Epilogue

Though I’ve studied the Albin Johnson case top to bottom and from every conceivable angle, I’m at a loss to explain what happened to the sullen, taciturn farmer. Maybe he was consumed by the flames like the rest of his family. Perhaps he was getting blitzed on white lightning with a cigarette wedged between his calloused fingers. And then he passed out and inadvertently set the family home ablaze. Or maybe he achieved the same result by knocking over a lantern in a state of drunkenness. Anything is possible.

My best guess: Albin Johnson was clinically depressed and extremely volatile. He also had a violent streak and a tendency to overindulge in whiskey. Perhaps he was an alcoholic with no close friends, 12-step programs or mentors to turn to for help. Back in his day, people struggling with depression and the bottle didn’t have many options—especially destitute farmers like Johnson. It was up to each individual to just snap out of it.

Perhaps it’s also true that Johnson had narcissistic personality disorder, a malady that gives people an inflated sense of self-importance. According to the Mayo Clinic, people with narcissistic personality disorder have “a deep need for admiration and a lack of empathy for others. But behind this mask of ultra-confidence lies a fragile self-esteem that’s vulnerable to the slightest criticism.” Such disorders cause “problems in many areas of life, such as relationships, work, school or financial affairs,” the Mayo Clinic notes on its website. “You may be generally unhappy and disappointed when you’re not given the special favors or admiration you believe you deserve. Others may not enjoy being around you, and you may find your relationships unfulfilling.”

Johnson was never diagnosed with depression, narcissistic personality disorder, alcoholism or any other disease of the mind as far as I can tell. But the symptoms of those illnesses—vulnerability to criticism (perhaps from father Emil Johnson), a state of general unhappiness and “problem areas” in relationships, work and finances—seem to fit Johnson neatly, much like that Scotch cap he wears in his wanted poster.

Add a diagnosis of clinical depression, narcissistic personality disorder and alcoholism to extreme poverty and hopelessness, and you have a lethal combination. Perhaps a deadly powder keg of anger, frustration and mental illness was under Johnson’s skin and it all exploded during the early morning hours of April 11, 1933.

Still, the story remains an unsolved mystery.

At times, the facts surrounding the mystery bounce through my head like the silver orb in a pinball machine. At other times, they pound away like a pile driver on a construction site. Eight dead, including seven children. Only a corner of the house standing. Bodies found in sleeping positions. A missing man. Wanted posters. Reward money. An indictment. Tire tracks in the snow. An eviction notice from dear old dad. Two pistols and a rifle. A kerosene can in an evidence locker. Albin’s detractors. Albin’s defenders. Ghost stories. Desperation. Despair. The Great Depression. Eight lifeless, pre-cremated bodies sharing a common casket. It’s an ambitious enough project just to try to sort everything out, to separate fact from fiction, truth from urban legend. Darn near impossible is the task of finding that elusive “aha!” moment, when the great mystery will be solved. Most likely, that day will never come.