Dearest Peter,
Perhaps I should not write to you ... but you forgot to forbid it.
It seems so long ago that we parted in the garden! I sit there
seldom nowadays because invariably it evokes sad memories and I do
not wish to think about you. That would be sheer masochism, nothing
more. Oh, Peter, if only you knew how wretched I am! By now you
are with your wife, _pretending_ that you are happy. For you are
pretending, you know. You can't possibly be happy with that woman.
From what you have told me about her, I am sure that she doesn't
care for you ... at least not half as much as I do. That is the
terrible part about life: the people who love are rarely loved
in return. Sometimes I find myself dreaming that one morning you
will awake and find her gone ... run off with another man or--yes,
you've guessed it--dead. With her out of the way, I know that you'd
come back to me, wouldn't you, Peter? But it is just a dream. I
cannot hope for so simple a solution to my problem ... the problem
that is turning me from a young girl into a sour old woman. I
suppose it is useless to ask you to write. You will, as always,
follow the dictates of your heart.
Your miserable,
Gilberte.
Sitting there day after day in court, I watched the chain of
circumstantial evidence grow stronger. After each witness testified,
I saw the worried frown upon the face of my lawyer deepen. He was a
very conscientious chap, Mr. Bristol; and I am sure he believed me
absolutely innocent. If this was so, he was the only person, aside from
Doctor Turnbull, who did.
They subpoenaed my assistant, Tom Murphy, who grudgingly
admitted that he had heard Anita and me quarreling; had seen the
carving-knife--State's Exhibit C--in my hand when I answered the door;
and that he had delivered to me, at my request, a potent compound of
sodium amytal upon the night in question.
"Did you hear any of the words, Mr. Murphy?"
"Yes, I'm afraid I did. I heard her scream...."
"Go on, Mr. Murphy. What did she scream?"
"I heard her yelling that he was hurting her."
The prosecution then went on to establish that I had been in a rare
fury all through the day of August 20th. They called Mrs. Wainscott
and Mr. and Mrs. Mackintosh to the stand. The last mentioned witness
so deftly misused her words that the jury was left with the impression
that I had drawn and quartered her precious Jackie instead of mildly
spanked him.
Next, to my astonishment, Anita's extracted teeth were offered in
evidence. The prosecution suggested that I had knocked them loose from
her mouth with an angry blow!
Photographs depicting the scene of the crime, the wrecked kitchen and
living-room, the preponderance of blood and the gory trail to the
lake shore made the jury shudder and glance at me as though I were
some grotesque curiosity. The blood-encrusted carving-knife; a torn,
blood-soaked dress of Anita's which I had not been shown before; and
my own stained trousers completed the major points of the State's case.
But they were unable to produce a _corpus delicti_.
Counsellor Bristol made much of this; it was his entire case, in fact.
"How can there be a murder," he demanded, "without someone getting
killed? And if someone was killed, who has seen the body? Lord Hale and
Sir Edward Coke, those world-famous interpreters of law, positively
forbid convictions unless the fact of murder has been proven. A _corpus
delicti_ must be established! And to establish the same, there must
first be a body and proof that the deceased perished by a criminal
agency. It is easy to understand why these precautions must be taken.
To quote Blackstone: 'It is far better that ten guilty escape than
one innocent man be punished and made to suffer for naught.' In this
case, there were no eye-witnesses to the crime ... if such a crime did
actually take place. How then can we assume that on the night of August
the twentieth this man did feloniously assault and kill his wife? The
State has produced slim evidence indeed that this man was in love with
another woman! From the letter, State's Exhibit B, it is admitted that
the woman was in love with the Defendant. But by what evidence can the
State prove that my client reciprocated her feelings? As a matter of
fact, is it not more logical to suppose that, if my client really loved
this woman, he would not have returned to his wife at all? The State
has proved nothing of any importance. They have placed many articles
in evidence but they have not proved, within the faintest shadow of a
doubt, that these were used to commit a crime. The very weapon, this
blood-stained knife, which the State presumes was the death agent; by
what right can my worthy opponent claim such was the case? How does he
know that death was not brought about by poison, by strangulation, by
a pistol? How does he know there has been a death at all? Certainly
there is nothing more innocuous than a sleeping powder! How has the
State shown that it was used to drug a victim in order that murder
might be done without a struggle? And regarding the heated quarrel
the State makes so much of: does every petty argument between husband
and wife always lead to violence and homicide? Show me the man who has
never had words with his wife! And take note of this, gentlemen of
the jury. A man administers a much-deserved spanking; does that label
him a potential killer? If that were so, how many parents would now
be languishing in prisons! I have said before, and I will say again,
that it is up to the prosecution to prove my client guilty. He is not
required to prove his innocence! Has the State done so? Have they
proved that Peter Thatcher lies when he says that the teeth, marked
State's Exhibit D, were extracted by a New York City dentist? There is
no case here!"
When my lawyer had finished summing up, Assistant District Attorney
Blackman got to his feet. "The overwhelming evidence of murder in
this case," he began, "is quite sufficient for us to presume death.
By the trail of blood leading down to the shore of the lake, we can
be certain, within the faintest shadow of a doubt, that the body was
dragged there and thrown in, perhaps weighted down with stones. It is
difficult to recover a body thus disposed of. The shifting currents
of any large body of water, particularly a so-called bottomless
lake like Cayuga, will ofttimes carry whatever has been thrown in,
back and forth. If the body is weighted, it is possible that it may
never be recovered." Blackman paused, pointed an accusing finger in
my direction, and then went on in a grand manner. "Are we to allow
a murderer to go unpunished because he has been clever enough to
successfully destroy the evidence of his guilt? Picture for yourselves,
gentlemen of the jury, what chaos would come if we established such
a precedent here in this courtroom! A fiend could commit a murder on
the high seas, before a hundred witnesses, and, tossing his victim
over the rail, laugh at our courts if the body was not recovered!
Here we have a man, a person _known_ to have suffered mental relapses
due to shell-shock; _known_ to have engaged in a furious battle with
his wife; _seen_ with this same knife, now covered with blood, in
his hand by one of the witnesses who inadvertently interrupted the
fight; _caught_ by an officer of the law, whose testimony you heard;
and _clad_ in these bloody trousers! What more can you ask? You have
heard read a passionate appeal from this man's mistress that he kill
his wife and return to her side. The Defendant swears that he was
unable to read that letter. Do you believe that? Would that woman
have written so dangerous a letter to him in a language she knew he
could not understand--_without getting someone to translate it for
him_? You know that the Defendant sent his victim into New York City
on the afternoon of August the twentieth. Isn't it logical to suppose
that, in view of the evidence, he did this to get her out of the way
so that he might more carefully set the scene for his heinous deed?
You have heard sworn testimony to the fact that Peter Thatcher ordered
a sleeping powder--ostensibly because his wife's teeth were giving
her trouble. Yet, we are unable to extract from him the name of the
dentist he claims she visited! Is it logical to suppose that a man
would be ignorant of the identity of his wife's dentist? Can we not
safely assume that the sleeping powder was intended--no, was actually
employed--for quite another purpose? We must not overlook the fact
that the Defendant was making use of a potent drug, the use of which
is forbidden unless upon a physician's written prescription. And
furthermore, gentlemen, remember that the Defendant, when I frankly
questioned him, _did not even bother to deny that he was guilty of
the charges as set forth in the indictment_! To the question, 'Peter
Thatcher, didn't you drug and kill your wife on the night of August
the twentieth, using this knife as a weapon and later disposing of
the body, by throwing it into the lake?' he replied: 'I don't know!
I really don't know! There was no reason why I should have killed
her!'" Here, the Assistant District Attorney waxed violent. He pounded
emphatically upon the jury-box rail. "Is that the answer an innocent
man would make? Is it? Can we, as citizens engaged in meting out
justice, possibly free a man who is not himself convinced of his own
innocence? How can there remain the slightest doubt but that somewhere
in the chill waters of Lake Cayuga floats submerged the ghastly
remains of the young wife Peter Thatcher so ruthlessly slew in order
that he might return to the obviously depraved woman he really loved!
Are we to permit this? You have noticed that the Defense is based only
upon one detail: that the forces of Nature have prevented us from
establishing the missing corpse. With the body of the woman, we would
have a clear case. _But_, are we so blind, so idiotic, so unwilling to
be intelligent that we must, like Doubting Thomas, peer into the very
wounds? Cannot even a child perceive that a murder has been committed
and that the perpetrator has been apprehended and brought to justice?
This man, Peter Thatcher, claims that he loved his wife and that she
loved him. If this is so, and he did not brutally murder her, I ask the
Defense just one thing: _Where is Anita Hunt Thatcher?_"
* * * * *
The jury went out on September the second. They remained locked up for
five and a half hours. During this time, I was taken back to my cell
where my lawyer, Mr. Bristol, gave me a good talking to.
"You see," he ranted. "What did I tell you? When the District Attorney
asked you if you killed her, you should have denied it!"
"But how do I know I didn't?" I asked him.
"How do you know you did?" he countered sourly. "It's a good thing that
they're not entitled to convict without establishing the body ... or
you'd be sunk!"
I looked up into Bristol's face anxiously. "Can't they do anything to
me?"
The lawyer pulled at the roots of his hair and rolled his eyes upward
in despair. "Don't be an ass, Thatcher! Anything can happen if the
jury wants it to. If they take a fancy to you or believe that you're
innocent; the State can produce a hundred bodies, your signed and
notarized confession, even a picture of you committing the crime! You'd
still be acquitted!" He began to pace the floor distractedly. I really
believe that he was more nervous about the verdict than I was.
This might be a good time to mention how I happened to engage Mr.
Bristol to handle my defense. He came to me, highly recommended by my
old friend Mrs. Michaelson, who was taking a great interest in the
case. Knowing very well that I had never had any large amount of ready
cash, she informed me that Bristol would be willing to represent me
without a retainer. I gratefully clutched at this opportunity, you
may be sure; and I at once engaged him. However, Mrs. Michaelson's
information proved quite inaccurate. Before the trial came up on the
calendar of Judge Foley, Counsellor Bristol was in possession not only
of four hundred dollars of my money, but of the deed to my home as well.
I did not begrudge him this. First of all, I knew that with Anita
gone, I could never bring myself to enter that house again. Under its
roof brooded a secret which I might never be able to uncover. Every
nook and cranny of the place would taunt me. If I tried to live there
in the future, I would most certainly go mad. In the event that I was
exonerated of the charges against me, I was only too keenly aware that
my life could not continue without some radical change of course.
Ithaca would never accept me again; there were bound to be people who
would think me guilty; and my business was sure to suffer commensurate
losses. Then, too, I would be faced with memories there: persons who
had known her, walls which had once enclosed her, shops she had been
accustomed to patronize.
It was of no use, you see. Anita's passing carried me along as though
in an unbreakable death hold; and so bewildered was I, that I was
almost wishing that I would not be acquitted. I would be at a loss what
to do.
Of course the people from my home town were all very nice to me. Mrs.
Michaelson and Doctor Turnbull and several others came down to see
me, bringing little gifts of candy and cigarettes, and trying their
utmost to cheer me up. But these few were really the only friends I
had. To most of Ithaca's inhabitants, I was merely a familiar face, an
inanimate object that fetched what they demanded, like a retriever.
The newspapers did not make much of the case. On the evening of August
21st, the day of my arrest, a short column was all that appeared in the
New York City sheets. The local paper, of course, came out with banner
headlines which read: DRUGGIST HELD FOR HOMICIDE. In the sub-headings,
and there were fully four of them, came the usual journalistic
hyperboles, and reading about myself and my affairs was quite puzzling.
Yes, indeed. To my amazement, I was described as prosperous, handsome
and popular! My little house and unpretentious grounds were declared
an estate! In fact, the only thing that the papers did not grossly
exaggerate and distort out of all proportion was Anita's loveliness.
"The body of beautiful Anita Thatcher has not as yet been recovered,"
the _Journal-News_ announced, "but the police are confident that within
twenty-four hours ... etc., etc...."
While my mind wandered back over the events that had transpired since
my sudden arrest, my lawyer continued to pace up and down, striking his
hands together frequently and muttering under his breath. "Yes," he
would reiterate, as though to convince himself, "they're not entitled
to convict you without a _corpus delicti_. How can there possibly be a
conviction for murder without proof that someone died?" He came to a
halt in front of me and looked down at me as I lay full-length upon the
cot. I could see that his eyes were troubled. "The worst they could do
would be to find you guilty of manslaughter. They haven't established
the weapon; neither have they proved premeditation. But juries are
funny," he went on, shaking his head dubiously from side to side. "They
do what they want."
"Oh," I murmured, although I could not understand why that should
be permitted. It did not seem quite right that humans should judge
humans and wield the power of life and death which, according to the
theologians, should be vested solely in Divinity.
"Blackman scored a good point," glumly admitted my attorney, "when he
demanded to know the whereabouts of your wife. I'd give a thousand
dollars to know that! Look, Thatcher, can't you try and think...."
I sighed wearily. He had asked me the same thing at least ten times
before. "It's no use. I've tried, Mr. Bristol. There was absolutely no
reason for her to disappear. Besides ... how about that blood?"
Bristol grunted his disappointment. "Yes, that's right. I keep
forgetting. Oh, no doubt she's dead all right. But who killed her? You
didn't."
"No?" I asked earnestly.
"I give up! You're impossible, man! How in hell can I defend you if you
talk like that?" The lawyer strode angrily to the cell door and shouted
for the turnkey to let him out.
"Are you going up?" I asked disinterestedly. The way I was feeling
then, I didn't care what he did.
"I suppose so," was the vexed reply. "The jury can't stay out much
longer. There's a rumor circulating in the court that they stand eight
to four for acquittal. But you know how those things are. Only God and
the jury can verify it."
When the cell door had clanged shut behind him and his footsteps had
died away in the distance, I got up from the cot and began to pace a
bit myself. I felt utterly miserable. Anita's face kept coming back to
haunt me. Although I could not be certain that I was guilty, I felt
like a murderer. I felt like one of those ugly newspaper portraits
plastered under, above and between the lurid headlines I had so often
read during the quiet evenings in my garden. I began to think that
I _must_ have killed her. For I had taken a life once before, if
you remember. Was it not logical to suppose that I had plunged the
carving-knife into Anita just as I had done to the German boy a year
before?
But why?
Why indeed! Must there be a reason for everything, I asked myself. If I
had worn my uniform would I have been legally entitled to kill Anita?
If the knife had not been a carving-knife, but a trench-knife or a
bayonet stamped: PROPERTY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, would I now
be freed? Would Carter have nodded his head and the Sarge patted me on
the back?
These hysterical thoughts, these unanswerable questions, these
incoherent emanations of a tortured brain kept me occupied while I
waited for twelve strange men to decide my fate.
But, unbelievable as it sounds, I was not so much interested in the
verdict--which might even mean my execution--as I was in finding out
whether or not I had been instrumental in bringing about my beloved
wife's end. That she was dead, I had no doubt. But was I her murderer?
Footsteps sounded in the corridor. They approached and stopped before
my cell. "Come on, Thatcher," I heard the turnkey say. "The jury's come
in." When, at last, he had delivered me into the custody of two tall
deputies, he added: "Good luck, buddy. And whatever it is, take it
standing up."
"Gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?"
"We have, Your Honor."
"Please read it."
The sound of a throat being cleared reached my ears through a peculiar
ringing noise I was unable to catalogue. The courtroom began to spin
before me and only a vague impression of strange faces and dark wooden
benches remains even now.
"We, the jury, find the Defendant, Peter Thatcher...."