Strange, Indeed, Are the Possibilities of the Human Mind. A Weird Example Is Found inTHE DEATH CELLByF. K. MOSS
Strange, Indeed, Are the Possibilities of the Human Mind. A Weird Example Is Found in
ByF. K. MOSS
“Man is by nature an experimenter,” argued my friend, Dr. Armand, a psychologist of some repute, “and he is steadily delving into the Unknown and bringing to light knowledge that is often appalling in its intricacy of concept.
“He gathers about him a few relatively simple pieces of apparatus and discovers the existence of particles infinitely smaller than the most minute object visible under the ultra-microscope. He measures its size, mass, electrical charge, and in truth finds out more about it than he knows of visible objects. All of this he learns about matter that he can never even hope to see with his naked eye. The simple but marvelous instrument, the spectroscope, tells him of the composition of the stars. It told him that upon the sun there is an element unknown upon this earth; he called it helium, and later discovered and isolated the gas after first finding it on a body millions of miles away. Beautiful indeed, is modern science!”
Armand paused for a moment as if more fully to comprehend the scope of the subject, and then continued:
“But the most refined and sensitive piece of apparatus, if I may call it that, and about which so little is understood, is the human brain. A vast amount of research has been done along the lines of psychology by many able men and the data has been formulated into several well established hypotheses, and yet”—he stretched out his arms in a vague sort of gesture—“how little we really know about the brain!”
We had met, as had been our custom, at Armand’s apartment to enjoy an afternoon together and to discuss old times and friends. I must confess, with all due respect to the Doctor, that the subject was often soon changed into a scientific lecture by him on his favorite theme, psychology. I really enjoyed these informal talks immensely, for there is no more entertaining speaker than the scholarly Armand.
I nodded. “Yes, I suppose so, but it seems a natural consequence—the brain. How can the brain be studied and mathematically analyzed like—well, mechanics, for example?”
“Perhaps that is not such an impossibility as it would seem,” said Armand. “In the past the whole proposition has been studied conceiving of the brain as a matter quite as abstract as the ‘soul.’ The more recent school of investigation has attacked the problem, bearing in mind that, after all, the functioning of the brain might be governed by the same laws of physics that can be universally applied elsewhere.
“The application of the electron theory is not absurd in the least. However, all research must be based upon the axiom, ‘If an occurrence can be made to take place under certain conditions, then the repetition of those conditions should invariably produce the same occurrence.’ As yet this fact has not been established firmly in the case of the brain.
“I have,” he continued, “just finished obtaining the data on the most absorbing case I have ever had the opportunity to study. The data was available only in fragments obtained from various sources, and in many places I have been forced to bridge the gaps by drawing purely from my conception, or imagination, of what took place.”
I was deeply interested in Dr. Armand’s work, particularly in a case which he deemed so extraordinary, and I urged him to relate the thing in some detail.
“The first part of the amazing affair is of common knowledge and varies little from many other cases on record. However, the weirdest and most intensely absorbing episode began after the rest of the world conceded the whole unfortunate affair closed forever. Perhaps it would have been closed had the principal actor been but slightly different in mentality, or even in a different mood at the crucial hour. Potentially, there might be many possibilities of such an occurrence, but the probability of the combination of the required circumstances at the critical hour, is infinitesimal. Even the exact repetition of the conditions might not necessarily produce the same results.”
Dr. Armand then related the story as he conceived it, prefacing his remarks with the statement:
“If the reactions of what we term the abnormal mind could only be chronicled, we would stand aghast at what would be written.”
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 theevening. 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 wordMizpathwas 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 tohis 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.”
“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.”