Tylenol killings and the mystery of murder

Voodoo figurines, The Field Museum

     Domestic terrorism is a young man’s game. I have no idea why. You’d think it would be the other way around — old men, having lived most of their lives, tempted to go out in a blaze of imagined glory for whatever grudge is stuck in their wrinkly craws.
     But no. It’s the young who pitch away others’ lives, and their own, too, for what always amounts to nothing.
     Take the idiot who shot up the 4th of July parade in Highland Park last year. He was 21. You shouldn’t include the killer in the circle of sympathy, but I do think about that guy, sitting in jail, night after night. For the rest of his life. What must he be thinking? Maybe if you’re the kind of person who could do something like that, you don’t have the usual human feelings you’d expect to find in a person.
     Timothy McVeigh was 26 when he blew up the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City, killing 168 people, including 19 children in a day care center. He was executed in 2001; McVeigh is as eloquent an argument for the death penalty as I can imagine. Yes, it’s sometimes administered unjustly in an overburdened and racist criminal justice system. But some crimes cry out for it.
     Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber, was a little older — his first bomb exploded, at Northwestern University, two days after his 36th birthday. Living in a cabin in Montana, he conducted his bombing campaign — 16 bombs over 17 years — while the government fruitlessly tried to track him down, distributing a drawing from a witness who saw him at a post office, a man in sunglasses and a hoodie. It wasn’t much help; his brother ended up turning him in, after recognizing the style of the writing in the rambling manifesto he forced two newspapers to print.
     Kaczynski died in June, a suicide — finally hurting someone who deserved it — bringing up his crimes all over again. The media is funny that way. We only need a pretext, a transition, any excuse to unspool the tale once again. “Tylenol? Funny you should mention that....”
     I guess the justification is that some people don’t know.

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The Tylenol killings

Metropolitan Museum of Art

     James Lewis, the only suspect in the 1982 Tylenol killings, was found dead at his home in Boston Sunday. Anyone who was around the Chicago area remembers just how frightening these random murders were. I describe them in my recent book, "Every Goddamn Day," published by the University of Chicago Press. 

Sept. 29, 1982 

     “Mary, are you okay?” 

     Dennis Kellerman hovers by the bathroom door. He saw his 12-year-old daughter go inside. Then a thud. 

    She had woken up feeling unwell—a scratchy throat—and her parents said she could stay home from school. Her dad knocks again. “Mary, are you okay?” 

     He opens the door. It’s about 7 a.m. 

     Adam Janus, 27, an Arlington Heights postal worker, is also staying home with a cold. At noon he picks up his children from preschool and stops by Jewel to grab some medicine. He goes home and has lunch.

      “I’m going to take two Tylenol and lie down,” he says.

      About 3:45 in Winfield, Mary Reiner is home with her four children, the youngest a week old. Her husband comes home to find her collapsed on the floor. 

     An hour later, the family of Adam Janus is planning his funeral. His brother, Stanley, who has a bad back, asks his wife to get him something. She takes two red-and-white capsules for him from a bottle in the bathroom. And two for herself. He takes them. And so does she. He crumples to the floor. She does too. 

     At 6:30 p.m., Mary McFarland is at work, at an Illinois Bell store in Lombard. She has a headache. . . . 

     Arlington Heights public health nurse Helen Jensen is called in to help figure out what is going on. She goes to the Janus house, where she sees the bottle of Extra-Strength Tylenol. She takes it with her to Northwest Community Hospital, where doctors and police are frantically puzzling over what is happening.

      “Maybe it’s the Tylenol,” she says, setting the bottle down. 

     They phone the Cook County medical examiner’s office. Edmund Donoghue tells them to smell the bottle. They do. Almonds. A strong scent. The telltale odor of cyanide. Johnson & Johnson yanks the drug from shelves the next morning. Police drive slowly down residential streets, in that pre-internet age, using loudspeakers to warn residents not to take the popular painkiller. A few days later, all Tylenol bottles—31 million of them, worth $100 million—are recalled. 

     Seven people die in the Tylenol murders. There will also be hundreds of copycat crimes—acid in eye drops, strychnine in capsules. From now on, medicines will come in bottles with tamper-proof caps, or blister packs. A man will be convicted of trying to extort $1 million from Johnson & Johnson, but no one is ever charged with the killings.

Don’t let RFK Jr. kill you

     Lucky that I never thought of Robert F. Kennedy Jr. as anything other than a crank. Because now I don’t have to die.
    It was a week ago Friday that my wife got sick. Her doctor sent us to a walk-in clinic for the more advanced COVID test. She suggested I get tested, too — I had a cough. I almost said no but was trying to be agreeable: OK, fine, whatever, honey. Swab me too, doc.
     My wife had strep. And I had both strep and COVID.
     Guess that pandemic isn’t over quite yet.
     Were I, like Kennedy, lost in a paranoid fantasy bordering on pure hallucination, I could offer my getting COVID after five, count ‘em, five, vaccinations as proof they don’t work.
     Except vaccinations don’t guarantee you won’t get an illness, just greatly decrease your odds of getting sick, and, if you do, boost your chance of having a milder case. They’re like seatbelts — you can still get killed in a crash. Seatbelts just skew the chances of survival greatly in your favor.
     In fact, for the first miserable week, the strep was worse — thank you Paxlovid! Swallowing felt like gobbling rusty gravel. But that passed, and COVID tag teamed into the ring and hit me with a folding chair.
     COVID feels like ... what? Exhaustion and a deep bronchial cough, the Hulk squeezing you like a dog’s rubber squeak toy until you wheeze out every last cubic centimeter of air in your lungs and a bit, ah, that is not air.
     Thanks to vaccines and Paxlovid, I endured a faint shadow of what I’d go through without them, my heart going out to Americans who died alone in some crowded hospital because they took the anti-medical balderdash of Kennedy et al seriously. Who died croaking out their fealty to Trump.

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Flashback 1997: Northwestern majors in sucking up money

     Never let it be said that Northwestern doesn't keep alumni on their toes. It's almost as if we have to be continually punished for whatever tattered shred of pride we try to retain from our association with the place by enduring a constant series of public humiliations perpetrated by an endless chain of privileged students and brain dead administrators who, well, to be kind, just aren't very good at this whole college thing. 
     I was reading the latest football hazing sex scandal in the Daily Northwestern and what one player term the "really abrasive and barbaric culture" that head coach Pat Fitzgerald, who has been suspended pending the obligatory slap on the wrist, apparently tolerated. After I collected my jaw off the floor and finished shaking my head — how could they have not gotten the memo? — I thought about the 40 plus years since graduation, and all the other hazing scandals, fraternity outrages, and academic humiliations that emanated from Evanston. From the two students killed while drunkenly doing pushups in Sheridan Road to the two students expelled for breaking into Alice Millar Chapel and defacing it with homophobic graffiti... 

      There are so many, it's hard to settle on a favorite. I've written about a number, and was looking for my column on NU's notorious fucksaw sex ed class. But maybe blushing Sun-Times librarians never archived it. Anyway, I ended up with this column, perhaps my first in the Sun-Times to nostalgically consider my old school, back in the days when the prime embarrassment associated with Northwestern was how much the place charges. Good times. (Oh, and tuition has almost tripled since then). 

     Someday Northwestern University will do something academically that makes big headlines. Research maybe. Until that day arrives, it has the yearly tuition jolt to keep the old purple and white in public view.

     Say it out loud. "Twenty-two thousand, three hundred and ninety-two dollars." A lot of money. In a time of single-digit inflation, Northwestern is planning a 16.9 percent tuition increase for freshmen and transfer students. And they say greed is dead.
     That doesn't even include room and board, which is about another $6,700.
     I'd call NU and get the precise room and board figure. But my years of reporting have taught me that NU has the most sluggish media relations department in all of Chicago academia. The University of Chicago will send you a cake with the information you're looking for written on the top in frosting before NU calls you back. So say $6,700, for a yearly tab of about 30 grand.
     That, of course, is the full sticker price and, like the sticker prices of automobiles, it is negotiable. Only the academically challenged spawn of wealthy families pony up the full fare. Everybody else hustles for financial relief.
     When I enrolled at Northwestern, almost 20 years ago, tuition was nearly $5,400 - but it might as well have been $54,000 or $540,000 because my family could never pay it. Only by cobbling together a scanty fig leaf of scholarships, grants, work study, summer jobs and federal loans did we just manage to cover the obscene figure.
     It wasn't worth it. If I seem somewhat testy about NU, it is because, in my four years there, I became unalterably convinced that the school is primarily not an educational institution, but a big money machine, designed to perpetuate itself, build more god-awful concrete campus structures, dandle rich alumni and leech capital from them.
     Guilty about having such hard feelings toward my old alma mater, I phoned a former classmate and close friend from those days and asked if she would be disturbed to see NU cast in a bad light.
     "I have no good feelings toward the school at all because they didn't do anything," she said. "I'm thinking particularly of Medill (the journalism school). They had no interest in the students. Just none."
     Sounds right to me. I phoned another classmate, who surprised me by refusing to say anything about the school, as if it were a horror beyond words.
     Maybe I hung out with the wrong crowd.
     Also, the late 1970s and early 1980s weren't exactly the glory years for the school. Students were being housed in the gym. The football team won only one game in the four years I was there. When friends asked if I was going to the Rose Bowl to see NU, I told them that I hadn't attended any games while a student, and it was too late to start now.
     Then there was the president, during my years a joyless businessman named Robert H. Strotz, whom I saw in person on precisely two occasions during my time there — the first day of school freshman year, when he spoke to the incoming class, and at graduation.
     It's not that the NU education was bad. I had, in my four years, perhaps 10 teachers whom I really liked and admired and learned from.
     Looking back at it from a distance, considering the enormous outlay of capital, considering the decade of loan payments that followed, I can't help but wonder if I would have been better off going to Ohio State free, or traveling the world, or starting a business, or doing almost anything else than attending Northwestern.
     But Ohio State seemed a grim gulag, with its giant, Stalinesque dorms, and I felt I deserved better. In that sense, private schools such as NU are like luxury cars. They emphasize their amenities, their powerful engines, burled walnut dashboards, and such. But the fact is that a car is a car, basically, and a $15,000 one will get you there the same way a $50,000 one will.
     The difference is that luxury cars cost more, and everybody knows it. Prestige always costs money. Drivers of Jaguars and holders of NU diplomas have proved that they can pay the piper.
     In that sense, I guess, why not grab for the luxury if you can somehow swing it? Just as the parking valet doesn't know if you're leasing that Mercedes or own it outright, so the prospective employers won't know if you paid full fare for NU or got a scholarship, whether you sat around your frat sipping morning beers or actually studied hard.
     And who knows? Maybe NU has gotten better in the last 15 years. It better have. They're charging enough for it.

     — Originally published in the Sun-Times, July 6, 1997

British Hat Guild

     

"Sky and Water I" by M.C. Escher

     So Twitter is dead, apparently, and we're all going over to Threads, the Twitter knockoff that Mark Zuckerberg unveiled Wednesday.

     I'm no early adopter — I waited until Thursday to wander over and sign up, which was easy, because if you have an Instagram account, which I do — @neilisteinberg — then that migrates over. Though frankly, at first blush, Threads seems just a twist on Instagram. I sent a post — some pretty purple rooster beebalms my wife and I saw at the Botanic Garden. Those got 12 likes. And so we begin.

    Although I suspect that, as with Mark Twain, news of Twitter's death is premature.
     We've been through this drill before. Last spring, when it seemed Elon Musk was going to pull Twitter down with him in some kind of egomaniacal, "Top of the world, ma!" self-immolation, I followed the herd over to Mastodon, which was to Twitter what semaphore flags are to an iPhone. I sent, and scrolled, but the thing never came close to being a place where people are trading interesting bits of information. 

     Elon's efforts notwithstanding, Twitter is still a useful tool. My column on Friday, if you noticed, began with seeing an arresting notice sent by Manischewitz that Molly Jong-fast tweeted.  Instagram is addictive — lots of car crashes, carpentry and ladies dancing — but not useful. Twitter is annoying, but has practical value.

     Back on Twitter, the lovely graphic above from the British Hat Guild came my way. You have to admire the negative space — the way the hat and stand form the space above and below the bar in the "H."

    You know negative space — the stuff around the objects in artworks. Critics have compared it to the silences in music. You use it to enhance the overall effect. M.C. Escher was a master at this.          

     I expected the British Hat Guild to have been founded in 1768, and was surprised to find it was created in 2019 "as a way of exchanging ideas and promoting our unique heritage." You can find out more on their website.

    Coincidentally, the Economist reported last week that hats are back, thanks to Indiana Jones' fedora. Hats are never back. But it's a nice thought.

    I can't let the topic of negative space in logos go without mentioning the most famous example — though I hope a reader or two will learn about it here — which is the arrow in the FedEx logo. I think I looked at the logo for a number of years without seeing it — not until someone pointed it out. But once you see it, it's always there.

If you need help, it's between the E and the x.

     Designed in 1994 by Lindon Leader of Landor Associates, of San Francisco, it is what is known as a "Wordmark," a trademark, a purely typographic trademark — in this case, FedEx designed its own proprietary font. Lindon played with the x height to make the arrow pop.

     In a sense, my whole career has been about exploring negative space. Not in the sense of complaining, though there certainly has been enough of that. I mean, the stuff around the objects of interest. I like to direct my gaze away from the main point. Why? Partly from a passion for the obscure, partly from just wanting to focus on something different than what is supposed to draw your attention. To not follow the herd, which might be why I've never taken to social media. I always seem to like the sides more than the main dish. Take these two columns about the Chicago Symphony Orchestra: one about a conductor, and one about a piano tuner. You needn't ask which I like better.

Notice the spoon in the pen's nib.

     

Playing with our food

     Sometimes, journalists worry about the wrong thing.
     All of these stories on artificial intelligence and how difficult it is to tell if a photograph is genuine, or has been constructed by AI. They offer tips to help sort out the real from the fake.
     The assumption, never challenged, being that people want to differentiate what exists in reality from what doesn’t. That they care. Lately, I’m not so sure. I’m starting to worry that caring about whether something is real has become a journalistic quibble.
     On July 4, I was doing what any good, patriotic America does on a gorgeous Independence Day — sitting in my office, scrolling Twitter — when New York wit and political firebrand Molly Jong-Fast shared a photo of a trio of ice cream pints in “Gefilte Fish,” “Matzo Ball” and “Black & White Cookie” flavors.
     “Introducing,” the headline read, “ICE CREAM WITH A LICK OF CHUTZPAH.”
     My immediate response was to ask: “Is this real?” There are a variety of tests to determine this. The first is the gut test, which said: “Noooooo, can’t be.” Manischewitz is not marketing ice cream in these flavors.
     But instinct can fail you in an era when Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg are in negotiations for their cage fight match, perhaps at the Colosseum in Rome. I didn’t initially think that was real either.
     Second, examine the evidence. I looked closer at the photo. Very nicely done. Professional. No muddy Dall-E pastiche this. These are cartons you’d see in a grocery freezer case.
     Third, consider the source. The tweet came from @ManischewitzCo. On Twitter since 2009.
     Could be some realistic-looking parody account? I began to scroll down, looking at what they’ve been sending. offerings, and quickly stumbled over Hash Brownie macaroons. That clinched it: these weren’t real. If they sold Hash Brownie macaroons, I’d have heard of it.

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Чай пить не дрова рубить.

     I haven't been to all the bars in the world, so can't state with authority that no other drinking establishment has a poster like the one toward the back of Russian Tea Time on Adams Street.
     But it did make me smile.
     You don't need to speak Russian to understand what is happening here. An unseen person offers a glass of vodka to his stone-faced companion, who pauses, steak skewered on his fork, and extends the flat of his right hand.
    "Het!" he says. Pronounced, in Russian, "Nyet!"
    Or in English: "No!"
    It's a temperance poster. A bit of mid-1950s Soviet anti-alcoholism propaganda.  And a generally useful sobriety message: You can say 'No.' It's allowed. 

Leg of duck

     

    Given the slavic sense of irony, I'm sure posting it here was supposed to be funny. Like that would ever happen! I certainly don't recall the poster slowing me down back in the day — Russian Tea Time offers a mean tea-flavored vodka, if memory serves, with three shot "flights" of various flavors — horseradish, coriander, ginger — going today for only $15. 

     Their black tea is also excellent, as was the food. My wife had a Moulard duck leg in Madeira sauce, with poached prunes and raisins and a grilled polenta, quite reasonable for $27, and I went for chicken shish kebab on savory rice, with a Tashkent carrot salad — I'm a sucker for carrot salads — only $22.

    As an appetizer, we had black bread and beet caviar. The caviar was rich and creamy, the bread, while good, was not the wildly delicious stuff laced with onions they used to serve. We still ate every crumb. Not to overlook the superlative pickles. 
    Service was excellent as well. I noticed our server had a yellow and blue lapel pin — Ukrainian colors — a reminder that Russian Tea Time received some undeserved toxic public blowback last year when the Russians invaded Ukraine, and the owner, Vadim Muchnik, who founded the restaurant with his mother, had to go to social media to remind the public that he's from Ukraine, as are many on his staff, and they deplore the war:

     "We are heartbroken by the recent news; our thoughts and prayers are with those affected by this inhumane and despicable invasion,” he wrote. “We do not support the policies of the Russian government. We support human rights, free speech, and fair democratic elections.”

     The only downside — and that's more of an asterisk than a flaw — is the restaurant's name, Not the first word, but the last: "Russian Tea Time." When it opened, 30 years ago, it was initially called the Russian Tea Room. Then the one in New York sent them a cease-and-desist letter, so they changed it, ending up with a name that, to me, has a touch of kindergarten cutting across the general air of sophistication. Maybe with everything going on, they need to change it to the Ukrainian Tea Room. I bet that would be great for business.

     The title of today's post is a Russian folk saying, pronounced, "Chay pit ne drova rubit," meaning "Drinking tea is not chopping firewood."  In other words, it's easy.