Cannon had driven me off the road because he believed I was Tallant and that she was in the car with me.
I wound it up:
This will also clear up the death of Mr. Wilton L. Purvis of 10325 Caroline Street, Houston, Texas, on the night of August 8, 1956. He was attempting to blackmail the aforesaid two murderers on the strength of the evidence he had collected against them, and was himself killed by a single powerful blow on the head delivered by Mr. Tallant. I was present in the apartment at the time, in the kitchen where I could not be seen from the living-room or the doorway to the dining-room. Mr. Tallant gained access to the Purvis apartment by posing as a Federal radio inspector investigating complaints of neighborhood television interference. In corroboration of the fact that I was there, I offer the following: Mr. Purvis was wearing a dark blue sports shirt and gray flannel slacks. His left arm was broken by the blow. There were two bottles of imported beer on the drainboard in the kitchen, opened but untouched.
I am aware that none of the above is acceptable as evidence in a court of law, but I believe that, given the facts, you can eventually get a confession from them or enough evidence of your own to convict.
Your inference, as to why I withheld this information is correct. I am using it for extortion, to the extent of $100,000. This disclosure, I realize, will tend greatly to discredit my story on the ground that I am a criminal myself, even if a first offender. There is another, and slightly more subtle, side to this, however, if you will consider it closely. I freely admit the attempted extortion; the mere fact that you are reading this guarantees I am dead. Therefore it is, in effect, a deathbed confession, and should carry some weight.
Signed: JOHN GALLAGHER HARLAN.
I rolled in two fresh sheets of paper with a carbon between; and copied it very neatly, going slowly and making no mistakes. When I had finished I tore the originals into strips, wadded them up with all the discarded versions and the carbon paper, and burned them in the cookstove, later using the poker to reduce the ashes to powder. The two pages of the carbon copy I folded and left on the table. I closed the typewriter and put it away. So much for that.
There were two rolls of spare recorder tape in one of the bags. Removing them from the flat cardboard boxes they were packed in, I took them down to the edge of the lake and threw them far out into the water. They sank. Coming back to the kitchen, I put the six bass bugs I’d bought in one of the boxes, wrapped it with some of the brown paper, tied it with twine, and put on an address sticker. The other box was identical, and would look just the same when it was wrapped. I took both of them out to the car and put them in the glove compartment, along with the wrapping paper, address labels, twine, and a book of stamps.
I took the .45 automatic out of the bag, loaded the clip and inserted it, and put it in the car. It was late in the afternoon now. I walked out on the little pier where the skiff was tied up with a padlock and chain and went for a swim. When I came out I built up a fire in the stove, made some coffee, and fried a couple of eggs. Afterward I washed the dishes and sat on the front porch in the gathering dusk, smoking a cigarette. This time tomorrow I’d be well on my way to becoming rich, or any one or all three of us might be dead. I wasn’t too nervous. I felt about the same way I always did standing in my own end zone on opening kickoff while I watched the ball come sailing down toward me.
When it was completely dark I dressed in a charcoal flannel suit, crepe-soled shoes, and a blue shirt. I made sure I had the pencil flashlight and my pen, locked the windows and doors, and went out and got in the car. I was as ready now as I was ever going to be.
8
Just before I came out on the highway I pulled off the road among the pines far enough to be out of range of any passing
I wound it up:
This will also clear up the death of Mr. Wilton L. Purvis of 10325 Caroline Street, Houston, Texas, on the night of August 8, 1956. He was attempting to blackmail the aforesaid two murderers on the strength of the evidence he had collected against them, and was himself killed by a single powerful blow on the head delivered by Mr. Tallant. I was present in the apartment at the time, in the kitchen where I could not be seen from the living-room or the doorway to the dining-room. Mr. Tallant gained access to the Purvis apartment by posing as a Federal radio inspector investigating complaints of neighborhood television interference. In corroboration of the fact that I was there, I offer the following: Mr. Purvis was wearing a dark blue sports shirt and gray flannel slacks. His left arm was broken by the blow. There were two bottles of imported beer on the drainboard in the kitchen, opened but untouched.
I am aware that none of the above is acceptable as evidence in a court of law, but I believe that, given the facts, you can eventually get a confession from them or enough evidence of your own to convict.
Your inference, as to why I withheld this information is correct. I am using it for extortion, to the extent of $100,000. This disclosure, I realize, will tend greatly to discredit my story on the ground that I am a criminal myself, even if a first offender. There is another, and slightly more subtle, side to this, however, if you will consider it closely. I freely admit the attempted extortion; the mere fact that you are reading this guarantees I am dead. Therefore it is, in effect, a deathbed confession, and should carry some weight.
Signed: JOHN GALLAGHER HARLAN.
I rolled in two fresh sheets of paper with a carbon between; and copied it very neatly, going slowly and making no mistakes. When I had finished I tore the originals into strips, wadded them up with all the discarded versions and the carbon paper, and burned them in the cookstove, later using the poker to reduce the ashes to powder. The two pages of the carbon copy I folded and left on the table. I closed the typewriter and put it away. So much for that.
There were two rolls of spare recorder tape in one of the bags. Removing them from the flat cardboard boxes they were packed in, I took them down to the edge of the lake and threw them far out into the water. They sank. Coming back to the kitchen, I put the six bass bugs I’d bought in one of the boxes, wrapped it with some of the brown paper, tied it with twine, and put on an address sticker. The other box was identical, and would look just the same when it was wrapped. I took both of them out to the car and put them in the glove compartment, along with the wrapping paper, address labels, twine, and a book of stamps.
I took the .45 automatic out of the bag, loaded the clip and inserted it, and put it in the car. It was late in the afternoon now. I walked out on the little pier where the skiff was tied up with a padlock and chain and went for a swim. When I came out I built up a fire in the stove, made some coffee, and fried a couple of eggs. Afterward I washed the dishes and sat on the front porch in the gathering dusk, smoking a cigarette. This time tomorrow I’d be well on my way to becoming rich, or any one or all three of us might be dead. I wasn’t too nervous. I felt about the same way I always did standing in my own end zone on opening kickoff while I watched the ball come sailing down toward me.
When it was completely dark I dressed in a charcoal flannel suit, crepe-soled shoes, and a blue shirt. I made sure I had the pencil flashlight and my pen, locked the windows and doors, and went out and got in the car. I was as ready now as I was ever going to be.
8
Just before I came out on the highway I pulled off the road among the pines far enough to be out of range of any passing
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