The friendship of James McKay and William Larson was a source of wonder
and pleasure to their mutual friends and acquaintances. Such was the
close companionship of the two men that they were often laughingly
referred to as “David and Jonathan.”
Each regarded the other with pride, respect, and understanding. Possibly
there could not have been found a more glorious example of the love of
one man for another than this one. Certainly few, if any, would have been
so mentally constituted as to produce reactions which would lead to such
terrible results.
McKay had met Larson some six years previous through his newspaper work,
both being on the staff of a Denver newspaper. Strangely, in view of
their later friendship, neither was particularly attracted to the other
until some time later.
On this occasion McKay had been asked to “sit in” a card game at Larson’s
apartment, which he willingly did, for games of chance were attractive to
McKay. The party lasted nearly the entire night, and upon breaking up,
Larson offered to share his room with McKay, as the latter lived at some
distance.
What drew the two men together is impossible to say, but their friendship
must have ripened quickly, for the next evening found McKay established
permanently as a roommate of Larson.
In appearance, if their expressions were analyzed, the two men were
strikingly alike; enough so to be readily taken for brothers. Both were
of a slender athletic build, dark complexioned, and with sharp, clean-cut
features—sportsmen, in every sense of the word.
In character, however, there was much difference. McKay, the younger, was
an impulsive, quick-acting and confident sort of fellow, easily offended,
but correspondingly quick to accept an apology. While clever in many
respects, he was not given to concentrated and painstaking study.
This trait was evident from his writing—original, snappy, entertaining,
but often lacking in fine details of accuracy. Larson, on the other hand,
was of a more conservative type, slower but more positive in his actions,
and of a nature that inquired into things in a thorough and precise
fashion.
Such was the well-known friendship of the two that great was the surprise
of all who knew McKay when, his face black with anger, he entered the
barroom of the Palace Hotel and demanded:
“Where’s that damned Larson?”
Friends at once tried to ascertain the trouble, and also to urge him to
return to his home, as he had evidently been drinking heavily. But McKay
was in no mood to be pacified by his friends.
“Don’t interfere in my affairs!” he snarled.
Then he ordered a drink, swallowed it at a gulp, and then seated himself
in a far corner of the room.
McFadden, a close friend of both Larson and McKay, went over to him and,
linking his arm in McKay’s in a hearty and jovial manner, attempted
to take him away. McKay turned on him so savagely that he gave it up,
resolving to find Larson and learn the reason for McKay’s anger.
As McKay only sat and watched and waited, his eyes blazed with a deadly
gleam.
* * * * *
McKay had become, as Larson expressed it, hypnotized by and infatuated
with a really beautiful but altogether shallow and irresponsible sort of
woman. The affair had caused Larson a great deal of annoyance, as McKay
would, at times, become extraordinarily cheerful and then sink into
spells of despondency so sullen and irritable that even the quiet-natured
Larson found it impossible to live with him.
These moods, as Larson well knew, were occasioned by Miss Conway’s
treatment of Jim. Her influence over McKay seemed as unlimited as it was
magical. Larson had tried to reason with Jim, and had tried to convince
him that Miss Conway did not care seriously for him or any one else
except herself. But all his efforts produced no other effect than to
kindle new passion in McKay.
On the evening mentioned, McKay had asked permission to call at her home,
but was refused, she pleading a previous engagement. For some unknown
reason (the guiding hand of fate, for those who believe in fate), he
walked out to her home, and as he drew near he saw Larson—his old pal,
Bill Larson—enter the home of Miss Conway!
For a moment he stood as if stunned. Of all persons, Bill was the last he
would have suspected.
Then it all became plain to him—Bill had tried to alienate the girl’s
love!
Slowly, listlessly, McKay turned and retraced his steps to his room.
He sat there a long while in the dark and let his mind become polluted
with the poison of an insane jealousy, while he saturated his system and
dulled his conscience with whisky.
About eleven he rose, placed a gun in his pocket, and started for the
hotel where he and Larson often met in the evening. As he walked, his
mind became closed to reason, closed to his regard for his friend, closed
to everything except that Larson had double-crossed him. As he sat and
waited in the barroom his brain focused itself on this one point until it
had taken possession of him.
He had been there about a half hour when Larson appeared, laughing
and chatting with some friends. Bill was in great spirits, for he had
accomplished, that night, the thing he had long sought. Miss Conway had
been very reasonable and had promised that she would cause McKay no more
anxiety.
McFadden and a few others hastened at once toward him to tell him about
McKay. But they were too late, for Larson, espying McKay, sang out:
“Hello, Jim, old scout! Come over and ‘hist’ one with us!”
McKay jumped up and strode over to the bar, his eyes glittering and his
mouth twitching with hatred.
“You damn——!” and he leveled an accusing finger at Larson.
“Jim!” cried Larson, “what’s wrong?” Larson was greatly shocked and
distressed over the condition of his friend, and he overlooked, if he
heard, the insult hurled at him.
“So that was what you wanted?” McKay snarled.
“My God, Jim, what is it?”
“You may have beaten me, but you will never, never get her!” And a stream
of fire leapt from McKay’s gun and Larson dropped to the floor, uttering
but one word—“Jim!”
The weapon dropped from McKay’s limp hand, and his face was ashen as he
gazed, speechlessly, at the bleeding and lifeless body of his best friend
on earth.
He slowly turned away, and later surrendered himself to the authorities.
The tragic affair caused a great deal of comment. Some three weeks
after the murder the case was brought to trial and attracted widespread
interest. The dingy West Side courtroom was crowded to capacity. Friends,
acquaintances, business men, curiosity seekers, fought for seats.
Considerable difficulty was encountered in the selection of a jury. The
popularity of the murdered man, as well as the defendant, made it hard to
find an unbiased yet capable juryman.
After that, however, the trial was brief, the end coming with almost
startling suddenness. The state’s case was plain and simple: The evidence
was overwhelmingly against McKay, and the situation was not improved by
his refusal to offer any defense.
His attorney put up the plea of temporary insanity. His arguments held
weight. The plea was eloquent and logical, and probably would have been a
deciding factor had not McKay himself, at the conclusion of the address,
risen—and, to the dumbfounded court and attorney, refused to accept
insanity as a defense.
The jury was out fifty minutes and returned a verdict of “guilty in the
first degree,” and recommended the death penalty. All eyes were turned
toward McKay, who remained perfectly emotionless.
The judge then pronounced the death sentence on James McKay.
* * * * *
The friends of McKay were surprised at the severity of the penalty.
Especially dejected over the outcome were McFadden, a brother newspaper
man; Kirk, an oil operator, and Barnard, a young Medic, for these three,
with McKay and Larson, had formed what they termed the “gang.” Now one of
the five was dead and another was sentenced to be hung.
They at once demanded a new trial, but it was refused. Scarcely could the
men refrain from emotion when McKay asked them and his attorney to settle
up his worldly affairs. As he was without a family, he willed all his
property to his three friends, and even mentioned in some detail a few
personal effects he wanted each to have.
Of all present, McKay was the least affected by the scene. His voice and
movements were those of an automaton rather than that of a human being.
Indeed, he was practically such and had been so since the death of Larson.
After attending to the last detail of his worldly affairs he rose and
silently shook the hands of his friends. Accompanied by two plain
clothesmen, handcuffed wrist to wrist, he left them and started on his
last trip to Canon City. He had often visited that little Colorado city,
and had spent many a pleasant time there. He requested the officers to
drive down Seventeenth Street.
At one end was the golden dome of the State Capitol, brilliantly aglow
from the crimson rays of the setting sun; at the other was the station,
dark against the purple, snow-capped Rockies.
As he neared the station he looked long and sadly at the huge arch
erected at the entrance. The word _Mizpath_ was blazoned across the arch.
* * * * *
The utmost consideration was shown McKay by the prison authorities, who
were well acquainted with the young reporter. The Warden met him at the
office and personally took him to the death cell.
The door clamped shut and the bolts shot in place with metallic
harshness, and the law began to exact its penalty as it had done in the
Dark Ages—caging him in with stone and steel.
Five days passed, long grinding days and longer nights, for sleep no
longer supplied periods of relaxation. His friends were agreeably
surprised when they visited him a few days later to find him in an
apparently cheerful frame of mind. He talked of Larson in the freest sort
of manner. He delighted in dwelling upon the characteristics of his late
friend. More and more, as the days passed by, did he like to discuss
Larson. He would relate incident after incident in the life of the latter
which, due to the closeness of their friendship, he knew quite as well as
his own.
As to his impending execution, he seemed surprisingly unconcerned. Calmly
and without bitterness, McKay waited for justice to take its course.
* * * * *
Barnard and McFadden were silently playing pinochle, while Kirk stared
moodily out the window at the cold and drizzling rain.
The spirits of the men were at low ebb and they had met that Wednesday
evening only through force of habit. Efforts to liven up the evening had
been made, but with no enthusiasm, and it promised to be as dull as the
weather outside.
“Why not!” suddenly muttered Kirk, half to himself and half aloud.
Barnard and McFadden turned around and eyed their companion curiously.
Kirk went over to his desk and started searching for something.
Reseating himself, he read and re-read the newspaper clipping he had
taken from the desk. The expression on his face was so strange that the
pinochle game was abandoned and his friends attempted to learn the cause
of his unusual behavior.
“What is the matter with you?” demanded McFadden, somewhat impatiently.
“Read that!” and Kirk forced the clipping into McFadden’s hand.
The latter glanced at it briefly, then gave it his undivided attention
and then passed it over to Barnard, who was exceedingly impatient to read
it after noting its effect upon McFadden.
Barnard’s expression instantly changed from one of curiosity to one of
great seriousness. Kirk looked at McFadden in an effort to appraise the
effect of the article, and read an excitement equal to his own. Together
they turned to Barnard, who read aloud:
“CHICAGO, MARCH 8: The startling disclosure was made today by
Chicago detectives that associates of ‘Red’ Murphy, gunman, who
was hanged this morning, had all but succeeded in restoring
Murphy to life! The request was made and granted for the body
immediately after being taken from the scaffold. The body was
placed in an ambulance and whirled away. Inside the ambulance,
hot blankets, pulmotor and restoratives were applied until
Murphy began to breathe again. The desperate attempt was
futile, however, as Murphy died a few minutes after being
revived.”
For at least fifteen minutes after Barnard finished not a word was
spoken. Finally Kirk turned to Barnard.
“You are a doctor. What about it?”
Barnard deliberated. “Yes, it might be done if the neck was not broken by
the drop. If such was the case, death would be produced by strangulation.”
Gone was the boredom of the evening, and in its place was created a
plan that was to write additional chapters beyond the “Finis” placed on
the case of James McKay by the state. Throughout the entire night they
discussed the plan—accepting and rejecting it time and time again.
There were many phases to be considered. The probability that McKay would
be hanged without having his neck broken finally became the crux of the
argument. Kirk suggested a plan. McFadden, as a newspaper man, would have
access to the death chamber; the rope could be shortened and the knot
fixing it to the scaffold could be arranged so that it would slip a bit,
thereby easing the shock of the drop.
McFadden immediately protested, and refused to consider such a move. It
would be torture for McKay. Barnard said:
“I could give McKay a ‘shot’ that would dull any pain produced.”
“Jim would not stand for a hypo.”
“He would not notice it, in the excitement and confusion of being bound.”
Throughout the discussion of the proposed plan, the possibility of legal
consequences for themselves was not considered. They were playing for
the life of a friend and the ethics of the methods were of secondary
importance.
By morning they had formulated and agreed upon a definite plan
of procedure, and before separating they spent a few moments in
anticipating the joy of the reunion, if they were successful. Although
McKay had taken the life of an equally close friend, so well did they
understand the conditions that they extended their sympathy rather than
censure.
Day by day the details of the plan were carried out. Each was assigned
a definite part of the work to be done. McFadden spent all the time
he dared spend at the penitentiary. He familiarized himself with the
equipment of capital punishment. He studied the tying of knots; he
experimented and found the best possible way to adjust a rope so that the
shock of the drop would be taken up as smoothly as possible.
Nor could a more zealous medical student be found than Barnard. He sought
out every possible reference on the subject, prepared emergency equipment
to the last detail.
The day before the execution, McFadden and Barnard left for Canon City,
Kirk remaining in Denver. That night Kirk got out McKay’s suitcase and
started packing it.
* * * * *
McKay was the center of the solemn little group that, with precise
movement, passed down the steel corridors. They entered the death
chamber, and it was McKay who sought to cheer his friends.
He stepped upon the trap, and the officials bound his wrists to his
thighs with wide leather straps. He laughed and joked with his friends,
who could not force a laugh from their dry set lips. Then, while the
hangman stood waiting with the black hood, the chaplain offered up a few
words in prayer.
McFadden stepped up and bade his friend farewell. Barnard then came up
and in a strained manner clapped McKay on the shoulder and said, “So
long, old scout,” and then stepped down, quickly concealing a small
hypodermic syringe in his pocket.
Barnard and McFadden left the room and waited just outside, where they
exchanged significant glances. Each knew the other had not failed in
his task. A few seconds later they heard the trap drop, and for eleven
excruciating minutes—an eternity—they waited.
The prison physician pronounced McKay dead and they returned. The body
was cut down quickly, then turned over to Barnard and placed in a waiting
ambulance, and whirled away.
Once again the experiment was being tried.
The long chance won. After a desperate effort Barnard’s work was
rewarded by a slight and uncertain breathing by McKay.
McFadden noticed this, and scarcely could refrain from shouting with joy.
Barnard, however, quickly assured him that the results as yet were far
from certain.
The body reached the mortuary and, by well-laid plans and judicious
selection of undertakers, was placed on a bed rather than the marble slab
of the embalmer. Barnard watched his “patient” with close attention,
while McFadden hastened to telegraph Kirk, who was waiting in Denver.
The three friends were gathered about McKay when the latter regained
consciousness after hours of quiet and restful sleep. McKay opened his
eyes—shut them—then, with eyes wide open, hand on his forehead, he gazed
in a glassy manner about the room. His whole body quivered for a few
seconds, then relaxed, and then he spoke in a hoarse and mechanical tone.
“What—” His eyes wandered about and his words became inarticulate.
Finally:
“What—what has happened?”
“Steady, old man,” said Barnard. “Everything is O. K. You came out fine.”
Again McKay stared. “Came out? Came out of what?”
“Don’t you realize—”
Barnard interrupted Kirk, and with a look warned McFadden to remain quiet.
“Never mind, old boy. Rest up a bit, and then we’ll explain.”
McKay was not satisfied. He asked: “Where is Jim—Jim McKay?”
“_What!_”
The three friends riveted their eyes on McKay, and slowly, first with
Barnard, an expression of horror spread over their faces as they
understood what had happened. The shock of being launched into eternity,
only to be snatched back by his friends, had, as the law demanded,
blotted out the life of McKay—_and they had brought back William Larson!_
* * * * *
Armand finished, and I turned over in my mind many questions that wanted
answering.
“Is there any explanation of the transition of the personality, or soul
of McKay, to that of Larson?”
“Yes,” said Armand. “The brain is composed of two hemispheres, one
of which receives impressions and is the seat of thinking. The other
hemisphere remains thoughtless. Undoubtedly, after the normal section
became somewhat paralyzed by the melancholia of those terrible nights
alone in the death cell the thoughtless section must have received
impressions. You will remember that, following his melancholia, McKay
desired above all to talk of Larson, and in dwelling on this the usually
inactive hemisphere probably received its impressions.”
“Do you believe that he will always remain as Larson?” I asked.
“It is my belief that he will. He says that he is Larson, and he acts the
life of Larson. Impossible as it may sound, I believe that exactly six
years from the day of his execution, McKay, as Larson, will die—a victim
of auto-suggestion and the vividness of his imagination.”
_Ghastly Retribution Befell the Victim of_