Cases

On the afternoon of May 21, 1924, Bobby Franks was walking home from the Harvard School for Boys in Chicago's wealthy Hyde Park neighborhood when he vanished. The 14-year-old son of a millionaire family, Bobby was forced into a rented car, bludgeoned with a chisel, and suffocated with a gag. His body was hidden in a drainage culvert on Chicago's south side. The killers were not strangers to him — they were Nathan Leopold Jr. and Richard Loeb, fellow members of Chicago's privileged elite, and Bobby Franks was Loeb's own distant cousin. The motive was not profit. The two college students — Leopold, 19, a University of Chicago graduate who spoke multiple languages and was widely described as exceptionally intelligent, and Loeb, 18, who had finished college a year early — wanted to commit the perfect crime, a killing that would demonstrate their intellectual superiority over the laws that governed ordinary people. They had rehearsed the abduction for weeks, established false identities, scouted disposal sites, and typed a ransom note demanding $10,000 from Bobby's wealthy father. They got neither the money nor the clean getaway they imagined. The first mistake was the body itself. Bobby Franks's body was discovered in a culvert the next morning, ending any hope the kidnappers had of controlling the case through ransom demands. Investigators also found a pair of horn-rimmed glasses near the body. The frames had an unusual hinge sold to only a handful of customers in Chicago, one of them Leopold. Police also traced the typed ransom-note evidence to a machine associated with Leopold. Both young men confessed within days. The case drew one of the most famous lawyers in American history to the defense. Clarence Darrow, then 68 years old and already a legendary opponent of capital punishment, agreed to represent Leopold. In a trial that transfixed the nation, Darrow did not argue innocence. He argued that the two had acted under an intellectual delusion — that society's proper response was to protect itself through imprisonment, not execution. His plea for mercy, delivered over three days in August 1924 before a packed Chicago courtroom, remains one of the most celebrated arguments in American legal history. The trial itself had the atmosphere of a media event: reporters slept overnight on courthouse benches to reserve seats, and newspapers splashed the case across their front pages for weeks. On September 10, 1924, the judge rejected the death penalty and sentenced both to life imprisonment plus 99 years. The outcome was considered a landmark in the fight against capital punishment in America, and Darrow's lengthy plea became a foundational text in debates about justice, punishment, and the purposes of law. The case also exposed the fiction that privilege and intelligence insulate a person from the consequences of violence. The aftermath was brutal and ironic. In January 1936, Loeb was killed by a fellow inmate in a razor-fight shower at Stateville Penitentiary in Illinois. He was 30. Leopold served out his sentence and was released on parole in 1958, with help from poet Carl Sandburg, who testified on his behalf at parole hearings. He moved to Puerto Rico, where he died in 1971 at age 66, having lived the rest of his life far from the headlines that once made his name synonymous with youthful arrogance and calculated violence. The Leopold and Loeb case endures because it refuses easy categorization. It is a story about intelligence misdirected, privilege without conscience, and the American appetite for true crime that doubles as moral instruction. The case influenced everything from Alfred Hitchcock's film Rope to later debates about criminal responsibility, punishment, and the cultural pull of notorious murders — and it remains one of the most studied episodes in American criminal law history.

Barbara Elaine Graham was born on June 26, 1923, in Oakland, California, and spent much of her early life in the San Francisco Bay Area. By the early 1950s she had become associated with a loose network of criminals and gamblers in Los Angeles. That association would prove fatal — for someone else. On the morning of March 9, 1953, Graham arrived at the home of Mabel Monohan, a 64-year-old retired vaudeville performer, in Burbank, California. Graham claimed her car had broken down nearby and asked to use the phone. Monohan let her in. Within minutes, four men — Jack Santo, Emmett Perkins, John True, and Baxter Shorter — entered behind her. The plan was a robbery: a rumor had circulated that Monohan, the former mother-in-law of a gambling club owner named Luther B. Scherer, kept as much as $100,000 in cash in her home. What happened inside the house was brutal. Monohan was beaten, gagged, and left dying on the floor of her own home. When her gardener discovered her body two days later, the case became a major Los Angeles investigation. A $5,000 reward was offered by Monohan's daughter Iris. The robbery itself had failed — the intruders found nothing in the places they searched. A purse in a closet contained $15,000 in jewelry that was never touched. The investigation quickly narrowed to Graham and her associates. Baxter Shorter turned state evidence, testifying that Graham had let the men into the house and that the beating had occurred inside. John True gave corroborating testimony. Shorter himself would later be kidnapped and murdered by Perkins and Santo — an act that underscored the violent loyalties at the center of this case. Graham was arrested alongside her co-conspirators and charged with first-degree murder. The prosecution was led by Deputy District Attorney J. Miller Leavy, an experienced prosecutor who built his case around witness testimony and Graham's own recorded statements. Graham had attempted to secure an alibi, paying $25,000 to an inmate who was in fact working with police. The entire alibi scheme was recorded and used against her at trial. She was also recorded admitting to being at the scene. The combined weight of the witnesses and her own recorded admissions proved decisive. Graham was convicted of first-degree murder and perjury and sentenced to death. Her legal team pursued appeals aggressively, and Governor Knight issued two stays of execution as the case wound through the courts. The pressure for clemency was substantial — Graham's supporters argued she had not personally struck Monohan and that the murder had been carried out by the men, not by her. Her own last words would allude to the limits of certainty: "Good people are always so sure they're right." She also famously responded to a guard's advice to take a deep breath when the cyanide was dropped — "How the hell would you know?" — a line that became one of the more memorable final statements from California's gas chamber. On June 2, 1955, Graham was transferred to San Quentin. The execution was scheduled for 10:00 a.m. the following morning. She was executed by gas on June 3, 1955, at the age of 31, the same day as her co-conspirators Jack Santo and Emmett Perkins. She was buried at Mount Olivet Cemetery in San Rafael, California. The case drew national attention in part because Graham was a woman — the third woman executed in California — and in part because of the brutality of the crime and the controversy over her precise role. In 1958, the film "I Want to Live!" starred Susan Hayward in an Oscar-nominated performance that portrayed Graham sympathetically, presenting her as potentially innocent. The film was based on Graham's own letters from prison and on articles by journalist Edna Sherrill, and it was explicitly marked as highly fictionalized in its credits. The tension between the legal record — which showed a conviction upheld on appeal — and the film's portrayal of Graham as a victim of circumstance remains unresolved in the historical record.

On the morning of August 4, 1892, the citizens of Fall River, Massachusetts, awoke to an ordinary summer day. By midday, they would be speaking of nothing else. At the Borden home at 92 Second Street, sometime before noon, two people were beaten to death with a hatchet. Abby Borden, the stepmother, was found in the upstairs guest room, her head struck repeatedly. Andrew Borden, her husband and a prosperous local businessman, was found in the downstairs sitting room, having been attacked while resting on the sofa. Both killings happened in the middle of the morning, in a house on a busy urban street, and not a single neighbor or passerby reported hearing or seeing anything unusual. Andrew Borden, 70, was among Fall River's most successful men — his wealth accumulated through real estate investments, banking connections, and business dealings that had made him a familiar name in town. His second wife Abby, 64, had been part of the household for years, though her standing with Andrew's two daughters had always been uneasy. Lizzie and Emma had long viewed Abby as an outsider; Abby was said to feel unwelcome in return. Andrew was known for keeping his money close, and the modest brick house on Second Street was a quiet point of resentment among a community that knew just how wealthy its owner was. The morning of the murders, Emma was away visiting friends out of town. Lizzie, 32, was the only family member at home. She later told police she had spent the morning in the barn behind the house and in the yard when the killings took place. Under questioning, her account shifted. She reported hearing nothing, seeing no one enter or leave, noticing nothing out of place — despite being alone in a house where two people had apparently been killed within the same few hours. Investigators focused quickly on Lizzie. The sequence of events resisted innocent explanation: two victims attacked at different times, no apparent witnesses, no obvious intruder. In the days that followed, Lizzie was observed burning a dress in the kitchen stove, telling a neighbor the garment had been stained with paint. Police also found a hatchet head in the basement — its handle freshly broken and its blade strangely clean of blood — a detail that investigators found more suspicious than exculpatory. On August 11, exactly one week after the murders, Lizzie Borden was arrested and charged with both deaths. The trial, among the most heavily covered legal proceedings in nineteenth-century America, began on June 5, 1893, in New Bedford — moved from Fall River due to concerns about finding an unbiased jury in the community where the murders had occurred. District Attorney William H. Moody built the prosecution's case on circumstantial evidence: Lizzie's proximity to the victims, the inconsistencies in her account, the dress burned in the days after the deaths. Her defense team, which included former Massachusetts Governor John D. Long, argued that no blood had ever been found on Lizzie's person or clothing and that no witness could place her near either victim at the time of the attacks. Judge Justin Dewey presided. On June 20, 1893, after barely an hour of deliberation, the jury returned a verdict of not guilty. The acquittal rippled across the country and immediately sparked debate that has never fully quieted. Lizzie Borden lived the rest of her life in Fall River. She and Emma moved to a larger home on a quieter street, and Lizzie eventually took the name Lizbeth. The sisters had a falling out in later years and never reconciled. Lizzie died on June 1, 1927, at the age of 66. Emma died nine days later. The murders were never officially solved. No one else was ever arrested or charged. The house at 92 Second Street still stands today, operating as a bed and breakfast and museum that draws visitors from across the country year-round — a place where the question of what happened on that August morning has been asked so many times it has become part of the architecture. A children's rhyme attached itself to the case not long after, with numbers that were wrong and a tone too light for what happened. It stuck anyway. More than a century after that summer morning in Fall River, the murders of Andrew and Abby Borden remain officially unsolved.