A Most Peculiar Man

The Unmaking of an Ordinary Life

It was rare for a U.S. Treasury Secretary—or anyone, for that matter—to visit the United States Bullion Depository in Kentucky, commonly known as Fort Knox. Such a visit took place on June 17, 1948, when Secretary of the Treasury John W. Snyder inspected what the press called “the world’s biggest piggy-bank.” U.S. reserves of gold had reached as high as 80% of the world’s supply by 1940. At Fort Knox alone in 1948, there was an estimated $12.5 billion worth of gold stored there, amounting to $168 billion today, adjusted for inflation. For the first time in four years, the doors of the fortified vault were opened for Snyder, who turned his gaze to a stack of gold bars worth $2 billion, declaring: “It all seems to be here, right down to the last penny.”

Other portraits of Snyder in the press were not as innocuous. Drew Pearson’s column The Washington Merry-Go-Round in 1951 contained a harsh critique, noting that while he was “an entirely honest man,” that he was “blissfully ignorant—or else indifferent—to the fact that more crookedness was occurring in his department than at any time since the days of President U.S. Grant—perhaps more than at any time in history.” Pearson attributed the failure in part to Snyder being a drunk, which was unmentionable in polite circles. “However,” Pearson wrote, “when a railroad engineer drinks on the job he is fired, when a motorist drinks while driving he is jailed…Therefore, when one of the 10 top members of government, charged with collecting the nation’s taxes with honesty and equality, drinks on the job, the public is entitled to know it.” He cited instances of Snyder’s drinking problem causing him to be confined to his bed “away from his work for periods of time” as well as “moments of embarrassment before the governors of the World Bank and at the French Embassy.”

An earlier Pearson column in 1946 critiqued Snyder’s embarrassing behind-the-scenes role when President Harry Truman was preparing hardline messaging to Congress regarding a national railroad strike. On the Friday morning after the strike began, Truman convened a cabinet meeting, where Synder incorrectly claimed the financial gap between the demands of the railroads and the unions was between $300-500 million. This led other cabinet secretaries to believe that settlement was impossible. Later, Synder had to admit that the difference only amounted to around $25-$30 million. Synder showed up to the President’s speechwriting meeting “feeling no pain” and stating that he interrupted the process several times with “inane cracks which served no useful purpose.” Pearson concluded, “Harry Truman’s worst enemy is his own loyalty to friends.”

Suburbia

One quickly learns the unwritten rules of suburban life in a hurry. Success for Elliot Caplin depended on mastering the unrelenting rhythm of the railroad train timetable. For his daily trip from Larchmont to New York City, a 40-minute ride, he only had two choices to make it to work on time; the 8:17 or the 8:33 express, or he could call in sick. This was his routine when he worked as an editor for the Parents Magazine Institute, which included comic books and periodicals that offered parenting tips. He had also taken on the writing duties of Abbie an’ Slats, a comic strip created by his famous brother, who wrote under the pen name Al Capp (born Alfred G. Caplin) and was best known as the creator of the comic strip Li’l Abner. Debuting in 1934, it had become one of the most widely read and influential comic strips in American history. At its peak, Li’l Abner appeared in over 900 newspapers, reaching an estimated 70 million readers daily. Capp had initially passed the writing work for his secondary creation, Abbie an’ Slats, to his brother as a temporary measure to keep up with deadlines, until he finally gave him the full-time writing responsibilities in 1945. Caplin was proud to be working on a comic strip as it had been one of his career ambitions. However, his professional link with his famous brother was about to bring about immense distress.

When Elliot Caplin and his wife had moved from Brooklyn to their spacious home in Larchmont, New York, they had a newborn and two other children aged one and four. They were immediately taken with the charm of semi-rural life. The only drawback was the uncompromising railroad timetable. Everything for Caplin changed one morning when he hurriedly drank his steaming-hot morning coffee as he typically did and took his car out of the garage, in a rush to catch the train. There was a figure standing at the end of his driveway; as Caplin drove his car backwards, in his rearview mirror he could see a man standing much too close to the edge of the path. As the car reached the end of the driveway, the man still refused to budge. Caplin stopped the car and the man nodded silently. Caplin nodded back, adding: “Need a lift to the station?” The man seemed to know who Caplin was, perhaps recognizing him from a previous get-together in the neighborhood.

The stranger said nothing and got in the car; he seemed to feel that he was entitled to this ride to the station. Caplin struggled to place him: “We met at the…the…” In the moment, he forgot the name of the “Welcome to Monroe Avenue” party one of their new neighbors had hosted. The man remained silent and gave no indication as to whether he had even heard Caplin’s voice. The man sat in the passenger seat in awkward silence for several blocks before uttering: “I know who you are. My name is Bennett Harper.” The man’s eyes remained focused on the road ahead and he quickly added, “You’re Al Capp’s brother.” His tone was flat, carrying with it an odd tension—he was not expressing this connection to celebrity in a positive way. Caplin did not know how to reply, so he simply stated: “Why yes, I am.”

The drive continued in silence until they were about five blocks from the train station. Harper turned his head and finally looked directly at Caplin: “Don’t you see the resemblance?” the stranger asked. Caplin had no idea what he was talking about. He studied Harper’s features: his short, straight nose, his sandy brown hair, his thick glasses, his pockmarked face. Nothing stood out and he came up with nothing. “No,” Caplin replied, shaking his head. “Li’l Abner,” Harper revealed. Caplin blinked in disbelief: “What about L’il Abner?” The namesake of his brother’s popular comic strip, Li’l Abner was drawn as a tall, broad-shouldered young man with a muscular build and rugged good looks. He had thick black hair and was dressed in patched overalls, an open red checked shirt, and boots. Harper could not have looked more different than the cartoon character who lived in the fictional village of Dogpatch, USA.

Harper continued with a serious look on his face: “I resemble Li’l Abner. So much so, I have had to wear smoked glasses so people won’t recognize me.” Even by the 1940s, “smoked glasses” was a mostly antiquated way of referring to sunglasses. “KENTUCKY MERCHANT CAUGHT IN ROBBERY; Wearing Mask and Smoked Glasses He Raids Bank ‘Because Times Are Hard’,” read a New York Times headline from August 1930. As if he were witnessing a crime in progress himself, Caplin instinctively swerved the car to the curb, a sense of danger welling up inside of him. Despite a few blocks still remaining to their destination, Caplin wanted out now. “Let’s walk the rest of the way,” he offered, attempting to sound casual.

Harper stayed motionless in his seat. “Life has become a living hell for me,” he continued, as if Caplin had not spoken. “People—even friends—constantly ride me. And you know why, don’t you?” Caplin had completely lost interest in having a conversation or staying in a confined space with this man; he stepped out of the car as quickly as he could. Harper followed his lead, but his movements were slow and deliberate as he exited the car and explained his supposed predicament: “These people keep saying to me, ‘Abner, why haven’t you had sexual relations with Daisy Mae in the months of August and September!’” One of the comic strip’s longest-running jokes involved Daisy Mae, a beautiful, blonde country girl, constantly chasing Li’l Abner, who in turn dodged her.

Caplin was terrified; not because of Harper’s words, which were patently absurd, but with the grave sincerity with which he spoke them. His tone was humorless, chillingly sincere. The stranger’s pained, stern face let Caplin know that Harper’s words were not meant to engender a laugh. Caplin was now frightened at the prospect of what this large man, who was at least two inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than him, was capable of doing at any moment. They began walking towards the train station. “We’d better hurry if we want to catch this train,” Caplin stated, trying to keep his voice steady. Harper responded: “I’m not taking this train. I live in Rye.” With this admission, he revealed that he had tracked down Caplin and traveled 20 minutes southwest to Larchmont from his home for this bizarre encounter. Harper stopped walking and turned towards Caplin, fixing his gaze with wide eyes menacing Caplin behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

“Oh. Your day off?” Caplin now tried to keep the conversation going to discover more information, attempting to mask his unease. “Not my day off,” Harper replied in a low, unsettling voice. “Ethyl fired me. And I told you why.” With no further clues at his disposal, Caplin had no idea he was referring to a fuel additive company and not a woman named Ethel. Harper continued in a monotonous tone: “They found out that I was Li’l Abner. That’s why I’m not working.” Caplin thought he had figured out Harper’s previous job: “You’re talking about the Ethyl Gasoline people?” Harper did not reply and simply walked away. Caplin remained where he stood and watched as Harper slowly disappeared from view.

Caplin had experienced enough and headed into a nearby drugstore, intending to call his wife. Realizing there was little she could do, he instead called the police. Chief William J. Keresey, who had been with the Larchmont Police Department since 1914 and appointed as Police Chief in 1934, listened patiently to Caplin as he recited what he felt sounded like a paranoid tale from a husband fearful for his family’s safety. “Don’t worry, Mr. Caplin,” Keresey said in a reassuring voice. “I’ll have some of my people watch your house. At least until you get home from work. And we won’t alarm your wife, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

Feeling a bit relieved, Caplin completed his trip to the office. Still feeling uneasy while at work, he phoned Information and confirmed that a Bennett Harper did in fact live in Rye, New York. Caplin dialed his number and listened with anticipation on the line until he heard that familiar, monotone voice on the other end. Caplin hung up immediately, satisfied that at least the man was not living near his home. He managed to work a partial day and left for home early on the train.

Over the next few days, Caplin waited with trepidation for another sign of Harper. A week passed by and the coast seemed to be clear. He refrained from telling his wife on the advice of Chief Keresey. “I see no reason to disturb Mrs. Caplin,” the Police Chief counseled him. “Chances are this fellow’s just a harmless nuisance—you’ll never see him again.”

How wrong he was; Caplin was sitting in his living room on the eighth day, at around 2:30, when Harper appeared in the window, walking onto the path leading up to the house. Caplin had spent most of his days since their first encounter actively looking out the window for this very purpose. “Call Chief Keresey and tell him that man is here. He’ll know what you’re talking about,” he whispered to his wife as he rushed towards the door. She gave him a questioning look and then proceeded to the telephone. By the time she got the Chief on the phone, Caplin was already halfway down the driveway intercepting Harper.

Harper seemed to be bigger this time in Caplin’s estimation; taller, heavier, and more menacing. Only his dull, lifeless eyes obscured by thick lenses remained unchanged. Harper’s first words of out of his mouth were: “It’s getting worse,” as Caplin took him by the arm and steered him in the direction of the street. “How so?” Caplin asked, guiding him towards the beach a few blocks away. Harper gave a heavy sigh: “Ethyl won’t rehire me. Won’t even consider it.” A car drove by and Caplin spotted Detective Sergeant Crowley from the Larchmont Police in the driver’s seat. He felt a sense of relief that the Police Chief had kept his word, even though the policeman did not look in their direction and kept driving.

“Exactly what kind of work do you do for Ethyl?” Caplin asked, trying to gather as much information as he could in case things turned sour. “I’m a chemical engineer,” Harper replied. “Graduated MIT in ‘47. Worked for Ethyl ever since. Never had another job. And now—” He stopped walking and with a chilling calmness stated: “And now only two professions are left for me to make a living in.”

“And they are?” Caplin asked, unable to resist finding out more. Harper turned to face him directly. Detective Crowley’s car passed by again, this time more slowly. “Guess,” Harper said. “I can’t,” Caplin admitted. “Welding and ski instruction,” he replied. Caplin was flabbergasted: “Welding and—” He searched his mind for a logical connection. “Ski instructing,” Harper clarified. Reaching into his pocket and with careful precision, Harper removed his thick-lensed glasses and replaced them with a tinted pair. “Now you understand, don’t you, Mr. Capp?”

Caplin understood nothing of what was being discussed and wished that Harper would not call him by his brother’s pseudonym, which he never adopted. Harper seemed unbothered by Caplin’s perplexity and continued explaining his job prospects: “Welding and ski instruction are the only two professions where you are expected to wear smoked glasses. When I wear smoked glasses, people won’t recognized me as Li’l Abner. So chances are, I can make some sort of living. Only...” He trailed off and looked at Caplin with a mournful stare: “Only I can neither weld nor ski.”

His range of responses to Harper’s unpredictability running out, Caplin offered only a sympathetic nod. They turned back toward the street and headed for Caplin’s house. Caplin edged his body close to Harper’s right arm; close enough that Harper could not swing a fist easily. He assumed he learned this maneuver from some work of fiction. As they passed the house, Harper inclined his head slightly, gesturing toward the front door, and then continued down the street without another word.

Slumped in an armchair at home, Caplin finally explained to his wife what had transpired previously with Harper. She remained composed and before she could speak, the phone rang. “That was your nut case, eh, Mr. Caplin?” Chief Keresey asked. After thanking him for the police escort, Caplin blurted out a question that had been on his mind since the first encounter: “Chief, what does it take to get a gun permit?” Keresey advised that this type of weapon was not necessary for this situation and that at most, a permit for a gun at home rather than for concealed carry would be best. There was not much that could be done from a criminal law perspective: “Fact of the matter is, Mr. Caplin, that the pieces aren’t much use in a case like the one we got here. Better you just watch your step and keep in constant touch with us.” This answer comforted Caplin somewhat and with three small children at home, he opted to purchase three baseball bats and strategically placed them in different areas of the home.

Harper Must Go

Two days later, Harper returned, this time making an appearance at Caplin’s office. Rosalind, his secretary, was already up to speed on who Harper was and informed her boss on Tuesday morning: “Mr. Bennett Harper wants to see you. Says it’s very important.” Caplin replied: “He knows I’m here?” Rosalind realized her mistake: “I’m sorry. I never thought to tell him you were out of the office.” Caplin acknowledged the situation was beyond their control: “It won’t make much difference.”

Without an invitation or greeting, Harper entered Caplin’s office soon after he did and sat down. Harper looked ordinary, except for the flat, menacing expression on his face that caused Caplin so much dread. “I just found out something in the Mickey Mouse daily comic strip,” Harper announced. “Oh,” Caplin replied, trying to sound uninterested. “What was that?” Harper answered in the same matter-of-fact tone one uses to place an order at a diner: “It’s all right to kill somebody if you say ‘excuse me’ first.” Caplin now regretted taking the Chief’s advice about the gun permit. If a pistol had been readily available, he might have used it on Harper.

It was the calm certainty in Harper’s words that most disturbed Caplin; he meant what he was saying. He was telegraphing an intention to commit violence—perhaps against Caplin, perhaps against Al Capp—and the thought that his wife and children might be targets made him even more alarmed. After uttering his eccentric threat, Harper was done talking. He remained in his chair, watching Caplin with the same unnerving composure he had now witnessed several times. Rosalind reappeared: “Your next appointment is waiting.” There was no such appointment but she understood what needed to be done: Harper needed to leave.

To arm himself with more information, Caplin began digging into Haper’s background. The Ethyl Corporation was cautious when he called, but once they realized he meant no harm they cooperated. “Harper is, or was,” the department head told him, “a very capable chemical engineer. About a year ago, he developed a bad infection in his foot. It got pretty serious, so we sent him down to Johns Hopkins. They treated him, cured the infection. But...” He paused, uncertain of whether to proceed. “How much of this do you really want to know?” Caplin explained everything that had happened so far, in full detail. The company man sighed. “All right, then—you might as well have the whole story.” During Harper’s stay at Johns Hopkins, his surgeon noticed something peculiar about his behavior and brought in a psychiatrist. After a series of tests, the psychiatrist reported to the Ethyl Corporation that Harper was suffering from a serious mental disorder. The company tried to help him; they arranged for him to see a psychiatrist and persuaded him to begin therapy. For a while, Harper kept his appointments regularly.

Caplin next called the psychiatrist, who listened carefully at first without offering much information. Once he realized that Harper’s employers had made the referral, his professional reserve softened, and he asked how he could assist. “Is he dangerous, doctor?” Caplin asked. The answer came immediately, although the doctor’s tone had lost its clinical calm: “He came regularly for a time, then suddenly stopped showing up. No explanations, no calls to reschedule—he just quit.” The doctor sighed heavily. “It’s not uncommon for patients to do that, but Harper’s behavior unsettled me. And then...” Another deep breath followed: “then one evening, around seven o’clock, as I was leaving my office, I saw him. Yes, it was Harper.” The line went silent. Caplin thought he had lost the connection, until the psychiatrist’s strained voice returned. “He was on my front lawn, hiding behind a bush—just standing there, staring. It was getting dark, but I could still see his face. The expression... there was no mistaking it.” Caplin interjected: “That must have scared the hell out of you.” The doctor admitted in a quiet voice: “It did…In my professional judgment, very dangerous, Mr. Caplin.” Caplin could not believe that Harper was allowed to be this way in public without consequences: “Then why don’t you have him committed, Doctor? A man like that running loose is a disaster waiting to happen.” The psychiatrist lost his composure and his voice jumped an octave: “For Christ’s sake, I don’t want to see my brains splattered all over the front lawn!” Caplin thought that putting him away in a mental institution would help. “Sure, sure,” the doctor answered bitterly. “They put him away for six months, maybe a year. Then they evaluate him, and before you can say Sigmund Freud, he’s out again. And who do you think he’s going to come after? Me—the ‘black-hearted villain’ who had him committed. No, Mr. Caplin, I’m not volunteering to be a target for a dangerous schizoid like Bennett Harper.”

The conversation left Caplin shaken. It was dawning on him that no one was willing or able to help remove this potential killer from his life. The longer Harper stayed silent, the more unbearable it became. Each day without contact drained him further; his work suffered and sleepless nights became routine.

“Who the hell is Bennett Harper?” Caplin’s brother Al Capp one day asked, calling from Cambridge. Caplin had thought that Harper’s obsession had transferred from the famous cartoonist to his lesser known brother; that Harper had confused the two of them and forgotten who had actually created Li’l Abner. Clearly, that was not the case. Caplin told his brother as much as he could, leaving out the psychiatrist’s grim assessment of Harper’s violent potential. “I figured as much when he phoned me at the studio,” Capp said. “So I told him to get in touch with Charley Post.” Post was Capp’s lawyer, a tall Midwesterner who had gone to Harvard and sounded like a Boston aristocrat. “What happened? Did Harper call Post?” Caplin asked. Capp confirmed: “He did. They met in Charley’s office, with an inspector from the Boston Police sitting in, posing as a lawyer. Charley says Harper’s clearly not all there. He told them he’s been forced to wear smoked glasses—” Caplin broke in to finish the sentence: “Because welders and ski instructors wear smoked glasses, and those are the only professions open to him?” Capp replied: “Exactly. So—what happens next?” Caplin did not know how to reassure his brother, but he promised that Harper would not trouble him any longer. Capp seemed satisfied with that pledge; Caplin was not.

Harper could not be arrested and Caplin now understood the torment people face when the law was powerless to act against a crime that had not yet been committed. The victim-in-waiting could only wait and ponder the possibilities. The tension became unbearable. Harper’s calm declaration that “it’s all right to kill if you say ‘excuse me’ first” haunted him. He was certain that Harper saw him as his enemy and his next target.

Big Plans