ed of myself; I hate myself; but I
can't help it. I have friends among nice people, play the piano,
love music, books, and everything that is beautiful and
elevating; yet they can't elevate me, because this load of inborn
vileness drags me down and prevents my perfect enjoyment of
anything. Doctors are the only ones who understand and know my
helplessness before this monster. I think and work till my brain
whirls, and I can scarce refrain from crying out my troubles."
This letter was written a few days before the crime was
committed.

When conveyed to the police station Olmstead completely broke
down and wept bitterly, crying: "Oh! Will, Will, come to me! Why
don't you kill me and let me go to him!" (At this time he
supposed he had killed Clifford.) A letter was found on him, as
follows: "Mercy, March 27th. To Him Who Cares to Read: Fearing
that my motives in killing Clifford and myself may be
misunderstood, I write this to explain the cause of this homicide
and suicide. Last summer Clifford and I began a friendship which
developed into love." He then recited the details of the
friendship, and continued: "After playing a Liszt rhapsody for
Clifford over and over, he said that when our time to die came he
hoped we would die together, listening to such glorious music as
that. Our time has now come to die, but death will not be
accompanied by music. Clifford's love has, alas! turned to deadly
hatred. For some reason Clifford suddenly ended our relations and
friendship." In his cell he behaved in a wildly excited manner,
and made several attempts at suicide; so that he had to be
closely watched. A few weeks later he wrote to Dr. Talbot: "Cook
County Gaol, April 23. I feel as though I had neglected you in
not writing you in all this time, though you may not care to hear
from me, as I have never done anything but trespass on your
kindness. But please do me the justice of thinking that I never
expected all this trouble, as I thought Will and I would be in
our graves and at peace long before this. But my plans failed
miserably. Poor Will was not dead, and I was grabbed before I
could shoot myself. I think Will really shot himself, and I feel
certain others will think so, too, when the whole story comes out
in court. I can't understand the surprise and indignation my act
seemed