John Edward Howard Rulloff was born around 1819 (some sources say 1820 or 1821) near Saint John, New Brunswick, Canada, to Danish immigrant parents. His father passed away when Edward was young, leaving his mother to raise three sons alone. The tough financial situation forced Rulloff to leave school by age 16, and his early work as a clerk in a dry goods store apparently sowed the seeds of a criminal path—suspected arson, embezzlement, and eventually a conviction that landed him two years in prison.

After his release, Rulloff made his way to upstate New York, where he presented himself as a scholar. In 1842, he became a schoolmaster in Dryden while studying botanical medicine under Dr. Henry W. Bull. There, he met Bull’s 17‑year‑old cousin, Harriet Schutt, and impulsively married her in December 1843—despite her family’s strong disapproval. The marriage initially seemed glamorous: Rulloff dazzled with his knowledge of languages and sciences, yet those closest to him noted simmering tensions and a volatile temper.

Settling in Lansing, New York, Rulloff’s intellectual ambitions only grew. He immersed himself in phrenology, philology, and medicine, cultivating a reputation as a Renaissance man. Locals admired his charm and multilingual gifts—even as he brooded beneath. Friends described their relationship as laced with jealousy and control; one witness recalled Rulloff’s rage when the minister kissed Harriet at their wedding.

Harriet gave birth to their daughter, Priscilla, in April 1845 (some accounts say April 1844), and mere months later, mother and child vanished without a trace. Rulloff issued a string of shifting excuses—travel, abandonment, a move to Ohio—but no one believed him, especially when their belongings remained in the house.

On June 22, 1844, what seemed to business as usual turned fatal: in Lansing, Rulloff, accusing his wife of an affair with Dr. Bull, struck Harriet in the head with a pestle, killing her. He then poisoned their infant daughter, Priscilla. In a panic, he tried—and failed—to kill himself.

That same day, he borrowed a horse and wagon under the pretext of returning a chest to his uncle and loaded it—plus a pillowcase or sack—driving toward Cayuga Lake. He eventually returned, feigning calm, claiming he and Harriet would be away for weeks, all while leaving his home in disarray.

Rumors swirled. Harriet’s clothes were still in the house, undermining Rulloff’s story. Confronted, he shifted stories—from abandonment to relocation—then fled. He was tracked by his brother‑in‑law, Ephraim Schutt, captured, and brought to Ithaca to face justice. But without bodies, the grand jury couldn’t indict for murder. Instead, he was charged with kidnapping in 1846.

Though he conducted his own defense, insisting no crime had been committed, Rulloff was convicted and sentenced to ten years with hard labor in Auburn Prison. But the cerebral criminal wasn't broken. In prison, he taught himself philology, planned a linguistic treatise, and even tutored fellow inmates. When authorities warned of pending murder charges upon release, he invoked double jeopardy. The prosecutor dropped the charge for the wife—but pressed charges for his daughter.

In a dramatic twist, Rulloff was again convicted—this time for Priscilla’s murder in 1858—but escaped custody before the verdict arrived, apparently with help from one of his students, Albert Jarvis, son of the jail’s undersheriff. Rumors swirled of inside assistance.

On the run, Rulloff drifted west on foot, surviving off stolen food and wild edibles, losing two toes to frostbite. He reemerged in Meadville, Pennsylvania, posing as “James Nelson,” impressing locals with his wide-ranging knowledge—from conchology to entomology—and even flirting with academic appointments at Jefferson College. Yet the pull of Jarvis persisted: when Jarvis and his mother pleaded for help, Rulloff reshot into crime, robbing a jewelry store to send money their way. Caught, extradited, he fought again—and won his appeal, walking free again.

He moved to New York City, and from there descended into burglary. In 1861, he landed in Sing Sing Prison for two and a half years. Yet even behind bars, his scholarly aspirations persisted—he drafted theories on language, submitted a manuscript under the alias “Professor Euri Lorio,” hoping to auction it for $500,000 to fund his intellectual pursuits. 

In 1870, Rulloff, Jarvis, and new accomplice William T. Dexter staged a burglary at a dry goods store in Binghamton, NY. They used chloroform to incapacitate two clerks, Frederick Merrick and Gilbert Burrows, but things went sideways. Merrick tried to shoot Rulloff (the gun misfired), and chaos erupted—stools thrown, fights breaking out. Rulloff fired warning shots, but when Merrick lunged at Jarvis, Rulloff fatally shot him in the head.

During their escape, the trio attempted to cross the Chenango River. Jarvis and Dexter drowned under murky circumstances—some believed Rulloff killed them deliberately to silence them. Rulloff made it across, but lost a pair of boots.

Rulloff was quickly captured after Nova‑York police, alerted by Burrows, noticed suspicious behavior. At the railroad station, he ran; at a farm outhouse, he was caught. He identified himself with aliases but was recognized by Judge Ransom Balcom, who warned: “This man understands his rights better than you do, and will defend them to the last.”

His trial began January 4, 1871, drawing 2,000 spectators per day. He defended himself again, refused an insanity plea, and even appealed to the governor: delay the execution until his linguistic theories could be published. Editor Horace Greeley urged clemency, while Mark Twain mocked it, offering to produce another man to hang in Rulloff’s place. On March 3, he was convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to hang.

While awaiting his fate, Rulloff confessed to murdering his wife—but not his daughter, sparking speculation that the child was alive, hidden under another name. His execution occurred on May 18, 1871, as New York’s last public hanging. Sources differ on his final words: some say he quipped, “Hurry it up! I want to be in hell in time for dinner.” Others claim he simply hissed, “I can’t stand still.”

After his death, Professor George Burr removed Rulloff’s brain—claimed to weigh 59 ounces, possibly the largest known at the time—and it eventually made its way into Cornell’s Wilder Brain Collection.