In the 1920s, a Harvard dropout with a jail record sold America small bottles of distilled water spiked with radium, calling his product "the only product of its kind that produces internal sunshine." Doctors prescribed it. A former U.S. amateur golf champion drank it after every meal. He ended up buried in a lead-lined coffin, and he was still radioactive decades later.
A nation of easy marks
America has always loved quack medicine. The Puritans left behind the conviction that illness was punishment for sin, so your own wickedness made you sick and then kept you from getting better. Real doctors were scarce anyway: of the 3,000-plus physicians in the American colonies in 1775, only about 400 had been formally educated, and trained or not, they reached for bloodletting and enemas. Into that gap poured patent medicines, the bottled cure-alls of their day. Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup for Babies and Children contained morphine. One cough syrup mixed alcohol, chloroform, morphine and cannabis. The 1914 Harrison Narcotic Act finally capped how much cocaine and opium a product could contain, but it did nothing to cap America's appetite for a miracle.
The next miracle was radium. Marie Curie had discovered it and won the 1911 Nobel Prize in Chemistry for that work, her second Nobel. Ads soon promised that radium could turn diseased tissue from bad to good, curing everything from lupus to wrinkles. Nobody could say exactly what radium was or how it worked, and the New York Health Department was already warning the public that radium cures were fraudulent. Fraud turned out to be the least of the problems.
The doctor who wasn't
William J.A. Bailey was born in Boston in May 1884, the youngest of nine. His father died not long after, and money troubles forced him out of Harvard after three semesters. Afterward he claimed a Harvard degree and a Ph.D. from the University of Vienna, and the press took him at his word.
His résumé was a string of hustles. He took cash deposits on a $600 car of his own design, built in a factory that turned out to be an abandoned sawmill with a single box of tools for an assembly line. That earned him 30 days in jail in 1915. In 1918 he ran afoul of the law again over a supposed impotence treatment called Las-I-Go for superb manhood. In 1922 he founded Associated Radium Chemists in New York City and sold Arium, aphrodisiac tablets laced with a trace of radium, until federal prosecutors in four jurisdictions called the claims false and seized his stock. Bailey hopped the river to East Orange, New Jersey, and hit his home run: Radithor, distilled water spiked with radium-226 and radium-228.
This time he had learned some tricks. He blanketed newspapers with ads dressed up as news stories. He mailed pamphlets to physicians around the world and offered them a 17% rebate on every Radithor prescription. His copy leaned on words like professional, clinical and certified, and one ad announced, "No person has ever died of old age."
A bottle after every meal
Eben Byers seemed to have walked out of a novel: rich, handsome, a Yale golfer, the 1906 U.S. amateur champion and chairman of his father's iron company. In November 1927, riding a chartered train home from the Yale-Harvard game, he tumbled out of his bunk when the train lurched to a stop. His injured arm never healed. It wrecked his golf game and, to his dismay, his performance in the bedroom.
A Pittsburgh physiotherapist, Charles Clinton Moyar, prescribed Radithor. Byers felt young and virile again, had cases delivered to each of his homes and pushed the stuff on his friends. Between 1927 and 1930 he drank roughly 1,400 bottles, more than three times the lethal acute level of radiation.
Radium loves your bones. Chemically it resembles calcium, so the body absorbs it into the skeleton, where it stays and fires off alpha particles, radiation that can snap both strands of DNA. Byers' headaches became monstrous. The weight fell off him. His gums bled and his teeth loosened and dropped out. In September 1930, his jaw began to disintegrate.
When a Federal Trade Commission attorney came to take his testimony, the report read: "Young in years and mentally alert, he could hardly speak. His head was swathed in bandages." Surgeons had removed nearly all of his upper jaw and most of his lower one, and holes were forming in his skull. A Columbia University specialist found at least 365 micrograms of radium in his body. Byers died on March 31, 1932, at 51, and even his last breath was radioactive. When the federal government briefly exhumed him in 1965, his remains were still dangerously radioactive.
Nobody took the blame. Moyar insisted, "I know that Byers died from a combination of blood diseases which had induced gout." Gout has never dissolved anyone's skull. Bailey said he had drunk more radium water "than any man alive, and I have never suffered any ill effects."
A tonic of radioactive water, sold as a cure-all by a con man with a fake doctorate, dissolved a millionaire golfer's jaw and skull, even though radium had already been poisoning factory women for more than a decade. The man who sold it never stood trial and went right on selling radioactive gadgets.
The girls who came first
The worst part is that the danger was no secret. Beginning in 1917, around 4,000 women in watch factories painted glowing dials with a radium paint called Undark and shaped their brushes to a fine point with their lips. Their teeth rotted, their jawbones died and their bodies broke down. When some of them asked about safety, they were told, "That little bit of radium won't do nothing, but add a pretty little flush to your cheeks." Meanwhile, the men in the company's labs were issued lead aprons and ivory-tipped tongs. The paint's inventor died in 1928, the 16th known victim of his own creation, right around the time Byers stepped up to three or more bottles a day. The radium girls came first, by more than a decade.
Still glowing in the ground
Bailey was never tried for anything. The government shut down his New Jersey plant, and he simply opened the Radium Institute, which sold radioactive paperweights, belt clips and a gadget for making radioactive water at home. He died of bladder cancer in 1949. When his body was dug up in 1970, it still pinned the Geiger counter, and his skeleton had nearly disintegrated from radiation damage. Back he went into his lead-lined box.
Some good did come of it. The scandal all but ended dangerous patent medicines, and the lessons about handling radioactive material were later put to use protecting workers on the Manhattan Project.
