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Transcript
- He built a hotel that breathed, swallowing people whole while the world celebrated outside its walls. You might know him as the Devil in the White City, but before he was a monster, he was just a man who learned to love the silence of the grave. Let’s start with the name. Herman Webster Mudgett. Born in Gilmanton, New Hampshire, on May 16, 1861. He wasn’t born a monster. He was born into a family of devout Methodists, the third child of Levi Horton Mudgett and Theodate Page Price. His father was a farmer, a trader, a house painter, and reportedly a heavy drinker who beat his children cruelly. Herman was smart, too smart for his own good. He bullied classmates by forcing them to stand in front of human skeletons. One day, he was made to stand there himself, the skeleton’s hands placed against his face to frighten him. At first, he was terrified. But then? He found it intriguing. He claimed it helped him overcome his worries. That moment, standing before death, sparked an obsession. He began dissecting animals. He started learning how things fall apart. By sixteen, he had graduated high school with honors from Gilmanton Academy. He was already setting the stage for a life lived in shadows, wearing masks, changing names. Alexander Bond. Harry Gordon. J.A. Judson. Robert E. Phelps. He was becoming someone else with every step. He enrolled at the University of Vermont for one year, then transferred to the University of Michigan’s Department of Medicine and Surgery. He graduated in June 1884. Not with flying colors, but with a degree. While there, he worked in the anatomy lab under Professor William James Herdman. They were said to facilitate body snatching to supply medical cadavers. Holmes had apprenticed in New Hampshire under Nahum Wight, an advocate of human dissection. Years later, when he was suspected of murder and tried to claim he was nothing but an insurance fraudster, he admitted to using cadavers to defraud life insurance companies several times in college. He was learning the trade. Learning how to hide bodies. Learning how to profit from death before he even knew what murder felt like. He sold counterfeit medical degrees. He burned down pharmacies he owned for the insurance money. It was small-time crime, but it was criminal. And it worked. For a while. Then came Chicago. Around 1893, during the World’s Columbian Exposition, the city was alive with wonder. The fairgrounds were dazzling. And right nearby, on W. 63rd Street, Holmes commissioned a three-story building. A hotel. He called it his investment. We call it the Murder Castle. Details about this building have been exaggerated over time, twisted by sensationalistic tabloids. Some accounts estimated his body count could be as high as 133. But let’s look at what’s missing. Let’s look at the architecture. Official findings suggest the property was used for business. The irregular design? It was a product of fraud, not violent fantasy. Soundproof rooms. Gas chambers. Crematoriums. Trapdoors. These weren’t just features; they were tools. He was preparing for something specific. Something that required secrecy. The press called him the Torture Doctor. The Beast of Chicago. The Devil in the White City. But inside those walls, he was just a man keeping secrets. And secrets, he knew, were worth more than gold. His criminal career included insurance fraud, forgery, swindling, horse theft, and three or four bigamous marriages. But the end of his freedom didn’t come from a random victim. It came from Benjamin Pitezel. Pitezel was his accomplice in several cons. They moved together. They planned together. But Holmes needed control. In 1895, Pitezel disappeared. Authorities soon discovered human remains in the basement of Holmes’ Chicago hotel. Forensic evidence was mounting. Bones found in the furnace. A tooth extracted from a victim that matched dental records. It was Harry Kendall Thaw, an employee who had vanished. Holmes was caught because he got greedy. Because he couldn’t leave loose ends. He confessed to twenty-seven murders. Including some people who were verifiably still alive. He believed three of Pitezel’s children. He killed three mistresses. The child of one mistress. The sister of another. The truth doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it whispers in a confession that contradicts itself. Holmes gave various contradictory accounts of his life. Initially claiming innocence. Later saying he was possessed by Satan. His propensity for lying has made it difficult for researchers to ascertain the truth based on his statements alone. For example, he claimed Dr. Robert Leacock, a fellow medical school classmate, was one of his first murder victims. Said he killed him in 1886 for insurance money. However, Leacock died on October 5, 1889, in Watford, Ontario, Canada. Holmes was lying. Again. He was trying to craft a narrative that fit his image of himself. A mastermind. A killer. But the reality was messier. More practical. As author Adam Selzer writes in his book about Holmes, killing several people isn’t necessarily enough for most definitions of a serial killer. It has to be a series of similar crimes, committed over time, usually to satisfy a psychological urge. The murders we can connect to Holmes generally had a clear motive: someone knew too much, or was getting in his way, and couldn’t be trusted. The murders weren’t simply for love of bloodshed. They were a necessary part of furthering his swindling operation. Protecting his lifestyle. It was cold. Calculated. Business. By the time of his execution, Holmes had engaged in a lengthy criminal career. He was convicted and sentenced to death for the murder of Benjamin Pitezel. He appealed. Successfully. Once. But the sentence stood. On May 7, 1896, Herman Webster Mudgett was hanged at the Philadelphia State Prison. He died as he lived: surrounded by stories no one could fully verify. Since the 1990s, Holmes has often been described as the first serial killer in U.S. history. But is that fair? Or did the yellow journalism of the period create a myth? Did ineffective police investigations allow rumors to grow? We may never know the exact number. Thirty? Fifty? One hundred and thirty-three? It doesn’t matter. What matters is the dignity of the unnamed and forgotten. The people who walked into that hotel and never walked out. The families who waited. The accomplices who fell victim to the very monsters they served. We remember them. Not for the spectacle. Not for the gore. But for their lives. Their absence. The hole left behind. I’m Kristen Cameron. Thank you for listening today. This story is drawn from public records and widely reported accounts. Our thoughts are with everyone affected.