THE SUSPECT
On reaching the offices, I at once sought an interview with the District
Attorney and found him expecting me. He had, of course, learned of the
tragedy from police headquarters, and of my presence on the scene.
There was little I could tell him that he did not already know. The
information he had received, however, was but a meagre statement of
facts and supplied no clue to the criminal.
"I suppose," he said, "it will prove an ordinary case of burglary and
incidental murder, and I have no doubt the police will soon run down
their man."
With this expectation I could not so readily agree, and told him so. I
explained to him that while the disappearance of the money I knew to
have been on the table seemed to bear out his view, the absence of the
ulster showed something in the case that would have to be explained.
"Well, Dallas," he said, "I confess I don't see why the ulster should
not have been stolen as well as the money, and I doubt if we find the
case in any way unusual, but perhaps you are right. Suppose you take
charge of it for the office and follow it up!"
I could see he thought my connection with the matter, and friendship
with White, was influencing my judgment, but as I was mainly anxious to
obtain the commission he had voluntarily given me, I only replied that
very likely it would prove so, and withdrew to my own office. Here
leaving other matters neglected, I sat down, and thought the case over.
Could it be that the District Attorney was right and that I was trying
to make a mystery out of a commonplace crime; certainly his prompt
suggestion that the ulster had also been stolen along with the money was
entirely likely and yet I could not satisfy myself that it was correct.
As I look back now I realize that it was the intuition of youth rather
than the keen reasoning of an experienced lawyer that directed my
judgment at that stage. The facts as they were apparent at the time
furnished no sufficient ground for my conclusion and I was forced to
admit to myself that I must reserve my judgment, at least from public
expression, till I had more light on the case.
My interest and impatience, however, would not allow me to await in
idleness the Coroner's hearing the next day, and I determined,
therefore, to go at once to Inspector Dalton's office, and learn from
that department all that was known. On entering the Inspector's office,
I found him in consultation with Detective Miles.
I knew both men well, having worked with them before, and recognized in
them conscientious officers of experience. The Inspector was a man of
about sixty and somewhat pompous and dictatorial with the consciousness
of power, which he owed, nevertheless, mainly to "political pull."
Miles, on the contrary, was a much younger man, and had attained to his
position through good work. He was naturally keen and reticent, and well
fitted for his vocation, and he possessed besides a better education
than the average man of his calling.
The Inspector, however, was little more than a machine, without much
originality, and he worked on the lines dictated by experience and with
the means and methods tried and available. In the latter respect our
police and detective departments are well equipped; also, they are well
disciplined, and systematized; but what both departments should have and
rarely possess, are men of exceptional ability, training, and broad
education at their heads to plan and direct the work of their
subordinates.
The consultation in which they were engaged was interrupted upon my
entrance and they waited for what I might have to say.
In response to my request for any additional information they might
have, Miles reported fully on his investigations of the morning and
there were some newly disclosed facts of which I had not before been
aware.
I had been told, as I have said, that White had gone out after we had
left him, but it now developed from the night-officer's story that White
had left the house a little after one o'clock wearing the plaid ulster
and cap and had gone rapidly west on the north side of the street. He
had returned the salute of the officer who was on the opposite side of
the street. What further direction White took the officer could not say,
as he had not watched him. He did not see White return, but about half
an hour later when he was again approaching the house on his rounds he
had observed a man peering in at one of White's windows, where the shade
was slightly up, who, on finding himself observed, had walked away. The
officer's suspicions were aroused, however, and he had returned to the
scene again in a few minutes, and had then seen what appeared to be the
same man come out of the vestibule of White's house and hurry west,
turning up Sixth Avenue.
He had followed him to this point, though no further, but had gotten a
fair view of him, and thought he could identify him by his clothing and
walk.
"And how about the plaid ulster," I asked; "did the man have it or any
large bundle with him that might contain it?"
"No," the Inspector answered, "he was dressed in a light overcoat and a
brown derby hat, and carried no bundle of any kind."
"Then, where is the ulster," I repeated.
"I don't know," he replied, I thought, somewhat testily.
"We have got to find that coat, nevertheless," I persisted.
"We will find it, sir; I'll promise that," said Miles; "that is, if it
has not been destroyed."
"Have you any idea," I asked, after a moment's reflection, "who was the
man the night-officer saw?"
"Yes," said the Inspector, "we have an idea it may have been White's
cousin, Winters."
"Henry Winters, do you mean?" I asked, startled.
"Yes," he said, "do you know him?"
I made no answer, but my thoughts went back to the old college days when
Winters was a bright-faced, merry boy, and we had been chums and
inseparable companions. Since then he had gone from bad to worse till he
had become a social outcast, and we had drifted altogether apart, but
even thus I could not believe of him this awful charge. There must, I
felt, be some mistake somewhere, and I asked, doubtfully, why they
thought it was Winters.
"Because," the Inspector replied, "the officer had seen him come out of
White's house at night on other occasions and the man in this instance
was of about his size and appearance."
I said no more, but thought it looked a little black for poor Winters,
whom the police were evidently still hunting.
After I left them I walked slowly uptown, reflecting upon the situation
in the light of the Inspector's view of the case.
I was not disposed to altogether condemn police methods, for they were
generally successful, if illogical, but I saw that in this case they
were pursuing their usual course of first determining who ought to be
the criminal and then securing the evidence to convict him; instead of,
as seemed to me proper, developing first the evidence and reserving
conclusions till it discovered the offender.
I thought the police method unfortunate, to say the least, for with the
best intentions the exercise of unprejudiced judgment and the fair use
of evidence is made difficult where the case is "worked up" upon a
preconceived theory that a particular individual has committed the
crime. It is extraordinary how in many such cases evidence is secured,
and in good faith, that seems to bear out their theory and many little
things that in themselves have no importance, when presented in the
light of the theory furnish circumstantial evidence in its support.
These same little things are often hard to explain away too, because
they had no purpose at the time and have no explanation; for each act of
a man deliberately done and with a purpose, there are a hundred that
have no conception, no purpose, and hardly consciousness.
Truly I saw a hard time ahead for poor Winters, who, without friends,
money, or character, would have little chance against the machinery of
the law; and with the warm impulse of youth I was inclined to become my
old friend's champion while yet knowing almost nothing of the facts. I
had condemned the police for premature judgment of the case and now,
influenced by sympathy, I was near doing the same myself, unconscious of
the inconsistency of my mental attitude. I would be more deliberate
to-day; time has taught me the wisdom of going slow, but I hope it has
yet to teach me indifference to the troubles of others.
I had walked some distance thus absorbed in thought when I was suddenly
recalled to my surroundings by finding myself on Nineteenth Street
opposite White's house--following unconsciously the bent of my thoughts,
I had taken that route home. I was about to hurry on, having no desire
to linger on the scene, when my attention was attracted to a man leaning
dejectedly against the railing of the steps. On a closer look I
recognized Winters and with a pang of regret saw that he wore a light
coat and derby hat such as described by the night-officer.
After some hesitation, I crossed over and spoke to him. He stared at me
for a moment in a half-dazed way, and then recognized me indifferently.
He looked wretched; his clothes were soiled and threadbare, his face
haggard, and his eyes bloodshot with drink and lack of sleep; he seemed
a being utterly hopeless and lost to manhood. Before I could collect
myself to speak to him, he had relapsed again into his stupor and had
apparently forgotten my presence.
Anxious, nevertheless, to learn something from him of himself, and to
help him if possible, I asked him if he knew his cousin was dead. He
nodded an assent without looking at me. I then told him that he had been
murdered, to which he only answered:
"So they say."
"Have you been in to see him?" I continued.
He said, "No," and then added bitterly: "Why should I wish to see him?
Have I not troubles enough of my own?"
I abandoned my efforts to talk with him, for it was evidently useless,
and as there seemed nothing I could do for him, continued on my way.
As I reached the corner of Fifth Avenue, I recognized a detective
standing idly by the curb. Already the shadow of trouble was over the
wretched man. I could not help him now, however, it must be later, if at
all, and I passed on.