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| "Chicago Tribune," December 1, 1935, via Newspapers.com |
Many murders go forever unsolved due to a complete lack of clues. On certain rare occasions, the opposite happens: the victim left behind so many clues--many of them either contradictory or just plain incomprehensible--that it is impossible to make enough sense out of them to conduct a successful investigation. Anyone who tries winds up feeling like they are spinning in a room of funhouse mirrors.
With a few cases--such as the one we will examine in this week's post--it even remains uncertain if the dearly departed was murdered at all.
Elias H. Purcell had a varied, and largely successful career. In the late 1800s, he toured America with the Schubert Concert Company, where he was both director and pianist. The company included Purcell’s wife Lavinia, who was a singer, and their son Thomas, a precociously talented banjoist and violinist. In 1899, the family, which by then included a daughter, Virginia, settled in Hibbing, Minnesota. Thanks to an iron range, the local real estate market was booming, and Purcell invested in land to such a profitable degree that by the time WWI broke out, he was worth an estimated $75,000. (Approximately $1.5 million in today’s money.) After the children grew up and began their own lives (Virginia married one John Sheehy and Thomas became the leader of a touring jazz orchestra,) Purcell sold most of his holdings in Hibbings, and in 1918, he and Lavinia moved to Chicago. The pair moved into an apartment building Purcell owned.
Life for the Purcells appeared to roll on quietly enough until Monday, September 22, 1919. Purcell was temporarily on his own, as Lavinia was visiting friends in Sterling, Illinois. That morning, the building’s janitor, Henry Van Vaerender, asked his wife and another tenant, a Mrs. Wegener, to accompany him to Purcell’s apartment. He said he had a feeling that “something funny” was going on with their landlord. He explained that Purcell was a man of very regular habits, but the day before, all his curtains had remained down, and Purcell failed to take his usual early morning walk. In short, Vaerender felt uneasy about going in search of Purcell alone.
When the trio approached the door of Purcell’s kitchen, they found that it was closed, but the key hung on the outside. When they cautiously peered through a window, the women began screaming. Purcell was sitting bound to a kitchen chair, very unmistakably dead.
When police arrived on the scene, they noted that the body was rigid, suggesting that Purcell had died some hours before. A shattered glass was on the floor about two feet away from him. His wrists were bound to the sides of the chair, but very loosely and carelessly. Over his head was a towel spotted with dark stains. When this towel was removed, everyone was further unnerved to see that the dead man’s eyes were wide and staring, as if he had passed away while looking at some horrifying sight. Stranger still, there were no marks of violence anywhere on the body.
The entire house had been completely ransacked. Furniture had been displaced. The beds were stripped of their blankets. Drawers had been pulled out of dressers, with the contents dumped on the floor. Despite all this chaos, nothing appeared to be missing from the apartment.
In the dining room, the table had been set for three. Fingerprints on the dishes did not belong to Purcell or any members of his family. One egg--and one egg only--had been boiled and distributed in three pieces. One slice of toast was also cut into three pieces and put on separate plates. There was a bit of coffee in each of three cups, and on three knives was a small lump of butter. There was something oddly staged about everything that was found in the apartment--including Purcell’s corpse. But who did the staging, and why?
Although police were able to establish that Purcell’s wife and children were not in Chicago at the time of his death, there were indications that he had not been in the apartment alone. A milkman named William Hornung told police that around 4 a.m. the previous day, he was walking to the back porches behind Purcell’s building when he saw a shadow cross the curtain of a rear bedroom in Purcell’s flat. He heard a noise that he thought was either a groan or a snore. Then, the curtain was pulled aside, revealing the head of a man wearing an officer’s army cap. The police took particular interest in this detail, as among the items found in Purcell’s apartment was an officer’s cap belonging to Purcell’s son-in-law, who was a lieutenant in the army. A neighbor of Purcell’s stated that some time around 2 a.m. that same Sunday, she had heard footsteps either in the backyard or the passageway. Another neighbor said that early Sunday, she had heard a woman’s voice in Purcell’s flat, along with the sounds of a piano and a violin being played. Yet another tenant heard voices and saw a light from the Purcell bedroom around that same time.
Meanwhile, ten days after Purcell’s body was discovered, the coroner finally learned what had killed him: nicotine. There was enough of the poison in his system to “kill half a dozen men.” The dose was so high, it would have ended his life within just a few minutes. This just added to the puzzle, as deliberate nicotine poisoning was extremely rare. It would have been hard for anyone to get hold of enough to kill someone, and only a chemist or someone who was an expert in poisons would even think of using it. Also, nicotine poisoning would cause extreme convulsions before death, but Purcell’s bound body showed no sign of any such seizures. Could he have already been dead when he was tied to the chair?
The sheer weirdness of the whole death scene led some investigators to propose that Purcell had committed a suicide elaborately faked to look like murder. They believed Purcell’s hands were tied loosely enough to enable him to drink the poison from a glass and then throw it to the ground, shattering it. It was pointed out that Purcell had recently lost a good part of his fortune in the stock market, and that he had recently purchased $15,000 worth of life insurance, which would have been invalidated if his death was ruled a suicide.
This theory brought a storm of criticism, not least from Purcell’s family. They declared that despite his financial losses, he still had a good deal of money, leaving him with no reason to kill himself. And what about all the witnesses who saw and heard other people in his flat? In short, both the suicide and murder advocates had enough material to make a plausible case.
The inquest jurors tasked with making some sense of the whole mess delivered the only reasonable verdict:
"Elias H. Purcell came to his death in the kitchen of his home at 661 Roscoe street from cardiac and respiratory failure due to nicotine poisoning. From the evidence presented we are unable to determine how or in what manner or by whom said nicotine was ingested.
“We recommend that the state’s attorney and the police make further inquiry into this mysterious case.”
If any “further inquiry” was made, it proved to be utterly useless. Elias Purcell either committed suicide in a manner worthy of the cleverest detective fiction, or he was murdered in one of the most brilliantly baffling ways imaginable.
In 1920, the insurance company paid Purcell’s widow the full $15,000. And everyone moved on.
