discovery of the murders, a circumstance which explained the presence of perhaps a third of the
immense congregation — those who had come out of curiosity. And of course the weather was an
aid to attendance, for by mid-March winter’s high snows have dissolved, and the earth beneath,
thoroughly thawed, has emerged as acre upon acre of ankle-deep mud; there is not much a
farmer can do until the ground hardens. «Land’s so wet and nasty,» said Mrs. Bill Ramsey, the
wife of a farmer. «Can’t work no how. We figured we might as well drive on out to the sale.»
Actually, it was a beautiful day. Spring. Though mud abounded underfoot, the sun, so long
shrouded by snow and cloud, seemed an object freshly made, and the trees — Mr. Clutter’s
orchard of pear and apple trees, the elms shading the lane — were lightly veiled in a haze of
virginal green. The fine lawn surrounding the Clutter house was also newly green, and
trespassers upon it, women anxious to have a closer look at the uninhabited home, crept across
the grass and peered through the windows as though hopeful but fearful of discerning, in the
gloom beyond the pleasant flower-print curtains, grim apparitions.
Shouting, the auctioneer praised his wares — tractors, trucks, wheelbarrows, nail kegs and
sledgehammers and unused lumber, milk buckets, branding irons, horses, horseshoes,
everything needed to run a ranch from rope and harness to sheep dip and tin washtubs — it was
the prospect of buying this merchandise at bargain prices that had lured most of the crowd. But
the hands of bidders flickered shyly — work-roughened hands timid of parting with hard-earned
cash; yet nothing went unsold, there was even someone keen to acquire a bunch of rusty keys,
and a youthful cowboy sporting pale-yellow boots bought Kenyon Clutter’s «coyote wagon,» the
dilapidated vehicle the dead boy had used to harass coyotes, chase them on moonlit nights.
The stagehands, the men who hauled the smaller items on and off the auctioneer’s podium, were
Paul Helm, Vie Irsik, and Alfred Stoecklein, each of them an old, still-faithful employee of the late
Herbert W. Clutter. Assisting at the disposal of his possessions was their final service, for today
was their last day at River Valley Farm; the property had been leased to an Oklahoma rancher,
and hence forward strangers would live and work there. As the auction progressed, and Mr.
Clutter’s worldly domain dwindled, gradually vanished, Paul Helm, remembering the burial of the
murdered family, said, «It’s like a second funeral.»
The last thing to go was the contents of the livestock corral, mostly horses, including Nancy’s
horse, big, fat Babe, who was much beyond her prime. It was late afternoon, school was out, and
several schoolmates of Nancy’s were among the spectators when bidding on the horse began;
Susan Kidwell was there. Sue, who had adopted another of Nancy’s orphaned pets, a cat, wished
she could give Babe a home, for she loved the old horse and knew how much Nancy had loved
her. The two girls had often gone riding together aboard Babe’s wide back, jogged through the
wheat fields on hot summer evenings down to the river and into the water, the mare wading
against the current until, as Sue once described it, «the three of us were cool as fish.» But Sue
had no place to keep a horse.
«I hear fifty . . . sixty-five . . . seventy . . .»: the bidding was laggardly, nobody seemed really to
want Babe, and the man who got her, a Mennonite farmer who said he might use her for plowing,
paid seventy-five dollars. As he led her out of the corral, Sue Kidwell ran forward; she raised her
hand as though to wave goodbye, but instead clasped it over her mouth.
The Garden City Telegram, on the eve of the trial’s start, printed the following editorial: «Some
may think the eyes of the entire nation are on Garden City during this sensational murder trial.
But they are not. Even a hundred miles west of here in Colorado few persons are even
acquainted with the case — other than just remembering some members of a prominent family
were slain. This is a sad commentary on the state of crime in our nation. Since the four members
of the Clutter family were killed last fall, several other such multiple murders have occurred in
various parts of the country. Just during the few days leading up to this trial at least three mass
murder cases broke into the headlines. As a result, this crime and trial are just one of many such
cases people have read about and forgotten. . . .»
Although the eyes of the nation were not upon them, the demeanor of the event’s main
participants, from the court recorder to the judge himself, was markedly self-aware on the
morning of the court’s first convening. All four of the lawyers sported new suits; the new shoes of
the big-footed county attorney creaked and squealed with every step. Hickock, too, was sharply
dressed in clothes provided by his parents: trim blue-serge trousers, a white shirt, a narrow darkblue tie. Only Perry Smith, who owned neither jacket nor tie, seemed sartorially misplaced.
Wearing an open-necked shirt (borrowed from Mr. Meier) and blue jeans rolled up at the cuffs, he
looked as lonely and inappropriate as a seagull in a wheat field.
The courtroom, an unpretentious chamber situated on the third floor of the Finney County
Courthouse, has dull white walls and furnishings of darkly varnished wood. The spectator
benches can seat perhaps one hundred and sixty persons. On Tuesday morning, March 22, the
benches were occupied exclusively by the all-male venire of Finney County residents from which
a jury was to be selected. Not many of the summoned citizenry seemed anxious to serve (one
potential juror, in conversation with another, said, «They can’t use me. I can’t hear well enough.»
To which his friend, after a bit of sly reflection, replied, «Come to think of it, my hearing’s not too
good either»), and it was generally thought that the choosing of the jury would take several days.
As it turned out, the process was completed within four hours; moreover, the jury, including two
alternative members, was extracted from the first forty-four candidates. Seven were rejected on
pre-emptory challenge by the defense, and three were excused at the request of the prosecution;
another twenty won dismissal either because they opposed capital punishment or because they
admitted to having already formed a firm opinion regarding the guilt of the defendants.
The fourteen men ultimately elected consisted of half a dozen farmers, a pharmacist, a nursery
manager, an airport employee, a well driller, two salesmen, a machinist, and the manager of
Ray’s Bowling Alley. They were all family men (several had five children or more), and were
seriously affiliated with one or another of the local churches. During the voir dire examination, four
of them told the court that they had been personally, though not intimately, acquainted with Mr.
Clutter; but upon further questioning, each said he did not feel this circumstance would hinder his
ability to reach an impartial verdict. The airport employee, a middle-aged man named N. L.
Dunnan, said, when asked his opinion of capital punishment, «Ordinarily I’m against it. But in this
case, no» — a declaration which, to some who heard it, seemed clearly indicative of prejudice.
Dunnan was nevertheless accepted as a juror.
The defendants were inattentive observers of the voir dire proceedings. The previous day, Dr.
Jones, the psychiatrist who had volunteered to examine them, had interviewed them separately
for approximately two hours: at the end of the interviews, he had suggested that they each write
for him an autobiographical statement, and it was the act of composing these statements that
occupied the accused throughout the hours spent assembling a jury. Seated at opposite ends of
their counsels’ table, Hickock worked with a pen and Smith with a pencil.
Smith wrote:
I was born Perry Edward Smith Oct. 27 1928 in Huntington, Elko County, Nevada, which
is situated way out in the boon docks, so to speak. I recall that in 1929 our family had
ventured to Juneau, Alaska. In my family were my brother Tex Jr. (he later changed his
name to James because of the ridicule of the name «Tex» & also I believe he hated my
father in his early years — my mother’s doing). My sister Fern (She also changed her
name — to Joy). My sister Barbara. And myself. In Juneau, my father was making bootleg
hooch. I believe it was during this period my mother became acquainted with alcohol.
Mom & Dad began having quarrel. I remember my mother was «entertaining» some
sailors while my father was away. When he came home a fight ensued, and my father,
after a violent struggle, threw the sailors out & proceeded to beat my mother. I was
frightfully scared, in fact all us children were terrified. Crying. I was scared because I
thought my father was going to hurt me, also because he was beating my mother. I really
didn’t understand why he was beating her but I felt she must have done something
dreadfully wrong. . . . The next thing I can vaguely recall is living in Fort Bragg, Calif. My
brother had been presented a B.B. gun. He had shot a hummingbird, and after he had
shot it he was sorry. I asked him to let me shoot the B.B. gun. He pushed me away,
telling me I was too small. It made me so mad I started to cry. After I finished crying, my
anger mounted again, and during the evening when the B.B. gun was behind the chair
my brother was sitting in, I grabbed it & held it to my brother’s ear & hollered BANG! My
father (or mother) beat me and made me apologize. My brother used to shoot at a big
white horse ridden by a neighbor who went by our place on his way to town. The
neighbor caught my brother and I hiding in the bushes and took us to Dad & we got a
beating
