For centuries, people wondered whether a dying eye might hold on to its last sight, the retina freezing that final image the way a camera fixes a picture. The idea started in the 1600s, when a Jesuit brother dissecting a frog announced he had spotted a faint image on the dead animal's retina. Nobody argued. Then photography arrived, and suddenly the old frog story sounded a whole lot more promising.
If a camera could fix an image on glass or paper, why couldn't the eye? Both had a lens. And if it worked, think how many murders might be solved just by looking into the victim's eyes. The new forensic technique got a name, optography, and scientists, police and the public all caught the fever.
A head delivered to Heidelberg
It started in earnest in 1876, when Franz Christian Boll discovered rhodopsin, or visual purple, a light-sensitive pigment in the retina's rod cells that lets us see in dim light. Boll died at 30. Less than a year later, his colleague Wilhelm Friedrich Kühne, a physiology professor at the University of Heidelberg, was waiting in his darkroom for the severed head of a freshly executed murderer.
Kühne called the eyes a whole photographic workshop, and he coined the word optogram for the image left on a dead person's retina. He had practiced on rabbits first. He strapped them down and forced them to stare at gas flames or sunlit windows for hours, then cut off their heads, plucked out their eyes and soaked the retinas in alum and sulfuric acid, trying to fix the image the way a photographer fixes a print. It's giving mad scientist. A few of the rabbit optograms showed individual windowpanes. Most were fuzzy and faded almost as fast as they appeared.
The human head came on November 16, 1880. It belonged to Erhard Gustav Reif, beheaded by guillotine for drowning his two youngest sons. Kühne cut out the left eye, hardened it, dunked it in acid, and ten minutes later he had an image. He suggested it matched the line of the guillotine blade. The trouble was that Reif had been blindfolded when the blade dropped. Some argue the shape looked more like the steps he climbed to the scaffold, eyes wide open. Nobody can check now, because the Reif optogram has been lost.
Rabbit eyes turned out to be a poor stand-in for human ones anyway. They have no fovea centralis, the tiny bullseye at the center of the human retina, and a very different mix of rod and cone cells. Kühne's American lab partner, Dr. W.C. Ayers, wrote in the New York Medical Journal that after more than a thousand experiments, he had concluded the whole thing was a waste of time.
Staring into Whitechapel
That should have ended it. It didn't. In 1888, with Jack the Ripper stalking Whitechapel and London in a panic, Inspector Walter Dew was willing to try anything. By then optography had moved on from dissecting eyes to simply photographing them. Mary Kelly's eyes were wide open and staring in death, so expert photographers took several pictures of them.
Dew never believed it would work. "The result was negative," he wrote, and the fact that police tried it at all showed they were willing to follow any clue, even at the risk of being made to look absurd.
Optography had been written off as a waste of time for more than forty years, yet when Fritz Angerstein heard his face had turned up in his victims' eyes, he confessed to eight murders. It's the only case where the theory ever helped solve a crime.
Ghosts on the glass
The Victorians loved photography and the supernatural in equal measure, and William Mumler, a Boston jewelry engraver, fused the two. In 1862 he claimed a self-portrait had turned up a second figure: the spirit of his dead cousin. He quit engraving and opened studios in Boston and New York. A country burying somewhere between 620,000 and 700,000 Civil War dead lined up at his door. One grieving daughter looked at her mother's portrait and cried, "Why, mother, this is father." His most famous sitter was Mary Todd Lincoln, photographed with the ghostly figure of her assassinated husband resting his hands on her shoulders.
In 1869 Mumler was charged with fraud, and P.T. Barnum himself testified against him: "Mumler exploits the sorrow of the grieving." The trick turned out to be photographic plates that were never properly cleaned. Spirit photography rolled right along without him. In 1875 a French photographer, Édouard Buguet, confessed that his ghosts were dolls wrapped in gauze with photographs of faces glued to their little china heads. And in 1891, Sybell Corbet's photo of the library at Combermere Abbey seemed to show Lord Combermere sitting in a chair on the day of his funeral. It was a one-hour exposure, and a servant had wandered into the frame.
Eight bodies, twenty bandits
On the night of November 30, 1924, in a German village, Fritz Angerstein killed eight people with axes and a hunting knife: his wife, her mother, her sister, two clerks, two gardeners and a maidservant. The next day he strolled into the village, mailed letters and bought his wife a box of chocolates, discussing her illness with tears in his eyes. She was already dead, stabbed 18 times. When the village constable offered to walk him home, Angerstein turned him down. Back at the villa he poured kerosene over the bodies, set the house on fire, stabbed himself twice in the side and screamed for help.
His story was that 20 bandits had attacked. Nobody in a village of maybe a thousand people had seen a single stranger. A strongbox full of money sat untouched. His fingerprints were on the axe and dagger, his wounds looked self-inflicted, and it came out that he had embezzled from the company whose quarry he ran. He still wouldn't confess.
Then, on December 7, 1924, Professor Doehne of Cologne University announced that he had photographed the retinas of two victims. One showed Angerstein's face. The other showed the same face twisted with rage, and the blade of the axe. Angerstein broke: "I killed them all. I confess." A theory debunked decades earlier had cracked a mass murderer.
In July 1925 he was sentenced to death eight times, once for each victim. On November 17, 1925, Germany's most famous executioner, Franz Friedrich Carl Gröpler, needed only one drop of the blade. The other seven sentences were purely symbolic.
