THE MORNING OF FRIDAY, JANUARY 10, 1969, was cold and gusty, and Cambridge Police headquarters was quiet. Since Chief Reagan issued the blackout the night before, detectives had begun to treat reporters like they had the plague, and the press, in desperation, resorted to other means to get the story. William Woodward of the New York Post knew that Jane’s funeral was scheduled for later that morning. He banged on Ingrid Kirsch’s door. “I’m going with you,” he demanded. “Go to hell,” she said. Undeterred, he moved on to University Road and knocked on the Mitchells’ door. “You’re taking me to the funeral,” he insisted. Don slammed the door in his face. “It’s a wonder that Mitchell hasn’t moved his nose over a couple of feet,” Ingrid told cops.
* * *
Half an hour away, in Needham, Massachusetts, the first guests were already arriving at Christ Episcopal Church, a modest gray-stone building, close enough to Jane’s childhood home that it had been her church.
Everyone was eyeing everyone else. Reporters studied the plainclothes officers while the detectives examined the press, and everyone took pictures of the guests as they filed into the church. Despite the subfreezing temperature, Officer Michael Giacoppo clutched his movie camera without gloves so he could better feel for the finicky adjustment knobs. He strategically positioned himself between the parking lot and the stairs where each of the 250 attendees needed to pass in order to enter. When Don Mitchell arrived, Giacoppo asked him to tell him who to film. Together, they scrutinized the crowd.
Cambridge Police Detective Michael Giacoppo holds the camera as Don Mitchell helps direct his attention.
They saw Jim Humphries walk in, accompanied by his brother who had come down from Toronto with the mission to cheer him up or, at the very least, distract him. Jim had returned to state police headquarters the day before with a fancy lawyer that Richard Meadow’s father, a dean at Harvard med school, had set him up with. Jim looked paler and more sleep-deprived than usual. But as always, his expression was inscrutable.
Jill Mitchell concealed her eyes with an oversize pair of sunglasses.
Jane’s mother stooped over, like her muscles no longer wanted to carry her. She hadn’t bothered covering her head to fight the chill. Jane’s father, who stood a step behind, looked only at his wife, as if his eyes could steady her.
Jane’s parents at her funeral.
The Lamberg-Karlovskys and Stephen Williams made their way from the parking lot with Phil Kohl, the only non-Harvard person on the Tepe Yahya dig that summer, who had come up from Columbia for the funeral. Martie, Karl’s wife, wore sunglasses and shrouded her head in a silk scarf, but none of the four of them made any attempt to hide their faces from the cameras. A Needham police officer held up traffic as they crossed the street. Jane’s family was prominent enough in town—her father was considered its unofficial mayor—that the local police had shown up to help as a courtesy.
Cambridge Police photo of Phil Kohl, Stephen Williams, and the Lamberg-Karlovskys on their way to the service.
Richard Meadow walked alone, wrapped in a striped scarf, his hair flopped in front of his eyes, while other graduate students walked in packs. No one carried flowers. Jane’s parents had asked, instead, for donations to be made in Jane’s memory to the Peabody Museum. Mary Bunting, the president of Radcliffe, managed to slip in unphotographed, but not for J. O. Brew, the former director of the Peabody, or the secretaries who were still troubled by the department’s silence.
Even William Woodward, the pushy reporter, managed to find his way into the ceremony. “My god. Has he got balls,” Ingrid’s husband said when he saw Woodward with Jane’s neighbors, the Pressers.
* * *
Inside the church, wooden beams arched over a narrow nave. The walls were modest and white. A stained-glass cross glittered at the front of the altar, striking for its color in a room otherwise plain. The church was filled to near capacity. Jim Humphries sat in front with Jane’s parents, her brother Boyd, and other relatives. Police scattered themselves among the mourners.
Jane’s coffin lay near the altar. White roses draped her casket. Soft organ music filled the church. The Reverend Harold Chase read a few prayers and asked that Miss Britton be at “peace now and forever.” There was no eulogy.
Mel Konner, an anthropology student, was struck by the decorum of the service. “I remember being there and just listening to these abstractions about heaven and being in this beautiful place and nothing being said about this horrific murder that ended this wonderful young life.” It was very different from the Jewish funerals he was used to. The high, almost impersonal nature of the service felt radically disconnected from the grief and pain of her death.
A few people dabbed their eyes with handkerchiefs, but only a single sob pierced the crowd.
And then, less than thirty minutes after the prayer service started, it was over. As mourners left the church, the police resumed their filming. Don Mitchell pointed at a few of Jane’s friends and told policemen, “Get him. Get a shot of him. Don’t miss him.”
Jim Humphries and Jane’s family slipped out a side door of the church, skirting the crowd of reporters who had gathered.