps. The executioner nodded to the minister. Tilford moved forward. Facing Hopfner, he opened a black leather-covered prayerbook and asked the young man to kneel with him. The black-suited prisoner wobbled to one knee, then to both. The minister knelt beside him. He read prayers from the burial service, though he did not announce this to Hopfner, whose head was lowered.

  "Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts: Shut not thy merciful ears to our prayer. For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother – he left out 'here departed' and a part about committing his body to the ground – we pray for him in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord, Jesus Christ."

  The crowd joined Hopfner in mumbling, "Amen."

  The minister stood and waited for Hopfner to stand, which he did, slowly. Then Tilford edged away, his part finished.

  Sheriff Horton strode forward and asked Hopfner whether he wanted to say anything.

  Hopfner raised his eyes to the taller man. He seemed befuddled. Horton repeated the question. Hopfner finally nodded, then began to speak in a low voice to the sheriff. Horton suggested he address the crowd. The onlookers grew still and solemn. All strained to catch the dying man's final words. Hopfner looked around trying to locate his family. He could not, so hazy was he, and finally gave up. His gaze settled toward the center of the crowd, seemingly on its most forward and tallest member, Reverend Willet Haviland.

  Haviland shuddered, but maintained his gaze. Had Hopfner recognized him? Would he berate him here? He tightened the grip on the top hat he held.

  Hopfner spoke dreamily. "I know I caused trouble, but I meant no harm by it, just a bit of fun was all. One time, Tommy Anderson broke his arm, but that was by accident. He fell off the horse while we were playing around." Hopfner searched the crowd for Anderson. He seemed to be withdrawing into that distant memory, but he soon forced himself back to the present. ''What I mean is I didn't kill Mr. Jenks, even though they say so."

  Haviland thought Hopfner was staring at him, through him, as he said this, but the hero minister continued to meet the condemned boy's confused gaze.

  ''1 did take the ax, but just for a minute, to look at. I took a couple things. He was all covered with snow. It seemed no matter." He paused, mulling over how much else to say. He stared without seeing, struggling to order his thoughts. Finally, he let go the effort. He shrugged and concluded: ''1 didn't do it is all. Oh, I'm sorry, Mama." Again he failed to pick out the woman leaning limp against Thomas Hopfner, too weak and distraught to raise a hand to attract his attention.

  Hopfner lowered his head and stood, waiting. Atkinson, suddenly energized, was on Hopfner. He shuttled him back and to his right. The executioner pulled tight the knot, which protruded like a tumor behind the left ear. Atkinson tugged at the noose, rotated it slightly forward. He raised the metal ring at noose's end, testing the angle again to be sure it would snap the head sharply enough to break the neck. He relaxed it, then tightened the knot one final time. Hopfner was thoroughly doped, gazing aimlessly, all comprehension now gone, all emotion drained away, all hope abandoned at last.

  Atkinson came round front and with both hands pulled the black cap over the prisoner's face. He stepped back, scrutinized Hopfner to make sure he had not forgotten anything. He moved back to the young man's left and snapped the noose ring onto the hook from the rope overhead. He took two large paces backward and to the side. He peered to the back of the gallows. There, Sheriff Horton stood poised with a broad-ax at a block of wood. Over the wood stretched the rope anchoring the weights.

  The hangman's right arm shot into the air. Horton raised the ax over his right shoulder. It froze a moment in the steel-gray light. Then, he snapped it down on the rope.

  A crack like a bullet's resounded across the courtyard. The weight plunged. The rope screeched over the pulleys. Hopfner's head snapped to the right, his body sprang five feet into the air, hovered a moment, then dropped back three feet. I
t swung from left to right, slowly, like a great clock pendulum running down.

  The crowd gasped. Hannah Hopfner uttered a primal groan and fainted. Mrs. Jenks smiled grimly. Reverend Haviland stood aghast, mouth open, eyes wide, a nervous click tapping from his throat. It was his first execution.

  Now, Hopfner's body was twisting lazily on the rope. The noose knot forced up the black cap, revealing ragged red scratches torn into the neck. Now a shiver passed through the young man from the cold breath of death. The pinioned hands grew purple and clawed at each other. The chest heaved for one final taste of spring air. Then a tremor started with a shrug of the shoulders and ended with a convulsive lashing out of the legs. The shudder passed. The corpse swung before the audience.

  The ax had fallen at 7:15 a.m. It was now 7:19. The drama of the hanging had rendered the crowd still. Outside the walls, though, shouts could be heard from the throng there exchanging reports on the progress inside. Now, the body would dangle, swaying and revolving, for another six minutes, but the courtyard began returning to life.

  At 7:25, Atkinson turned Hopfner's face away from the crowd and lifted the mask. He looked briefly, returned the mask to its place and nodded to the sheriff. Two jailors held the body while the sheriff cut the rope with a knife. The body was laid on the platform. Two doctors examined Hopfner and pronounced him dead at 7:35. The body was placed in a coffin hidden behind the gallows, then held in the jail for burial the following day.