The Letter

Handsome young Dr. Lawrence W. Leslie sat down at the desk in his Chicago living room and began to write: "To the coroner--Dear Sir." It was late at night. The 33-year-old doctor had been through a harrowing evening, but he wrote neatly and methodically. As far as his friends knew, he was that kind of man. He had just finished serving two years in the Air Force--to which he had been called after finishing his internship--and had been in Chicago for less than three months, but his North Side apartment neighbors had noted his easy courtesy, and how happy he seemed with his wife and small daughter.

"I have been suffering," his letter to the coroner went on thoughtfully, "from a chronic and progressive anxiety neurosis, for as long as I can recall . . . [I have used] barbiturate sedation of various types to control myself in public for about three years; and during the past two-three months, the condition has got out of hand . . . with steady progression and prospect of complete loss of control. It became . . . apparent to me . . . that death is far preferable to institutional treatment . . . Right or wrong, this brings us to the present:

"1) My wife and I have been truly, deeply in love, and knowing her as well as I do, I feel that any real happiness for her would have lain in my happiness or companionship, etc. We were married Nov. 10, 1951, after a courtship of several years, and our child was born Dec. 9, 1952. That leaves either both wife and child behind (living), or both dying with me. I have chosen the latter.

"2) This evening I borrowed (or stole, as you will) from the Corbett Clinic, 1380 W. Lake St., syringe, needle and MS [morphine sulphate] bottle (20 cc) containing about 8-10 cc of MS 1/4 per cc, the latter coming from an adequately guarded locker, so that my possession of same should not reflect on the clinic, where I have taken temporary employment.

"3) On arrival home, I proposed that my wife and I have a Martini before dinner and, subsequently, two more after. Without her suspicion, I gave her four capsules gr. 1 1/2 Nembutal . . . 'powdered amphogel for upset stomach,' and then two doses of MS of 4 cc each, the latter being . . . fatal. I gave the baby 2 cc ( 1/2 grain) MS and 2 grains Nembutal without waking her. This also proved fatal.

"4) Mission completed, thus far, without any pain or fear or anticipation for wife or baby. Now for me. Please do what you can to minimize complications resulting from my actions.

"P.S. Wife's name: Florence Jossart Leslie."

The doctor rose. His wife's body lay on the living-room pulldown bed. Open on a nearby chair was a mystery novel entitled Dead Sure. His daughter Carol lay dead in her crib. The doctor walked into the bathroom, picked up a rifle and shot himself through the heart.

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