On the morning of July 12, 1890, William Kemmler was led from Auburn prison to a train, which brought him to Buffalo. Dressed in a dapper gray suit, with a “natty black derby hat,” he sat before Judge Childs, who said that he hoped the long delay in the appeals process had given Kemmler time to reflect on the enormity of his crime and the justice of his conviction. He then ordered the execution date for the first week of August at Auburn Prison.
The New York Assembly issued a gag order on reporting of the new execution method, banning reporters from being present among the witnesses. But Warden Durston allowed Frank W. Mack of the Associated Press and George G. Bain of the United Press to witness first execution as private citizens. Though they were not there in an official capacity, they would be allowed publish their impressions. Their reports were widely circulated and shared among the nation’s papers. On August 7, the New York Herald reported the previous day’s proceedings, saying: “The killing of Kemmler marks, I fear, the beginning and the end of electrocution, and it wreaths in shame the ages of the great Empire State who, entrusted with the terrific responsibility of killing a man as a man was never killed before, brought to the task imperfect machinery and turned an execution into a horror.”
Predictably, it had not gone according to plan.
“The scene of Kemmler’s execution was too horrible to picture. Men accustomed to every form of suffering grew faint as the awful spectacle was unfolded before their eyes. Those who stood the sight were filled with awe as they saw the effects of this most potent of fluids, which is only partly understood by those who have studied it most faithfully, as it slowly, too slowly, disintegrated the fiber and tissues of the body through which it passed.
“The heaving of a chest which, it had been promised, would be stilled in an instant peace as soon as the circuit was completed, the foaming of the mouth, the bloody sweat, the writhing shoulders and all the other signs of life.
“Horrible as these were, they were made infinitely more horrible by the premature removal of the electrodes and the subsequent replacing of them for not seconds but minutes, until the room was filled with the odor of burning flesh and strong men fainted and fell like logs upon the floor.”
The procedure had begun at five o’clock in the morning, when the chaplain and Reverend W. E. Houghton (Kemmler’s spiritual adviser) went to Kemmler’s cell where they found him up and awake. He was dressed in a new, dark gray suit with a vest and checked tie. He looked spruce and natty—though in the seat of his trousers a large hole for the electrode was visible. Kemmler seemed cheerful and lighthearted.
Witnesses were led into a small room—mainly doctors and legal professionals. The chair was in another room, dimly visible under gaslight. Warden Durston consulted with doctors about how long the electric shock should last. One said three seconds—another said fifteen. They compromised on ten. Then Durston went to fetch Kemmler.
The condemned man entered the death chamber calmly, walking to the chair with self-possession. He said his last words before he sat: “Well, gentlemen, I wish everyone good luck in this world, and I think I am going to a good place, and the papers have been saying a lot of stuff that isn’t so. That’s all I have to say.”
Then he handed his suit coat to the warden and began to unbutton his vest, but he was told he could leave that on, so he rebuttoned it. Then he sat and calmly adjusted his neck tie as Durston secured the electrode to the base of his spine through the hole in his trousers. The straps were adjusted, and then the final piece was put in place—the hood and face straps. The hood left Kemmler’s mouth free to move and he whispered, “Durston, see that things are right.”
“Ready?” asked Durston.
“Ready,” replied the doctors who were supervising though not operating the equipment.
“Good-bye,” said the warden to Kemmler, who made no reply.
The time was now 6:43 a.m., and the warden stepped to the door of the death chamber and gave the signal to the executioner, Davis. “Everything is ready,” he said to the hidden electrician, who duly flicked the switch.
Suddenly the body of Kemmler convulsed in the chair, straining against all the straps. Dr. McDonald, looking at his stopwatch, called stop after ten seconds. Durston repeated the command, louder. The current was switched off, but Kemmler remained rigid in the chair. His nose appeared dark red and a fly landed on it and walked about unconcernedly.
“He’s dead,” two doctors (Edward Spitzka and Carlos McDonald) proclaimed. But then a third doctor, Dr. Balch, spotted a cut on Kemmler’s thumb that was pumping blood in small spurts. That was a sure sign he was still alive—his heart still beating. A low cry of horror went through the crowd of witnesses.
“Turn on the current; this man is not dead,” cried Dr. Spitzka.
Kemmler began to groan, the sound growing in the small room. His chest began to heave.
The District Attorney hurried from the witness room and began to walk down a corridor to get away from the horror. A sensitive man, he stumbled and fainted and needed to be revived. He did not reenter the witness room for the conclusion of the execution.
The second time, Davis stepped up the current to 2,000 volts, and he held it far longer than the ten seconds recommended by the doctors. Kemmler stopped groaning immediately but drool continued to drop from his lips down to his beard. Still the current flowed, and then the witnesses could hear a sizzling sound, as the flesh around the electrode began to cook. Smoke began to fill the small chamber, and it reeked of burning hair. Durston yelled to turn the current off.
The body remained frozen in its final throes.
Dr. Fell was the first to speak. Despite what he had witnessed, he said, “The man never suffered a bit of pain.”
Dr. Spitzka agreed, saying, “The man was killed instantly, I think. Those were only muscular contractions, and the fellow never suffered any pain. That’s one sure thing about it.”
When he had time to reflect upon it, Spitzka was less sure, refusing to endorse the new form of execution: “For me, first the guillotine, second the gallows, and last of all, electrical execution. Never before have I felt just as I do now. What I have seen has impressed me deeply, not exactly what you would call horror, but rather with the wonder of doubt. I have seen hangings far more brutal than this execution, but I have never seen anything so awe inspiring. What I have seen satisfies me that the scale of capital punishment is first the guillotine, second the gallows, and far in the rear, the electrical execution.
“I do not regard the execution as a failure, but it did not appear to be what it had promised to be.”
Westinghouse did regard it as a failure and was quick to condemn the whole experiment, telling newsmen, “I do not care to talk about it. It has been a brutal affair. They could have done better with an axe. My predictions have been verified. The public will lay the blame where it belongs and it will not be on us. I regard the manner of the killing as a complete vindication of all our claims.”
Westinghouse proved to be wrong. There were severe reporting restrictions on the first execution, with only two reporters witnessing the procedure. And the version of the officials, that it had gone smoothly, became accepted. Electrocution was here to stay. But Westinghouse was also wrong in his fears that the chair would forever associate AC with death. The public did not care which form of current was used to kill condemned prisoners. And his AC system went on to win the War of the Currents. It is now used worldwide, while DC has dwindled to a few specialty uses. Edison won the battle to get his rival’s current used in the chair, but he lost the war.
7
THE SPREAD OF THE CHAIR
Despite the evidence furnished by their eyes, ears, and noses, the observers at Auburn proclaimed themselves satisfied that William Kemmler had not suffered during the botched execution. Electrocution was given the green light to be rolled out across the prison system in New York. Following Kemmler, six more convicts were executed over eighteen months as authorities perfected the system. The gag
order on the press was still in effect, so executions were carried out in secret. Little is known about them aside from the official reports, which, like the first, show them proceeding smoothly.
But in February 1892, new governor Roswell Flower repealed the gag order. Now the warden could invite members of the press to be among the twelve neutral observers at each execution.
The seventh victim of Old Sparky was Charles McElvaine, a nineteen-year-old hoodlum from one of the rougher neighborhoods of Brooklyn, New York. On August 21, 1889, he got married. Two days later, he met with two young associates and broke into a neighborhood grocery store. The store owner, Christian Luca, who lived above the shop, woke up and disturbed the three burglars. He confronted them, but McElvaine had a knife. He ran at Luca and drove the knife repeatedly into his chest. The grocer was stabbed several times before falling to the ground, dead.
McElvaine turned to Luca’s wife, who was screaming at the sight of her dying husband on the ground. He was about to attack her too when the noise alerted a passing patrolman, and McElvaine was arrested at the scene.
The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette reported the crime like this:
McElvaine had entered the passageway to the bedroom when Mr. Luca was awakened by the noise. He went out into the passageway where he came face to face with McElvaine. He grappled with the burglar and would have easily overpowered him, as Mr. Luca was a large, powerful man, while McElvaine was small and weak, had he not been met with a murderous knife. As soon as Luca seized the intruder a terrible struggle ensued. The noise awakened Mrs. Luca, who rushed into the room only to see her husband down on his knees by the window, and McElvaine literally hacking him to pieces with a big knife.
Caught red-handed, his conviction was a formality. But the appeals process took a full two years, during which time he was granted a retrial and once again convicted and sentenced to death. Finally the day loomed for the execution, which was to be held in Sing Sing, about thirty miles up the Hudson River from New York. The warden, W. R. Brown, invited eight reporters to witness the event, on February 7, 1892.
Once again Edwin Davis was the executioner. He was being paid his usual fee of $150 for pulling the switch. Davis was a reclusive man, unwilling to speak to reporters or allow his picture to be taken. As the years passed, he became odder and odder, as his concern for his personal safety grew. He was so worried about relatives of Old Sparky victims seeking him out that he changed his address frequently. He did not even allow the prison authorities to know where he lived by the end of his tenure as New York State Electrician. When they had a job for him, they had to post a cryptic personal advertisement in a newspaper and he would get in touch. He had an arrangement with the rail company that he would not get on board at the platform but would jump on the slowly moving train a bit outside the station.
Despite his oddities, Davis was conscientious about his job and determined to do his best to execute men cleanly and painlessly. He carried his own electrodes, which were always in immaculate condition, and he made several refinements to the chair to improve its efficiency. In fact, to this day he is the only person who has patents registered on the chair. It is very much old technology; it has not changed in over a hundred years.
For the execution of McElvaine, the authorities decided to try an experiment to improve the device. Since Kemmler’s execution, the only change that had been made was the positioning of the bottom electrode. Instead of placing it at the base of the spine with the second electrode attached to a shaven spot on the victim’s skull, they were now attaching the lower electrode to the victim’s calf. This seemed to improve the efficiency of the device, as the skin was thin and there was nothing to impede the flow of current through the body.
But for McElvaine’s execution they tried a suggestion of Edison’s. He had always felt that the key to an execution was making clean contact with the electrodes. From the start Edison had suggested that the prisoner have his hands in two basins of brine. The salty water was a very good conductor of electricity but would also keep the temperature at the point of contact with the electrodes down. The theory was that the current would flow from hand to hand across the torso, stopping the heart but preventing the burning and the horrible smell of cooking flesh that was a feature of the first six electrocutions.
The chair had been modified to accommodate the new method. The arms of the chair were higher up and sloping downwards. Instead of McElvaine’s arms being strapped on top of the chair arms, they were to be strapped beneath them, hands dangling free. Both his hands would then be placed in small jars containing salt water. But the electrodes for the head and legs were also in place, in case the new method did not work.
Dr. Carlos McDonald, who had been present at Kemmler’s execution, was the main medical man now. He quickly explained to reporters that the new method should result in a swift and painless death: “The current will not be applied this time as before. Edison and other men have suggested that the current should be applied through the arms. We are going to test that method.”
McElvaine had appeared relatively unconcerned when woken that morning and had his last breakfast of toast and milk, which he only picked at. But by execution time, his nerves were showing.
The room went quiet as McElvaine was led into the death chamber and across to the chair. He was accompanied by two Catholic priests and seemed to be nervous. He walked to the chair, clutching a brass crucifix tightly in clenched fists, mumbling, “Oh Jesus, help me. Oh Lord, I am sorry that I have offended thee. Oh Almighty God, I despise my sins. Oh Christ, have mercy. Help me, Oh Lord,” a simplified version of the Catholic Act of Contrition.
As the guards began strapping him to the chair, he pressed the crucifix to his lips one final time. He appeared terrified by now; his hands were placed in the two jars of cold water. The warden dropped his handkerchief—the agreed signal—and Davis threw the switch.
The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette reported:
‘Let her go,’ shouted McElvaine and he braced his body for the shock. There was a slight grating sound as the lever moved. Electric sparks flashed up, indicating that the current was there. Then the lever passed to its last notch. The current of 1,600 volts passed into the boxes of salt water and into McElvaine’s arms.
There was a convulsive movement. The prisoner’s chest and body raised up an inch or two. The chest expanded. There was no sound. Part of the face that was visible turned first white, then blue. McElvaine looked like a statue. The current was kept on 43 seconds, as near as could be judged by witnesses. The official time was not announced.
‘Shut it off,’ cried Dr. McDonald. The lever was switched back There was a wonderful effect upon the body. From its rigid, statue-like appearance it collapsed and seemed to sink back in the chair, limp and lifeless. The chest relaxed, and foam began to drip from the mouth.
The silence in the execution room lasted ten seconds. Then there was a rattling in the dead man’s throat. Was it a reflex action, or was there still life? The doctors said the former, but it was evident they were not certain, for the electrician stepped forward and, disconnecting the wires that ran into the boxes of salt water, fastened them to the head and the leg.
The prisoner’s wrist was felt, and there was a pulse.
The current was now applied in the traditional way and quickly steam began to rise from the leg and head of the prisoner. But Dr. McDonald assured the witnesses that it was not burning flesh, just steam from damp electrodes.
When the power was switched off, the attending doctors pronounced McElvaine dead. McDonald concluded: “I think Mr. Edison is right. The current should be applied through the arms. This is certainly the most successful execution that has yet taken place. Death was instantaneous and painless beyond question. The current was turned on the second time only to make certain.”
However, in hindsight the execution was not judged such a success, and the experiment of driving the current across the body through the arms was never repeated. From then on, the electrodes
would always be placed on the lower leg and the crown of the head.
In addition to the eight press witnesses at the execution, there were four civilian witnesses. One of these was Assemblyman Myer J. Stein, who said, “It was horrible, the most sickening sight I ever witnessed.”
He was so shocked that he tried to introduce a bill to the Assembly replacing electrocution with hanging, but this failed. Electrocution had become the accepted method of execution in the state. Soon the method began to spread. In 1896, Ohio was the second state to build an electric chair. Massachusetts followed two years later. It was a decade before another state switched, but the floodgates were opened. In 1907, New Jersey built their own chair. Virginia followed in 1908, and North Carolina in 1909. Kentucky began electrocutions in 1910, South Carolina in 1912, and Arkansas, Indiana, Pennsylvania, and Nebraska in 1913. It spread throughout the Union, with West Virginia becoming the twenty-sixth and final state to replace the gallows with the electric chair in 1949.
However, aside from a brief period in the Philippines during US rule, the electric chair was never used outside the United States. It remains a peculiarly American innovation.
New York was the state that used the electric chair more than any other. It began there, and the state initially built three chairs, one for Auburn, one for Sing Sing, and one for Dannemora. The three chairs were used until 1914, when it was decided to have only one death row prison. Sing Sing was chosen. From then on all executions took place there, with prisoners being moved to Sing Sing for their final months.
There are many rumors about what happened to the two other chairs. One of the most intriguing is that the famous magician and escape artist, Harry Houdini, bought the chair that fried Kemmler—the original electric chair. The story was widely reported.
Old Sparky Page 8
