For The Thrill Of It Part 4

There was a slight pause at the other end, and then the voice spoke again, in a low mutter, before hanging up: "Probably I have the wrong number."8 Kemp shrugged his shoulders in disappointment; somehow he had expected more. Reluctantly, he picked up his broom to sweep away at the dust in the back of the store.

Even Nathan now had to admit that there was no point any longer in pursuing the ransom. Jacob Franks was not at the drugstore-perhaps he had never left his house; perhaps he knew already that his son was dead.

And, in any case, the Michigan Central train had now left Central Station and would soon be at the 63rd Street station. Obviously Jacob Franks would not be on the train.

Their grand adventure was over-there was nothing more to be done except return the rental car.

It suddenly seemed so anticlimactic; disappointment hung in the air as they drove silently downtown, to the rental office on Michigan Avenue.9

THEY ARRIVED BACK AT K KENWOOD shortly after four o'clock. shortly after four o'clock.

At the Loeb house on Ellis Avenue, Leonard Tucker, the family chauffeur, greeted Richard as he reached the front door. Tucker was leaning against a car in the driveway, absorbed in reading a newspaper, and as Richard approached, he showed him the news about the discovery of a boy's body in swampland south of the city. It was a terrible crime, Tucker exclaimed; the newspapers were reporting that the kidnappers had mutilated the body before stuffing it into a drainage culvert.10 At the Leopold house, everyone was talking about the murder when Nathan arrived home. His father was still downtown, working at the office, but Nathan's brothers were home, reading the newspapers in the living room, devouring the details of the murder, calling out comments to their aunt in the dining room, and speculating on the ident.i.ty of the killers.

Nathan felt tense and uncomfortable listening to his brothers gossiping about the murder; he felt a slight nausea in his stomach-perhaps it was the tension that had acc.u.mulated throughout the day, or perhaps it was the failure of their plan-and he excused himself; he was going out to the corner store for a soda. He would be back in a few minutes.

As he walked along Ellis Avenue, Nathan spotted a familiar figure walking toward him: a young-looking, rather plump man, with a worried expression on his face, so absorbed in his thoughts that he seemed about to walk past, without acknowledging one of his former pupils at the Harvard School. Nathan had recognized his English teacher immediately. He remembered Mott Kirk Mitch.e.l.l as a rather fussy teacher, too conscientious and well meaning to deal adequately with a cla.s.sroom of rowdy fifteen-year-olds.11 "How do you do, Mr. Mitch.e.l.l?" Nathan inquired sincerely. "I haven't seen you for a long time; how are you?"12 Mitch.e.l.l peered at the young man in front of him-who was he? Yes, he recognized him now. Nathan Leopold had been a student at the Harvard School a few years back. Mitch.e.l.l remembered him as an obnoxious pupil: clever, certainly, one of the best students in the cla.s.s, but too arrogant and cynical to be likable.

"Have you heard," Mitch.e.l.l asked, "about the Franks boy?"

"No," Nathan replied.

Everyone at the Harvard School, Mitch.e.l.l explained, was worried at the disappearance of Bobby Franks. There was a rumor going around that someone had kidnapped Bobby, and now there was news that a boy's body had been found out by the Pennsylvania Railroad tracks near the Indiana state line.

"Do you know him?" Mitch.e.l.l asked.

Nathan shook his head, "No."

"Robert Franks?"

"No."13 Mitch.e.l.l stayed a few minutes more on the sidewalk, talking about the murder, as Nathan listened. It was inexplicable, Mitch.e.l.l proclaimed, that someone would murder Bobby Franks-and what effect would it have on the Harvard School? Bobby had disappeared the previous day on his way home after school, not far from where they stood-was any child safe while the murderer was still at large?

Mitch.e.l.l soon stopped talking; he was in a hurry, he explained. There was to be a meeting of the school staff that evening with the princ.i.p.al; in all likelihood, the Harvard School would be closed tomorrow.

They shook hands. As he made his way across the road, Nathan realized that his nausea had disappeared. In its place, he felt a sudden sense of exhilaration-they had succeeded in a crime that would be the talk of the town!

SHORTLY AFTER NOON ON THE following day, Friday, 23 May-just two days after Bobby's death-Richard stood in the entrance hall at the Zeta Beta Tau fraternity on Ellis Avenue, smoking a cigarette and chatting with friends; he had already had lunch in the dining hall, and now he was killing time, wondering how to spend the afternoon. following day, Friday, 23 May-just two days after Bobby's death-Richard stood in the entrance hall at the Zeta Beta Tau fraternity on Ellis Avenue, smoking a cigarette and chatting with friends; he had already had lunch in the dining hall, and now he was killing time, wondering how to spend the afternoon.

He saw Howard Mayer enter and nodded a greeting. Howard was a senior at the university, and, although he had never rushed for the fraternity, he knew many of its members. Richard had heard that the Chicago American Chicago American had hired Howard as a stringer; he detached himself from his group of friends and stepped across the hallway to ask what Howard knew of the murder. had hired Howard as a stringer; he detached himself from his group of friends and stepped across the hallway to ask what Howard knew of the murder.

Everyone knew about the killing; everyone knew all the details; but, Mayer realized, Richard seemed almost to have an insider's knowledge of the case. Mayer listened attentively as Richard talked about the ransom demand. The newspapers had reported that the kidnappers had telephoned Jacob Franks at his home, directing him to go with the ransom to a drugstore on 63rd Street. Was there some reason for Franks to go to a particular drugstore? And what was Franks expected to do once he arrived at 63rd Street?

Could it be, Richard speculated, that the kidnappers had intended to give Franks a second message, perhaps instructing him to hide the ransom somewhere? After all, Richard said, the kidnappers would hardly wish to meet Jacob Franks face-to-face.

"You know these kidnappers would not meet a man on a busy street," Richard exclaimed, exhaling cigarette smoke as he spoke, "that is common sense."

Howard Mayer nodded in agreement; clearly there had been some reason for the kidnappers to direct Franks to the drugstore.

"Why don't you," Richard continued, without waiting for an answer, "make the rounds of some of these drugstores on East 63rd Street, and see if you can't find the one at which some word was left for Mr. Franks?"

Despite Richard's enthusiasm, Mayer hesitated; it seemed a quixotic mission to hazard an afternoon searching out such a faint target; and, anyway, he was already behind on his schoolwork and he had hoped to spend that afternoon studying.

While Mayer hesitated, two others approached them. James Mulroy and Alvin Goldstein were alumni, contemporaries of Richard Loeb during his time at the university; now both were reporters for the Chicago Daily News Chicago Daily News.

As they approached, Richard addressed Mayer a final time, nodding in the direction of Mulroy and Goldstein, "If you won't take my proposition, why I will put it up to them."14 What proposition, Mulroy asked? What scheme was Richard cooking up now?

He had the idea, Richard replied, to find the drugstore to which the kidnappers had directed Jacob Franks. There had to have been some reason, he guessed, for Franks to go to 63rd Street.

Would Mulroy and Goldstein care to go down to 63rd Street? It wouldn't take long to search out the drugstores, Richard pleaded, perhaps only an hour if they went by car.

It was raining outside; they could see a steady drizzle coming down and no sign that the weather would change for the better. But Mulroy and Goldstein were eager, and Mayer, anxious that he might be scooped, abandoned his schoolwork for another day.15 By the time they had reached Blackstone Avenue, the rain was pouring down. They had already scouted out several drugstores along 63rd Street, having worked their way west from Stony Island Avenue, but there was nothing, no clue, to indicate that they had found the kidnappers' drugstore. Mulroy was discouraged and at Blackstone Avenue he announced that he would wait in the car; if the others wished to continue looking, that was their business, but he was ready to return to the university.16 While Alvin Goldstein checked out the cigar store on the other side of the street, Richard and Howard Mayer went together to the Ross drugstore on the corner.

Richard interrogated the porter, James Kemp. Had he received any phone calls yesterday afternoon from someone asking for Mr. Franks?17 Yes, Kemp replied; it had been around two-thirty. He had answered the phone himself, while he had been at the back of the store, cleaning up. A man's voice had been on the other end of the line. "The man asked for Mr. Franks," Kemp explained to Richard. "I told him I didn't know Mr. Franks and then he asked me to look around the store. He gave me a very detailed description of Mr. Franks, even to saying that probably he would be smoking a cigarette." But no one answering the description had been in the store, and the caller had hung up.18 Richard turned to Mayer in triumph; his guess had worked out. "You see, I told you we could find it. Now you have got a scoop."

He stood at the door of the pharmacy; the rain had eased off. Alvin Goldstein stood by the car talking to James Mulroy through the open window. Richard waved at the two reporters excitedly; he shouted for them to come over, "This is the place!"19 As they drove back to the university, Mulroy and Richard talked together in the rear of the car. Mulroy had not realized before that Richard Loeb and Bobby Franks had been second cousins. Mulroy was surprised also at Richard's knowledge of the murder; he seemed to know more about the killing than anyone else Mulroy had met. Mulroy was curious to learn more about Bobby Franks. The princ.i.p.al of the Harvard School had said that Bobby was one of the best students in the school and an excellent athlete-had Bobby been as good as everyone claimed?

Richard replied caustically that he had never had much regard for his fourteen-year-old cousin; he remembered Bobby as an arrogant boy, accustomed to having his own way, spoiled and selfish. "If I was going to murder anybody," Richard remarked, "he was just the kind of c.o.c.ky little son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h that I would pick."20 Richard's adventure in leading the journalists to the drugstore had seemed innocuous, inconsequential, at the time. Richard knew, nevertheless, how dangerously he had flirted with the possibility of discovery-one slip, one revelation that he knew too much about Bobby's death, and he might become a suspect. But, like the killing itself, his flirtation with the reporters excited and aroused him. He could not openly boast, of course, that he was the architect of one of the most sensational crimes in Chicago's history. But his secret knowledge of the murder was congruent with his self-image as a master criminal. While Mayer and the rest blundered about in confusion and ignorance, he, Richard Loeb, had been able to unveil an important detail. Richard knew how close to the flame he hovered, but it was irresistible; it thrilled him to lead his friends along a dangerous path.

LATER THAT NIGHT N NATHAN WAITED in his car at the corner of 51st Street and Cottage Grove Avenue. It was almost two o'clock in the morning. The rain had stopped, but the night was cold and chill and a strong wind blew in from Lake Michigan. in his car at the corner of 51st Street and Cottage Grove Avenue. It was almost two o'clock in the morning. The rain had stopped, but the night was cold and chill and a strong wind blew in from Lake Michigan.21 Nathan sat in the dark, waiting for Richard-they planned to dispose of the remaining evidence that night.

He was worried that the police had discovered the corpse so soon. Nathan had expected the hydrochloric acid to have burned away Bobby's face, but apparently it had not worked-the newspaper reports said only that the face was discolored-and the police had identified Bobby as the victim almost immediately.

And the detectives had also found a pair of eyegla.s.ses near the body! No doubt they had fallen out of his jacket. How could he have been so careless? He should have checked the jacket pockets before going out on Wednesday. If the police were to question him about the eyegla.s.ses, he had an explanation for their discovery near the corpse-he would claim he had dropped them the previous weekend while bird-watching near Hyde Lake-but it was unsettling, nevertheless, to realize that the police now had a clue that could link him to the murder.

Richard finally arrived. He was in a good mood. That afternoon, he recounted to Nathan, he had gone with three journalists-Howard Mayer of the Chicago American Chicago American and Alvin Goldstein and James Mulroy of the and Alvin Goldstein and James Mulroy of the Chicago Daily News Chicago Daily News-along 63rd Street, pretending to look for the drugstore and finding it at the last moment, just when they were about to abandon the search!

It was exasperating, Nathan replied, that Richard would behave so foolishly; did he not understand the risk? Their perfect crime, Nathan warned, was already beginning to unravel. Why would Richard behave in such a provocative way? Nathan hit the steering wheel with his open palm for emphasis as he admonished Richard; Nathan reminded him that the police had discovered the eyegla.s.ses near the corpse-had Richard thought how he could explain their presence by the culvert?

Perhaps, Nathan wondered, they should prepare for the worst; perhaps they should create an alibi in case the police did question them in connection with the murder.

Richard agreed-better to be on the safe side. They would say that they had gone out to Lincoln Park on Wednesday in Nathan's car; that they had been drinking that afternoon; and that, in the evening, they had had dinner before meeting a couple of girls.

This alibi would stick if each vouched for the other. So long as they both held fast to this alibi, they would be safe-but if either one buckled under police pressure, then the other also was doomed. In any case, they would need to use the alibi only if the police apprehended them within a week of the crime. No one could reasonably be expected to remember what he had done on a given day if one week had since gone by.22 They had talked for almost an hour; it was already three o'clock in the morning. Nathan lifted the Underwood typewriter-the typewriter used to print the ransom letter-from the backseat of the car and, with a pair of pliers, began twisting and pulling apart the keys. Now, even if the detectives found the typewriter, they could never match it with the ransom letter they had sent to Jacob Franks.

They drove south, down Cottage Grove Avenue, and east along the Midway, out to Jackson Park. On their left, across the North Pond, the Palace of Fine Arts-the sole structure remaining from the Columbian Exposition of 1893-gleamed white in the moonlight; its silent presence was the only witness as Nathan, clutching the typewriter keys in his hand, stepped from the car onto the bridge, and allowed the keys to fall into the water of the lagoon.

At the outer harbor, on the stone bridge, Nathan stopped a second time to dispose of the typewriter; it fell into the harbor with a splash that echoed into the silence of the night.23 The automobile blanket-stained brownish red with Bobby's congealed blood-lay crumpled on the floor of the car. It had been too risky to burn the blanket along with Bobby's clothes in the bas.e.m.e.nt furnace in Richard's house; they had to burn it in open air so that the acrid odor of the blood would not attract attention. Nathan knew a spot on South Sh.o.r.e Drive, close by a small copse, far from any buildings, where they could safely burn it. It took only a few minutes to burn and once it had been consumed by the flames, the last piece of evidence had disappeared.24

THE POLICE FIRST KNOCKED AT the door of the Leopold house on Sunday, 25 May. Thomas Wolf, a captain from the Eighth Police District, explained that he wished to talk to Nathan about the ornithology cla.s.ses he conducted by the lakes near the Pennsylvania Railroad tracks. It was routine, the captain explained; in the hope of turning up clues to the murder, the police were questioning anyone who frequented the area. the door of the Leopold house on Sunday, 25 May. Thomas Wolf, a captain from the Eighth Police District, explained that he wished to talk to Nathan about the ornithology cla.s.ses he conducted by the lakes near the Pennsylvania Railroad tracks. It was routine, the captain explained; in the hope of turning up clues to the murder, the police were questioning anyone who frequented the area.

Nathan spent two hours that Sunday at the Ewing Avenue station answering questions. Yes, he had often been out at Wolf Lake; only the previous weekend, he had spent the day with a friend, Sidney Stein, hunting birds. And he also took groups of schoolchildren out to the area to look for birds; he had frequently taken boys from the Harvard School to the lake, and occasionally he had cla.s.ses of boys and girls from the University High School.25 It was rea.s.suring, he realized, that the detectives had no inkling that he had any connection with the murder; it quickly became apparent that their questions were indeed routine. Nathan was not a suspect and, he calculated, if the police had not yet, four days after the discovery of the eyegla.s.ses, connected him, through the eyegla.s.ses, to the murder, then it seemed that he was safe. Nathan reported back to Richard-neither of them was under suspicion!

Nathan had no need for any more distractions; he had decided to apply to Harvard University law school, and that week he was taking the entrance examinations. He needed to concentrate-it would be inconvenient if there were any more questions from the police.

One week after the murder, on Wednesday, 28 May, Nathan took his law exams. On his way from the examination hall, he pa.s.sed the office of Ernst Puttkammer, the popular thirty-four-year-old law professor. Puttkammer, despite his thinning blond hair and his steel-rimmed gla.s.ses, had a youthful appearance; students found him approachable and helpful, always willing to discuss the complexities of the law and to lend a sympathetic ear to any student struggling with his cla.s.s work.

The door was ajar, and inside, Puttkammer was sitting at his desk, poring over a law journal. He glanced up as Nathan knocked and entered the room. Nathan was one of the brightest students in his cla.s.s-a little eccentric, certainly, with his Nietzschean philosophy and his avowals that a superman need not regard the law; but, Puttkammer reflected as Nathan sat down, it was better to have an engaged student who talked too much than a student who talked not at all.

Nathan explained that he had wanted to discuss the legal ramifications of the murder of Bobby Franks; would the sentencing guidelines in Illinois necessarily mandate the death penalty for the kidnappers?

Suppose that the kidnappers had abducted Franks solely for the purpose of the ransom and suppose also that the murder had occurred accidentally, say, as the boy was being kidnapped. If there had been no intent to kill, would the kidnappers nevertheless receive the death penalty?

Puttkammer twirled his pencil in his hand, looking at Nathan from across the desk.

"Isn't kidnapping," Puttkammer replied, "a felony here in Illinois?"

"Yes," answered Nathan.

Puttkammer laid the pencil on his desk and leaned back in his chair. "Supposing a man causes somebody's death while he is intending to commit a felony? Is that murder or manslaughter?"

Nathan hesitated. Perhaps the kidnappers had intended only to rape Bobby. What then? "Suppose that the intent were simply to take improper liberties with this boy?" he replied. "I understand that that is a misdemeanor here in Illinois."

"Well...you still are talking about someone who had an intent to kidnap at the time, so that it is none the less a case where the intent is to commit a felony, even though other crimes might enter into it which are simply misdemeanors."

Puttkammer was pleased that Nathan was taking such an interest in the case. The majority of students seemed interested in the law only as a way to make a living; Nathan was one of those rare students with genuine intellectual curiosity.

Puttkammer confessed his ignorance of the case; he had been too preoccupied with keeping up with the decisions of the Illinois supreme court to spend much time reading the newspapers. But he had attended the Harvard School himself as a young boy, so, to that degree at least, the case was very interesting.

"I went to the school myself," Nathan interrupted.

"Well, then, your interest perhaps is even greater than mine, because you went there so much more recently and must know many more of the people."

Puttkammer had read in yesterday's papers that the police had arrested Mott Kirk Mitch.e.l.l, the English teacher, as the leading suspect. That was unexpected-he had always thought of Mitch.e.l.l as an outstanding teacher and a considerate and thoughtful person.

"Well, I don't know-" Nathan interrupted again. "I am not so sure about that."

All the boys knew, Nathan continued, that Mitch.e.l.l was a h.o.m.os.e.xual; he was notorious for soliciting s.e.x with the older boys at the Harvard School.

"Are you sure of that?"

"Yes; he made that sort of a proposition to my brother; that is straight enough, isn't it?"

The professor had picked up his pencil again and was drumming it lightly on the top of his desk, glancing at the clock, and starting to pick up a book. Nathan rose from his chair, saying, as he turned to leave the room, "I wouldn't put it past that man, Mitch.e.l.l; I would like to see them get that fellow...."

He stopped and turned back to Puttkammer as he reached the door; there was a slight smile on Nathan's face. "But...I don't say he did it."26

THE NEXT DAY-THURSDAY, 29 M 29 MAY-NATHAN stayed home. The law exams were finished and that afternoon he was taking a group of schoolchildren from University High School on a bird-watching expedition to Wolf Lake. stayed home. The law exams were finished and that afternoon he was taking a group of schoolchildren from University High School on a bird-watching expedition to Wolf Lake.

He heard the bell at the front door but paid no attention; he was not expecting anyone to call. Two minutes later the maid was at his study door: three men, police officers, wished to speak with him.

How irritating! No doubt they wished to ask him more questions about his birding expeditions. But perhaps he could put them off; perhaps he could persuade them to come back at a more convenient time.

6 THE INTERROGATIONTHURSDAY, 29 M 29 MAY 1924S 1924SAt.u.r.dAY, 31 M 31 MAY 1924 1924Since you have been in my custody have you been beaten by anybody?...Have any of the police or my a.s.sistants been rough, or anything of the kind?...You haven't any bruises on your body, have you?1Robert Crowe, state's attorney for Cook County, 1 June 1924 THE LARGE BLACK CAR MADE its way slowly down Greenwood Avenue, halting occasionally and then again moving forward. Greenwood Avenue lay in the heart of Kenwood, one of Chicago's most exclusive residential neighborhoods, and at that time of the day-two-thirty on a Thursday afternoon-the street was deserted; n.o.body observed the car as it slowly pa.s.sed between the large mansions on either side. its way slowly down Greenwood Avenue, halting occasionally and then again moving forward. Greenwood Avenue lay in the heart of Kenwood, one of Chicago's most exclusive residential neighborhoods, and at that time of the day-two-thirty on a Thursday afternoon-the street was deserted; n.o.body observed the car as it slowly pa.s.sed between the large mansions on either side.

The car finally stopped in front of 4754 Greenwood Avenue. Three men-evidently on an important mission-stepped out purposefully and stood on the sidewalk for a moment, looking up at the house before them. It was, like all the houses on the street, a ma.s.sive stone structure, three stories tall, set behind an imposing front gate.

Frank Johnson, a police sergeant with the Detective Bureau, led the way to the front door. A maid answered the bell. Yes, Nathan Leopold was at home; he would be down shortly.

Two minutes later the boy was at the door. They had been fortunate to find him at home: Nathan had been on his way out of the house; at three o'clock he was taking a cla.s.s of schoolchildren on a birding expedition. As Johnson introduced himself, he noticed Nathan's irritation at their presence. Nathan demanded to see their identification. The sergeant bristled at the arrogance in the boy's voice.

"Let me see your credentials," Nathan asked.

Johnson pulled his deputy's star from his pocket: "I am a police officer," he explained, "and they want you at the State's Attorney's office." As the boy turned to get his jacket, Johnson dropped a hint about the purpose of his visit.

"By the way...do you wear gla.s.ses?"

"Yes."

"Did you lose your gla.s.ses?"

"No."

"Have you got them?"

"They are around here someplace."

Johnson realized-too late-that it may have been a mistake to mention the eyegla.s.ses to Nathan. He had thought to save time and have the boy bring along his gla.s.ses, but he could not allow Nathan to hunt through the house looking for them-the state's attorney would be annoyed if they were delayed.

"Well, we have to go down to the State's Attorney's office."

"I have got an appointment to teach a cla.s.s about three o'clock."

"Well, you will have to postpone that appointment."

"Can't you postpone this until some other time?"

"No, you have got to go down now."2 Nathan disappeared into the house, leaving Johnson waiting on the doorstep. He reappeared with his eldest brother, Michael, and they joined the three detectives-Frank Johnson, William Crot, and James Gortland-for the ride to the Loop.