It Was Not Murder.
Old Farmer Bunker lived alone. His wife had died years ago and he had neverremarried. He had no children. People said he ought not to live alone, that something was certain to happen to him; robbers would break into his house and steal his valuables and perhaps kill him. For once the people happened, so it seemed, to be right. One morning Mr. Bunker was found dead in his bed, and an ugly knife wound over the heart seemed to tell only too plainly what had been the cause of his death. An autopsy was not considered necessary. The services of a detective rather than those of the medical examiner were called into requisition. I was the detective detailed to look into the case. The first thought was that robbery had been committed. An examination of the house failed to show any evidence that such had been the intention of the murderer. Apparently nothing had been disturbed. A bureau drawer containing a large sum of money had not even been opened. Then it was thought that the old man must have committed suicide. A search was made for the implement with which he had committed thedeed, but it was nowhere to be found. It was certain that death had been almost instantaneous, and of course Mr. Bunker could not have had time to hide the instrument of self-destruction. It was, therefore, unmistakably a case of murder.
I began an immediate and most thorough and systematic search for the murderer. Although Mr. Bunker had lived alone he was neither a miser nor a crank, and did not appear to have had an enemy in the world. The crowds that flocked to the house came to view the body of their old friend, and to express a wish that his murderer be brought to speedy justice. Motives of mere curiosity did not actuate many of them. From several of them I gathered a number of clues, all of which pointed to one conclusion, namely, that a tramp had been seen coming from the direction of the Bunker farm early in the morning of the day on which the body of Mr. Bunker had been found. I now directed my efforts to trace and locate the tramp. On the next day I had him in custody. He had not gone far. He made some very extraordinary statements. He said that Mr. Bunker was his friend, and that he had not killed him. When searched he had in his possession over $20 in bills. He was also known to have sent $30 to somebody in Virginia. This money he claimed had been given to him by Mr. Bunker. He furthermore claimed that he was not a tramp but a machinist in search of work.
“Was an autopsy held upon the body of Mr. Bunker?” inquired the suspected man.
“No; the cause of death was too plainly apparent.”
“I thought as much. If an autopsy had been held it would have shown that Mr. Bunker died a natural death.”
I was impressed with the man’s sincerity. He seemed to be no ordinary tramp, and I was convinced that he was telling the truth, as he believed it.
At my request an autopsy was held. The result of it went to prove that Mr. Bunker’s death occurred from apoplexy, and he was dead several hours before the knife wound in the heart had been inflicted.
“You evidently did not kill Mr. Bunker,” I said, “but do you know anything about the knife wound which we supposed caused the death?”
“Yes,” replied the tramp, “I inflicted it myself.”
“You! Why did you do it?”
“I’ll tell you.”
And he told the following story:
THE TRAMP’S STORY.“Joseph Bunker and I have been friends from boyhood. We always lived near each other and grew up together. We never quarrelled as most boys will. The families of both of us were in well-to-do condition. The war came and reduced us to poverty. I forgot to tell you that we were natives of and then living in Virginia. After the war I learned the trade of a machinist, while Mr. Bunker wandered North to try his luck. He succeeded pretty well, I have reason to believe, far better than I have. The incident I have to relate occurred just before he left for the North. Joseph’s father died. There are a number of people in Virginia who, as perhaps you know, have a peculiar custom as regards the treatment of their dead. Before burial, in order to guard against the terrible possibility of burying their friends alive while seeming to be dead, they run a dagger throughthe heart. The Bunker family, as well as mine, had always adhered to this custom. Joseph Bunker, however, was an exception to the general rule. He believed the custom to be as unnecessary as it was revolting. He chose to accept the word of the doctors that his father was really dead, and did not believe there was any possibility or probability of his being in a trance. He refused to allow his father’s remains to be mutilated, as he called it. It was winter time when his father died. It was an unusually severe winter, and to dig a grave was out of the question. So the body was deposited in the receiving vault to wait for spring. In the spring a grave was dug and everything made ready for the burial. Just previous to the interment, Joseph expressed a desire to look once more upon the face of his dead parent. The casket was opened, and a most horrifying sight met the gaze of those who stood around. The corpse, as it was believed to be, had evidently come to life, and in the struggle to get out of the casket, the lid of which had been only too securely fastened down, Mr. Bunker had torn his hair out by the handfuls, and had torn to shreds the interior furnishings of his narrow prison. Strong man though he was, Joseph Bunker fainted away and did not recover consciousness until the body of his father had been buried. He and I alone remained by the grave side when the others had gone. We then and there made a solemn vow that the survivor should perform for the dead man—what the doctor should call the dead man—the office which my companion had neglected to perform in the case of his father. Shortly afterwards, as I have said, Joseph Bunker went North. A week ago I wandered into this neighborhood, partly in search of work and partly to pay a visit to my old friend. I had his address,for we had always been in communication with each other. In nearly all of his letters of late, he referred to the fact that his health was failing and that he wished I could make it convenient to be present at his death. My visit to his house found him suffering from the effects of a recent shock of apoplexy. He told me he didn’t think he had long to live. He spoke in truth. He died that very night, a few minutes after midnight. His last words were: ‘Don’t forget our vow, old friend.’ I hadn’t forgotten, but I put off doing the unwelcome work until I was certain my old friend was dead. I waited five hours, then I fulfilled my vow. I was afraid to be found with the dead body. People would not believe my story, I feared. So I struck off and got away as far from the place as possible; guilty of no crime, yet fearing punishment at the hands of those who would perhaps not believe my story.”
THE TRAMP’S STORY.
“Joseph Bunker and I have been friends from boyhood. We always lived near each other and grew up together. We never quarrelled as most boys will. The families of both of us were in well-to-do condition. The war came and reduced us to poverty. I forgot to tell you that we were natives of and then living in Virginia. After the war I learned the trade of a machinist, while Mr. Bunker wandered North to try his luck. He succeeded pretty well, I have reason to believe, far better than I have. The incident I have to relate occurred just before he left for the North. Joseph’s father died. There are a number of people in Virginia who, as perhaps you know, have a peculiar custom as regards the treatment of their dead. Before burial, in order to guard against the terrible possibility of burying their friends alive while seeming to be dead, they run a dagger throughthe heart. The Bunker family, as well as mine, had always adhered to this custom. Joseph Bunker, however, was an exception to the general rule. He believed the custom to be as unnecessary as it was revolting. He chose to accept the word of the doctors that his father was really dead, and did not believe there was any possibility or probability of his being in a trance. He refused to allow his father’s remains to be mutilated, as he called it. It was winter time when his father died. It was an unusually severe winter, and to dig a grave was out of the question. So the body was deposited in the receiving vault to wait for spring. In the spring a grave was dug and everything made ready for the burial. Just previous to the interment, Joseph expressed a desire to look once more upon the face of his dead parent. The casket was opened, and a most horrifying sight met the gaze of those who stood around. The corpse, as it was believed to be, had evidently come to life, and in the struggle to get out of the casket, the lid of which had been only too securely fastened down, Mr. Bunker had torn his hair out by the handfuls, and had torn to shreds the interior furnishings of his narrow prison. Strong man though he was, Joseph Bunker fainted away and did not recover consciousness until the body of his father had been buried. He and I alone remained by the grave side when the others had gone. We then and there made a solemn vow that the survivor should perform for the dead man—what the doctor should call the dead man—the office which my companion had neglected to perform in the case of his father. Shortly afterwards, as I have said, Joseph Bunker went North. A week ago I wandered into this neighborhood, partly in search of work and partly to pay a visit to my old friend. I had his address,for we had always been in communication with each other. In nearly all of his letters of late, he referred to the fact that his health was failing and that he wished I could make it convenient to be present at his death. My visit to his house found him suffering from the effects of a recent shock of apoplexy. He told me he didn’t think he had long to live. He spoke in truth. He died that very night, a few minutes after midnight. His last words were: ‘Don’t forget our vow, old friend.’ I hadn’t forgotten, but I put off doing the unwelcome work until I was certain my old friend was dead. I waited five hours, then I fulfilled my vow. I was afraid to be found with the dead body. People would not believe my story, I feared. So I struck off and got away as far from the place as possible; guilty of no crime, yet fearing punishment at the hands of those who would perhaps not believe my story.”