“There is just one more thing,” he went on. “I refer now to the telephone calls which were made to relatives of the dead girl soon after she disappeared. The calls were all along the same line. The phone would ring and then whoever was making the calls would either hang up, or else would wait a minute or so and offer the information that Mildred Williams could be found at an address which later was to prove mythical. The only time the correct address was given was the time the Griffin house was mentioned.
“There is but one of two deductions here. First: The calls were made to mentally torture the husband and relatives of the girl. Second, the more logical, the person making the calls, probably the killer, was having a battle with his conscience and intended to confess or at least see that the body was found and put the family free of anxiety. And then, at the last moment he lost courage.
“Inasmuch as the phone messages likely came from the person who had, previous to the murder, written the poison pen letters, we can safely assume that our killer not only suffered from a persecution complex but very likely suffered from a bad conscience as well.
“There is just one more pertinent fact. Analysis of the handwriting of the letters indicates a woman. A man’s technique in a like case would have been more direct action. And, as far as the victims of the phone calls are concerned, the voice, although highly muffled, sounded to be that of a child or a woman!”
As he stopped talking, Detective Taylor, who had accompanied Williams home, entered the room with Motorcycle Policeman G. Herbert Williams, the young husband’s brother.
“I can add one possibly salient factor,” Taylor said. McKibben nodded for him to go ahead.
“Williams told me a few minutes ago,” he began, “that once Mildred received a poison pen letter accusing her of having relations with Ken Hubert. Hubert is married to Mrs. Griffin’s daughter, Ruth. Williams, knowing how upset his wife was, at once took her to see the Huberts. They talked the letter over. The two young couples had always been very friendly, and after discussing the matter, all agreed that the charges were ridiculous and completely without foundation.”
“Ken Hubert and Ruth have been married for about a year. Their marriage, from all I have been able to find out, is as ideal as was that of the Williamses. It doesn’t seem possible that whoever wrote the letter could have been right. But whoever did must have had the idea he or she was protecting Ruth and Ken’s marriage.”
As Taylor stopped talking, McKibben again took the floor.
“Inside,” he said, “we are holding four persons. Virtually everyone else who might be involved has been eliminated. But the four we are holding — three young men and a woman — either lived in or had access to the Griffin home. All knew the victim and her husband. Any one of them might have had the opportunity to commit the crime. Any one of them might have been the voice on the telephone; any one might have written the letters.”
“Those four are Mrs. Griffin; her 26-year-old son, Tom; her 16-year-old son; and Hubert, her 22-year-old son-in-law. I want them brought into this room!”
Mrs. Griffin, her head held high, entered first. She was followed by the boys, defiant and at the same time bewildered. Once seated, they looked toward the chief of detectives.
McKibben waited a minute and then started talking. He looked directly at Ken Hubert.
“Hubert,” he rasped, “someone wrote Mildred Williams warning her to stay away from you. You were living at the house the same time the Williamses had rooms there. Now I want you to explain...”
He didn’t have a chance to finish. Mrs. Griffin had leaped to her feet.
“He didn’t,” she screamed. “He didn’t have a thing to do with it. You leave Hubert alone.”
Quickly she was calmed and McKibben waited a minute until the woman had relaxed. He turned to the youngest Griffin boy.
“Son,” he said, “you have a high-pitched voice. I want to listen to you make a phone...”
Once more the place was in an uproar. Once more Mrs. Griffin had leaped to her feet. Once more she was defending “one of her boys.”
But this time, McKibben changed his tactics. He had the three young men sent from the room. He and two detectives were alone with the woman. Speaking with a deep kindliness, he turned to her.
“Mrs. Griffin,” he began, “don’t you see, they were the only ones who could possibly have done it, could possibly have concealed the body...”
But this time the interruption was completely without hysterics. Mrs. Griffin didn’t get to her feet, didn’t scream. She merely stopped him in a dead, calm tone that from the very first syllable demanded attention.
“No,” she said. “Not one of them. What was done was done to protect my family, and they shall be protected still. Not one of them could have done it. They were all working. But I was at home that day!”
With the exception of the thin, high voice, endlessly going on in the weird monotone, there was the hushed silence of a tomb in the room. At one side, before a battered table, a police stenographer sat, taking down quick notes on a long sheet of legal foolscap. A dozen high police officials and detectives, representatives from the district attorney’s office, a man from the coroner’s department, all stood breathlessly and listened.
The voice continued from deep in the chair.
“... and it was just after noon when she came in answer to my phone call. I hated her, but this time I was glad to see her. I wanted to tell her some things — a lot of things. I had talked it over with God and now I was going to talk it over with her.
“She hadn’t taken my warnings. Yes, it was I who had sent her those clippings and those letters. I had tried to threaten her and I thought it would be enough. But it wasn’t — she kept right on. So then I decided to see her and have a talk with her.
“When she arrived, I asked her in and then took her to my bedroom. We sat down and I told her just what I thought of her. I suppose she did look surprised. Yes, she denied everything. But doesn’t any criminal deny a charge?
“She wouldn’t let me finish. She jumped to her feet and she started for the door. But I stopped her. I stood right in front of her and defied her. I can’t remember now for sure which of us first reached for the broom. But I think she did and I took it away from her. Tore it out of her hands.
“I know I struck her across the face with it. I remember thinking it strange the way the blood suddenly welled up in her mouth and then ran over her chin. Yes, I suppose that was when her teeth were knocked out. I was surprised, otherwise I would have been on guard. But she got past me and ran out of the bedroom and through the kitchen.
“I caught her there and I struck her again — this time on the back of the head. I hit her two or three times. She ran down the cellar steps then. The last thing she yelled was for me not to follow her. But I did. I dropped the broom and I went down after her.
“She was on her knees, as though she were praying, only I knew that it wasn’t prayer. She was frightened and weak, that’s all. So I picked up a club, or at least it looked like a club. I drew it back and it crashed into the top of her skull. It twisted her head around, but because of all her hair, it didn’t knock her out. Then I struck her in the face.
“After that I kept on hitting her until she crumbled. She kept whimpering, but I didn’t feel anything. Just hate.
“I sat over on the bottom step for a while and then I went to the work bench and got a length of rope. I tied it around her throat, then I doubled up her knees and pulled them up with the rope. After that, while I was planning what to do, I remembered the old auto trunk. I pulled it out from the corner and got the lid open. I hauled it across the floor and pushed her down in it. Then I went upstairs where she’d left her coat in the bedroom. I took it down and piled it on top of her.