nly a few
itry care-
chat there
rest him.
fficer in-
m but he
d him in
- two men
ly not to
1's room.
vhen they
cussed the
vich might
‘e reasons -
ruck down
each one.
‘en an at-,
of appear-
ted suitor
the savage
- had been
, however,
ers. on the
cious char-
ed that the
ad start the
e morning.
ing found
1arters and
iad stopped
ad planned
it the cruel
> murdered
ind: at the
m the land- 38
ey lived in ay
cher. Jame- x
the people
rand, while
il the doors
tore where
e there and
. The man-
fice to the
in the four
’n talked to
is, but they
the men
he solution
had known
worker, but
r habits or
! been very
one of her
rl remained
ie chief and
wv that they
ing of value
‘nit the last ’
aes
Ses
she knew of
sause to kill P IS
riedly, “No, : cen
would do a oY ST MUI
- mentioned
vaused, then y
a man who a
evening last
vas, but as I
[ overheard
| away from
ow her, but
just stood and watched her walk up the
street.
“Yesterday afternoon he came back
and bought something from her at her
counter, It was either a pair of socks or
gloves, but I’m not sure which. She sold
some socks and also gloves in the after-
noon but I can’t remember which he got.
I heard them quarreling again and he
left the store.”
When she was asked to describe the
man, the clerk gave a good description
of a tall youth dressed in a blue serge suit,
light cap and tan oxfords. The officers
pressed her to try and remember any-
thing else she might have noticed con-
cerning the man, but she was unable to
add anything to the informa-
tion she had already given.
Then suddenly she burst into
Xs violent sobbing so they left
her hastily.
Next they decided to visit
the morgue where they ex-
pected to find the par-
ents and perhaps some
friends of the slain girl.
Jameson met them and
explained that the par-
ents of Ruth Harris had
been entirely at a loss as
to who had cruelly mur-
dered their daughter, or
why. She had been
a modest and shy
girl with few male
friends. She had left
her home in Cen-
tury about six months
previously to work in
Picher after she had
experienced a broken
romance with a local
young man, The con-
stable had not learned
the name of this suitor
for he had wished to
spare the parents as
much pain as possible,
He knew that when
Nolan and Wolsey ar-
rived it would be time
enough to quiz them
along these lines.
Nolan glanced
quickly at Wolsey.
The same thought had
occurred to both men.
Could the mysterious
young man who had
argued with the girl
in the store be an em-
bittered suitor? Had
he bought the gloves
from his former love,
then worn them while
butchering her?
The chief won-
dered if the parents
might not be able to
identify the man
As a flash of light-
ning revealed the
dead girl’s face the
landlady gasped and
clapped her fingers
over her mouth.
31
face. The landlady gasped and clapped
her fingers over her trembling mouth.
Then she stumbled back to the house,
where she almost collapsed before she
could reach the telephone. Half hys-
terical, she managed at last to make the
operator understand her torrent of words
and was connected with headquarters.
Chief of Police Joseph Nolan had been
preparing to go home but he answered
the phone and hastily assured the woman
that he would hurry to her home, which
was only a few blocks distant. Replacing
the receiver Nolan glanced at Deputy
Sheriff. Milton Wolsey and Constable
Roy Jameson who had come into the sta-
tion a few minutes before to escape the
storm.
“A girl has been murdered over on C
street,” the chief said tersely as he pulled
on a raincoat.
Wolsey and Jameson, both of whom
had worked with Nolan on several pre-
vious cases, looked at each other and then
at the row of lockers where the patrolmen
kept their raincoats and other equipment.
Without a word, the two reached into the
lockers and struggled into slickers. Nolan
grinned grimly, and a moment later the
three officers drove away from the squat
police building in the chief’s car.
-Stopping his machine in front of the
house, Nolan opened the gate, and with
powerful flashlights in their hands they
quickly discovered the dead girl, where
she lay face upward. The pelting rain had
spread the blood from her wound so that
it was impossible for the men to approach
the body without stepping into the crim-
son pool.
HE agitated landlady hurried for-
ward to meet them and now the police
siren had attracted several neighbors who
approached curiously.
Playing his light over the dead girl’s
face, Nolan repressed a shudder. It did
not require an examination for him to
know that she was past all aid. Stooping
near the gate he picked up a large purse
and opened it. It contained almost $1 in
small change and three $5 bills. Turning
to the woman with whom Ruth Harris
had boarded, he questioned her briefly,
but except for learning the name of the
victim, he gleaned nothing which could
be of any help in solving the gruesome
crime. Ruth Harris had been the only
boarder at the place and the landlady was
a widow. .
Without waiting for instructions, Con-
stable Jameson walked into the house and
telephoned the undertaking establish-
ment of Orville Green. The undertaker
was also the county coroner and he told
Jameson that he would come at once.
Meanwhile, as Nolan prepared to ques-
tion the half-dozen neighbors who had
gathered on the porch, Deputy Wolsey
stepped back into the street and began
searching the ground with his light.
Stooping low, the deputy could see no
trace of footprints in the solidly graveled
street and he grunted with disappoint-
ment. Stooping, he swung his light ina
circle.
As the rays traveled over the wet street,
30
something flashed and he walked in that
direction. He gave a cry of delight when
he picked up a long-bladed jack-knife and
a black kid glove. He knew the knife
probably was the murder weapon, al-
though it had been washed clean by the -
downpour of rain, and that the glove also
belonged to the killer.
After a hasty search to make sure that
no other clues were lying nearby, he re-
joined Nolan and Jameson who were still
talking to the frightened men and women.
The two officers already had learned that
none of these people could advance the
slightest reason why the girl had fallen
victim to the brutal murderer, nor could
they even guess as to his identity.
Nolan dismissed the excited neighbors,
telling them to return to their homes.
None of them had seen any suspicious
appearing men lurking in the neighbor-
hood and the landlady had been the only
one to hear’ the screams of the luckless
girl. Wolsey handed the knife and glove
to the chief and Nolan examined them
with Jameson.
“This knife is as sharp as a razor,” the
chief commented, “And it’s almost too
large to carry in a man’s pocket. But it
surely must be the weapon used by the
killer.’ He glanced up as an ambulance
turned into the street, its red lights glit-
tering eerily through the driving rain.
“This glove looks as if it has never been
worn, and the weather is too warm yet to
wear lined gloves. And,” he- added
soberly, “it may not belong to the crim-
inal at all.” :
Coroner Green climbed from the am-
bulance just then and bent over the body
of the slain young woman for a moment.
Then he faced the officers. “This girl died
almost instantly,” he said grimly. “She
couldn't even cry out after she was cut, for
the wound reaches through the necktothe ,
spine. Apparently there was no attempt
at sex attack, and the manner of death is
obvious. Shall I remove the body vem
Nolan assented quickly and a few mo-
ments later the ambulance departed with
its pitiful burden. After holding a brief
consultation, Wolsey and Jameson also
left in the chief’s car while Nolan entered
the house. The policeman was going to
examine the victim’s personal belongings,
for he felt that here he migltt discover
some clue to her assassin. The deputy and
constable were returning to headquar-
ters to inform all officers to be onthealert.
They believed the killer might still be on
the streets and could thus be apprehended
quickly.
Tn the room Ruth Harris had occupied,
Nolan let his gaze roam over the neatly
kept bed chamber. The chief had no lik-
ing for prying into the effects of a woman,
but he knew it was necessary. He began
his task by pulling out the drawers of a’
dresser.
“This could have been the work of a
jealous man,” he thought. “That landlady
must have been wrong when she said the
girl had no male friends. That just isn’t
natural for a pretty girl.”
Glancing at the top of the dresser he
noticed a small black book and opened it.
He saw that it was a diary which appar-
ently had been kept only a short time,
since the first entry was dated only a few
months back. He read each entry care-
fully but soon -was convinced that there *
was nothing in the diary to interest him.
For almost another hour the officer’ in-
spected the contents of the room but he
found nothing which might aid him in
solving the ghastly crime.
Wolsey now returned and the two men
left after cautioning the landlady not to
disturb anything in the victim’s room.
Jameson was at headquarters when they
arrived there and the three discussed the
case and the various motives which might
lie behind it.
There were several possible reasons -
why the assassin might have struck down
the girl, and they considered each one.
They knew it could: have been an at-
tempted sex attack in spite of appear-
ances. Then, too, a disappointed suitor
could have taken his revenge in the savage
crime, regardless of what they had been
told. _It was nearing midnight, however,
and so far none of the officers. on the
streets had picked up any suspicious char-
acters. Therefore it was decided that the
trio should go to their homes and start the
investigation anew early in the morning.
Six o'clock the next morning found
them again gathered at headquarters and
eager to get started. The rain had stopped
and Nolan outlined what he had planned
to do in an effort to ferret out the cruel
killer. He reasoned that the murdered
girl’s parents would *be found at the
morgue, for he had learned from the land-
lady of Ruth Harris that they lived in
Century, a small town near Picher. Jame-
son volunteered to interview the people
and left on his unpleasant errand, while |
Nolan and Wolsey waited until the doors
opened at the department store where
Ruth Harris had worked. —
At the right time they drove there and
called upon the store manager. The man-
ager quickly turned over his office to the
officers and promised to send in the four
girl clerks one at a time.
HREE of the young women talked to
the officers shortly after this, but they
could offer nothing which the men.
thought they might use in the solution
of the crime. The girls all had known
Ruth Harris as a pleasant co-worker, but
were not acquainted with her habits, or
past life. Apparently she had been very
quiet and had confided in none of her
fellow employes. Only one girl remained’
to be interviewed now, and the chief and.
deputy were beginning to fear that they
were not going to learn anything of value
when the door opened to admit the last
clerk.
When Nolan asked her if she knew of
anyone who might have had cause to kill
the Harris girl, she said hurriedly, “No,
I don’t know of anyone who would do a
thing like that. Ruth never mentioned
fearing anyone, but—” She paused, then
went on. “Well, there was a man who
called for her at the store one evening last
week. I don’t know who he was, but as ad
passed them in the doorway I overheard
them arguing and she walked away from
him. He didn’t offer to follow her, but
|
who had called at the store; and he asked
Jameson to call Ruth’s father into an-
other room. The man proved to be a
middle-aged lead miner who controlled
his grief with great effort. Nolan quickly
gave him the description of the youth
who had visited Ruth at the store.
The father nodded quickly. The
description sounded like that of
Charles Rath, he/said. Rath had
called upon Ruth often before she
left Century but had not seen her
recently except for the visit to
the store which Rath had men-
tioned. The youth was in the
next room with Mrs. Harris,
the father said.
Nolan fet his pulses
quicken. Was he about
to be brought face to
face with the crim-
inal? Had the killer
STB RR Ni oe OE ERS SOR OTS
Spies Sie he eh ZF.
ee
MARIOS. SISO ig EBAY
Be
been bold and heartless enough to visit
this place with the stricken parents of his
victim ?
When the young man entered the
room a moment later, Nolan knew
instantly that this had indeed’ been
at the store. He an-
swered to the de-
Ruth Harris’ visitor |
scription in.
every detail. Rath’s eyes were red, ap-
‘parently from weeping.
Rath admitted at once that he had vis-
ited the girl at the store, and acknowl-
edged that he had been especially
interested in her. He smiled wryly when
Nolan queried him concerning their
quarrels and explained that Ruth had
been angry because he had come to her
place of employment.
Reaching into his coat pocket, Nolan
brought out the glove which Wolsey had
found and suddenly shoved it into Rath’s
hand. The man eyed the glove curiously
for a moment, then looked inquiringly at
the officer. Seemingly he had never be-
fore touched the glove and instantly de-
nied buying gloves from the girl.
“IT only bought a pair of socks,” he
faltered.
“Are you wearing them or did you
leave them home,” the chief demanded.
[
“T lost
urban ca:
Nolan
did you
asked.
Rath g
“What
is this p!
“T don
said mis:
there.”
then adc
don’t ret
thing a
either.”
A per}
gathered
face. S|
rest this
flimsy
hand? |
mitte
were red, ap-
at he had vis-
and acknowl-
en especially
d wryly when
cerning their
vat Ruth had
d come to her
pocket, Nolan
+h Wolsey had
| it into Rath’s
‘love curiously
inquiringly at
had never be-
| instantly de-
he girl.
of socks,” he
n or did you
ief demanded.
=)
“I Jost them on the eight o’clock inter-
urban car to Joplin,” Rath stammered.
Nolan eyed the youth coldly, “Where
did you spend your time in Joplin 2” he
asked.
Rath gulped. “Ina saloon,” he said.
“What's the proprietor’s name? Where
is this place?” Nolan pursued.
“J don’t know. Honest I don’t,” Rath
said miserably. “A cab driver took me
there.” He paused,
then added, “And I
don’t remember any-
thing about him,
either.”
A perplexed frown
gathered on Nolan’s
face. Should he ar-
rest this man on the
flimsy evidence at
hand? Rath had ad-
mitted quarreling
with the girl, and having seen her on the
day of her death. Once more the officer
delved into a pocket and brought out the
long knife which had cut the throat of
Ruth Harris. He opened it quickly and
extended it under the staring eyes of the
young man while he harshly explained
about the purpose to which it had been
put.
The chief was not surprised when
Rath paled and recoiled from the weapon.
With a grim smile Nolan replaced the
knife in his pocket and carefully
studied the man in the chair.
The quaking suspect vehemently
denied ever ‘having seen the
knife before and at last Nolan
arrived at a decision. He de-
termined not to arrest Charles
Rath on the strength of
the evidence now avail-
able, and dismissed him.
The chief’s face was
bleak when he rejoined
Jameson and Wolsey out-
side the undertaking par-
lor. He frankly admitted
a
that he was baffled. He had felt that the
man who had visited the girl was the
most likely suspect they had in view, and
Rath had admitted that he had seen Ruth
that day. The man’s story about the
socks was far from convincing and Nolan
considered it again. Then he spoke to
Jameson and requested the constable to
visit the property room of the electric
railway in Joplin on the chance that the
footwear had been found and turned in
to the conductor of the car. He realized
that Rath might actually have been tell-
ing the truth and he certainly did not
want to ruin an innocent man. He. ex-
plained to Wolsey and the constable what
Rath had said, and now the deputy of-
fered a suggestion.
He proposed that while Jameson was
gone to Joplin and Nolan was working
the other angles concerning Rath, that
he try to trace the long-bladed knife the
killer had used. He reasoned that there
might be a good chance that so large a
knife might well have attracted attention
before the murder and could thus be
traced back to the owner.
Nolan agreed to this quickly for now
that their only workable clues were prov-
ing valueless he knew they must arrive
at some other method of identifying the
criminal. The chief felt that there could
be but few reasons powerful enough to
incite a man to such frenzy and that in
the small community it should be possible
to locate such a person. But who could
have had cause to hate the young girl
enough to lie in ambush and coldly cut
her throat? Had it been a case of mis-
taken identity? And if so, would the killer
strike again now that he realized his
error?
ULLING the glove from his pocket
the officer stared at it for a time, then
walked to his car and again drove to the
department store where Ruth Harris had
worked. Once more he talked to the man-
ager of the place, The man looked care
fully at the glove for a moment, then
informed the officer that he could soon
settle whether the girl had sold either or
both socks and gloves on the previous
afternoon. He explained that under the
system used in the store each sales ticket
bore the clerk’s number, a mark indi-
cating whether the sale was made in the
morning or afternoon, as well as the de-
scription and price of the article.
In his office the manager sorted several
sales slips, then handed Nolan two of
them. One of the slips showed that Ruth
Harris had sold a pair of black silk socks
in the afternoon, while the other de-
scribed a pair of kid gloves which had
also been sold the same afternoon.
“Of course this might not be one of the
gloves that she sold,” the manager said,
“but it is certainly the same kind that
we carry in stock.”
Nolan was more mystified than ever
when he left the store. Again he thought
[Continued on page 80]
The salesgirl remembered the killer as the
man who had bought a pair of gloves
from the victim on the day of her death
33°
ymicide to
Detectives
red shortly
estigation.
eyed, Lil-
kt the state
1 to death,
think it’s
re will buy
| her hus-
the murder
ore — Hook
e bulldozed
ildn’t back
had made
ASHMORE
wife,” the
\ilaybe you
as it over
e desk and
ted. “Okay,
“Tt was
t Detectives
a complete
the officers
complete
Building
Babb ad-
lone, work-
talk to her
operty. He
vot a coke
d the bottle
imply, and
wn the hall
llowed, and
| when she
hard. De-
that. He
er back and
san choking
ipe, while at
d his right
Delores was
ng to break
. solid grip.
n't struggling
and he let
lacked out.”
ng until he
front of the
was loose on
vn and saw
any emer-
in extra pair
of a jacket
qreplaced the
1e was at it,
in the right
iy. “I drove
» of hours.”
thing about
1 his wife's
ed, was a
remember.
That was his story, a calm recital of
murder as a way to settle an argument
over money. There was one more
point: Babb said the clothes and ‘shoes
he was wearing when he came to the
police station were the same ones he'd
had on when he killed his wife. He
waived a preliminary hearing, and Po-
lice Magistrate Charles Iben remanded
him to the Peoria County Jail without
bail to await grand jury action later in
the month.
Later in the day, the detectives had
another item of evidence against the
confessed killer—the fingerprints on
the coke bottle found in the office were
his, not his wife’s.
Six days later, two surveyors were
working across a gully near Route 116,
three miles south of Germantown, when
they spotted a pile of clothing near a
culvert. A man’s trousers and shirt,
both stained with dried blood, were
folded neatly on a pile of straw. Next
to them was a pair of black shoes,
minus laces, but the surveyors found
a single black lace stuffed in the toe
of one shoe. Laundry marks in both
shirt and trousers bore the name
“Babb.” The surveyors brought the
clothing to Woodford County Sheriff
James Durst, who turned it over to
Peoria Police Superintendent Bernard
Kennedy.
Not completely true
So Landon Babb had not made a
completely true confession. In his state-
ment he’d sworn he had not changed
clothes after leaving the office building,
nor had he mentioned leaving the city
after he killed his wife.
A cool and self-possessed man, Babb
might have had a reason—he might
have deliberately withheld part of the
truth in an attempt to establish lack of
premeditation. A murderer's claim of
“blackout” at the time of the killing is
often hard to refute. If Babb should
choose to repudiate his confession and
plead not guilty, of course, the bloody
clothes will be a major weapon in the
prosecution's arsenal, along with the
cigarettes and the coke bottle.
There are, it would seem, three pos-
sible answers to the murder of Dolores
Babb. Her husband could have delib-
erdtely choked her and then finished
the job with the shoelace. Or he could
have, as he claimed, blacked out after
squeezing her throat and strangled her
without conscious knowledge of his ac-
tion.
And there is a third possibility. A
woman resident of the YWCA, next
door to the LaFayette Building, identi-
fied a picture of Babb as the man she
saw coming out of the building at
7 p.m. Thus it is conceivable, since
Babb said he left after choking his wife
and was seen at his hotel at approxi-
mately 6 p.M., that he returned to the
office later to see if she was all right.
Finding her still unconscious, he could
have then removed his shoelace and
knotted it around her throat.
At any rate, Landon Babb is certain
to pay for his crime. If he repudiates
his confession and pleads not guilty, the
evidence seems strong enough to send
him to the ‘chair. If he sticks to his
“blackout” story, he can expect to spend
a long, long time behind bars.
Either way, he will find that the
machinery of the law is strong—
stronger, even, than a shoelace. .
By DONOVAN FITZPATRICK
NICEST GUY
IN OKLAHOMA
(Continued
from: page» 51)
awhile. “You know, I’m pretty quick
at spotting somebody who's got a prob-
lem,” he said finally.
“Yeah?”
“A man doesn’t know it, but trouble
sticks out all over him. Nobody can
hide it.”
“And you're trying to say it sticks
out all over me?”
“You don’t seem happy. I can be
wrong, but you've got something on your
mind.”
No church stuff
“If I told you what was on my mind,
I’d burn your ears off. It’s not the kind
of stuff people who go to church ever
even heard about.”
“You must have bad troubles,” Cooke
said, earnestly.
“Troubles you couldn't do nothing
about.”
“Why don’t you let me try,” Cooke
said, with a smile of benign confidence.
“Look, Reverend, did you ever see
one of these?” When Cooke turned
and looked, the hitchhiker was holding
a gun in the palm of his hand. It wasn’t
pointed at Cooke. He just held it there
so Cooke could see it. “Did you hear
about a filling station that lost 30 bucks
last night to a guy they never saw be-
fore? Maybe the filling station operator
will come around and talk to you. You
can tell him to take in his belt a few
notches until he makes up his 30 bucks.
That’s the kind of trouble you can help
a man with. But the guy who got the
30 bucks doesn’t want any talk.”
“ You're wrong,” Cooke said, evenly.
“The man who took the thirty dollars
is the one who needs help the most.”
“Yeah,” the hitchhiker answered.
After the stick-up a police car tailed me
and I smashed my car trying to get
away. I had to ditch it on a side street.
If you got an extra car you want to
give away, that would be a real big
help.”
Cooke turned and saw that the hitch-
hiker was still holding the gun, twirl-
ing it around on his palm. “That’s not
the kind of help I mean,” he said. “Is
this the first time you’ve ever been in
trouble with the police?”
The hitchhiker laughed. “I’m 32,”
he said. “The first time I was arrested
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91
I was younger than you. That was for
stealing a car. Since then I’ve done
time in four or five prisons. The last
time they slapped a 12-year sentence
on me, but I didn’t serve much of it.
I’m out on parole from that one right
now.”
“I'm glad I picked you up,” Cooke
said. “I’m glad I have this chance to
talk to you. You've got problems, but it
isn’t too late to solve them.”
“YT feel better already,” the. hitch-
hiker said, “so just can the rest of it.”
“It's easy to sneer,” Cooke replied,
“but that won’t solve anything for you.
You're running away from the police.
All right. How do you know they won't
catch you? They’ve caught you before.”
“Sure kid,” the hitchhiker said, “so
I lead a hard life. What do you want
me to do, cry?”
“T don’t want you to do anything,”
Cooke answered. “I just want to show
you where you got off the track. Run-
ning away won't do you any good.”
“T can see you got bright ideas,” the
hitchhiker said. “Maybe you're going
to tell me to give myself up. I get some
pretty good ideas myself once in awhile,
so don’t get me _ sore.”
Not too late
“It’s not too late to make a clean
break with your past, to face your mis-
takes, to start again,” Cooke said. “That
would be the right thing to do.. The
courageous thing.”
“T should go to the police and hand
them my gun and say ‘I was wrong,
boys . . . Take me away.’ You'd like
that? Then you, could bring the old
ladies from your congregation to come
visit me on Sundays and tell them how
brave I was. Well, let’s skip the rest,
sonny. You picked the wrong guy, that’s
all there is to it. You aren’t the first to
pick me and find out he’s got ahold of
the wrong guy. You learned a lot about
-‘me already. From now on you just do
exactly what I tell you with no more
of your talk. And if you’re lucky, maybe
you'll learn some more about me_ be-
fore we're through.”
It was several hours later—almost
midnight—when Mr. and Mrs. Herman
Coussens were locking up their house in
Talhinia, preparing to go to bed. The
couple owned a large general store,
which did a thriving business. Their
only recent setback had been the keen
disappointment they felt when Pete
Williams left. They’d hired him as a
clerk six weeks ago, knowing he was a
parolee, knowing he had a police record
a mile long. They'd decided to give him
a chance. For awhile it looked as if
their trust was justified. Pete Williams
had been a good worker. But on Thurs-
day night he’d walked out at closing
time, and that was the last they'd seen
of him. “Maybe he’s sick and can’t get
to a phone,” Mrs. Coussens said. But
Mr. Coussens shook his head. “We
aren't going to hear from him again,”
he predieted.
Both of them were wrong. Every-
thing was securely locked and the down-
stairs lights were out when they heard
loud knocking at the front door. Mr.
Coussens went down to open it and
found himself face to face with Pete
Williams. “Okay Coussens, get back in
the house and don’t make any noise.”
Coussens was so surprised it took
him a second to realize that Williams
had a gun in his hand. He stepped
back into the living room and Williams
followed him, keeping the gun pointed.
Mrs. Coussens, coming downstairs to
see what was keeping her husband,
stopped short when she saw Pete Wil-
liams with the gun pointed at her hus-
band. She stifled a seream and clutched
the bannister to keep from fainting.
‘Do what I tell: you,” Willams said,
v
“The Post Office Authorities are very strict.
Don't put
any writing in the package!”
“and you won't get hurt. Get the keys
to the store. We're going for a ride, all
three of us.”
Coussens got the keys from the top
drawer of his desk. Then he took his
wife’s arm and supported her down the
front steps and into the dark street.
Williams opened the door of a black
1949 Oldsmobile and made them get
into the front seat. He drove them to
the general store and turned on a smal!
light at the back. “Open the cash
register and give me everything in it,”
he ordered.
Coussens handed over $800, and
Williams backed out, with the gun still
in his hand. “Thanks, suckers,” he
said:
As soon as he was gone, Coussens
rushed to the phone and called the
police. “We've just been robbed of
$800,” he stammered. “It was Pete
Williams. He’s driving away in a 1949
Oldsmobile. I was too upset to notice
the license plate.”
Immediate alarm
Ed Liggett, the Talhinia police chief,
sent out an immediate alarm for Ed-
ward Leon (Pete) Williams, with a
description of his getaway car. He
knew that Williams was also wanted
for a filling station hold up the night
before. Tulsa detectives had checked
the car that had been wrecked after
that hold-up and found fingerprints
corresponding with Williams’.
‘Fhat same night, the Tulsa police
got another phone call. “This is Rever-
end Dale Proctor, pastor of the Glen-
wood Baptist Church,” a worried voice
said. “My assistant, Tommie Cooke, is
missing. He took part in the morning
services, but didn’t show up for the
evening service at-6:30. That’s very
unlike him. I know he’ would have
phoned me if he were detained for
any reason.”
Tommie Cooke, he told police, was
unmarried and lived with his sister and
brother-in-law. He and Cooke were
planning to leave at 8 o'clock the next
morning for Shawnee. They had signed
up to take a refresher course at the
eOklahoma Baptist University there.
On Monday morning, Tommie
Cooke—described by other friends as
“a sweet guy .. . the nicest guy in
Oklahoma” —had still not shown up.
His sister called the police and_ told
them that he had not been home since
Sunday afternoon. “He has his bag all
packed and ready for the trip to
Shawnee” she said. “He always likes to
get things ready ahead of time. He’s
never just disappeared like this before.
Something must be wrong.”
In answer to a question she said,
yes, Tommie Cooke had a car, a 1949
Oldsmobile.
The . car was found at about
‘10:30 a.m. Monday, by police who had
been tailing Pete Williams in connec-
tion with the general store hijacking.
Williams had abandoned the car at
Muse, 19 miles east of Talhinia.
“Tt looks like Williams’ getaway car
is the same one Cooke owned,” one
officer said. “If so, Tommie Cooke’s in
trouble. We'd better find him quick.”
On
county
with W
ister’s father
fown and id:
he said. Ton
at the Car an
all right. 1
bad trouble -
“INO,: ora
anything vet
can to find v:
felt, had mor
knew thag th:
Tommie Coo!
Pete William:
By Monday
had gone qt
peace offictrs
agents, and
Oklahoma pe
tensive search
Muse, in the
mountains, Ww!
abandoned ca
up his trail,
again,
They kept
were still se
Tuesday whe
getting onto a
burton. An ;
he stepped ofi
Richmond, P:
in to make t
Craig and his
Stevens arrive
Williams,
trembling fro:
self surrounde
without a str:
“What happ:
“Wh
Craig a
“T don tenn
“The youn,
What happen
“Never hea
another.”
“Okay, wis
plenty. Right
headquarters.”
At headqua
coffee and cig
ama aaa eR tae 580 “
the keys
ride, all
the top
took his
jown the
k street.
ja black
them get
them to
1 a small
the cash
zg in it,”
300, and
gun still
kers,” he
Coussens
ited the
ribbed of
vas Pete
na 1949
to notice
lice chief,
n for Ed-
s, with a
car. He
so wanted
2 night
‘hecked
d_ after
ngerprints
ilsa_ police
Yever-
the Glen-
rrried voice
e Cooke, is
morning
ip for the
That's very
vould have
etained for
police, was
s sister and
ooke were
ck the next
had signed
irse at the
there.
Tommie
friends as
est guy in
shown up.
e and told
home since
. his bag all
the trip to
ways likes to
4 time. He's
this before.
in she. said,
ar, a 1949
3s
at about
lice who had
in connec-
hijacking.
the car at
‘\inla.
-taway Car
ned,” one
». Cooke's in
him quick.”
On Monday afternoon, LeFlore
county Sheriff Jack Craig got in touch
with W. M. Cooke, the missing min-
ister’s father. {We'd like you to come
down and identify an abandoned car).
he said. Tommie’s father took one look
at the car and said, “That's Tommie’s,
all right. Does it mean he's in real
bad trouble?”
“No,” Craig said, “it doesn’t mean
anything yet. We'll do everything we
can to find your son.” The words, he
felt, had more kindness than truth. He*
knew that the most direct way to find
Tommie Cooke now would be to find
Pete Williams first. ;
By Monday night, a state-wide alarm
had gone out for Williams. A score of
peace officers, two state crime bureau
agents, and a bloodhound from the
Oklahoma penitentiary began an in-
tensive search for the fugitive around
Muse, in the foothills of ‘the Kiamichi
mountains, where they had found the
abandoned car. For awhile they picked
up his trail, lost it, then picked it up
again.
They kept at it all night, and they
were still searching at 12:30 A.M.
Tuesday when Williams was spotted
getting onto a bus in the town of Wil-
burton. An alarm was spread. When
he stepped off the bus at Poteau, Buel
Richmond, Poteau city marshal, closed
in to make the arrest. Minutes later,
Craig and highway patrol trooper Carl
Stevens arrived at the scene.
Williams, white faced, bleary-eyed,
trembling from lack of sleep, saw him-
self surrounded by officers and gave in
without a struggle. He was unarmed.
“What happened?”
“What happened to Tommie Cooke?”
Craig asked him.
“T don’t know. Who's he?”
“The young guy who's car you used.
What happened to him?”
“Never heard of him before. Ask me
another.”
“Okay, wise guy. We'll ask you
lenty. Right now we're going down to
eadquarters.”
At headquarters Williams was given
coffee and cigarettes and barraged with
°
questions. At first he was willing to
talk only about the hold-up of the fill-
ing station, and the general store. He
was proud of the way he had eluded
the police.
After leaving the Coussens’ place,
he said, he had driven the car to Muse,
abandoned it, and then made his way
back to Talhinia on foot. At Talhinia
he had forced a motorist to drive him to
Wilburton. He had boarded the bus at
Wilburton, and tossed his gun away
somewhere between Wilburton and
Wister. When he got off at Poteau,
he was surprised to End officers closing
in on him. The whole thing, he figured,
had been clever enough to shake the
police off his trail.
For an hour, he insisted that he knew
nothing of Reverend Tommie Cooke.
“T found his car parked in Talhinia” he
said, “and I stole it.”
But that story didn’t hold up. Tulsa
Detective Chief Harry Stege told re-
porters that he had received a call from
Poteau at 1:50 a.m. “Williams just
confessed to murdering Cooke” he was
told. “He hid Cooke’s body in Mus-
kogee county near Taft.”
A squad of officers from Tulsa,
Poteau and Muskogee started for the
murder scene at 2 A.M. They found
young Tommie Cooke lying face down
in a dirt path, hidden by underbrush.
He had died there of bullet wounds,
about 36 hours before. His body was
taken back to Tulsa for further ex-
amination by a coroner and funeral
services were held several days later in
the church where Tommie Cooke had
begun his career as a pastor. Nobody
had anything but good words to say
about ‘Tommie, and everyone knew that
he had died in the course of fulfilling
his promise and carrying out his ideals
of lending a helping hand to anyone in
trouble.
At this writing, Pete Williams, the
man who was always in trouble an
liked it that way, the man who al-
legedly confessed that he killed a man
because “he tried to reform me,” sits
in his cell waiting for the day that
Oklahoma justice will decide his guilt
or innocence.
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CASE OF
HE TRUSTING PREACHER
by LARRY FARRAR
The young assistant pastor could never pass up anyone who needed
help. During his hour of greatest need, even with a gun at his head,
he exhibited no fear and was confident “everything would turn out
all right.” But after his riddled body was found, Oklahoma lawmen
knew one thing for sure: In the clutches of a heartless killer,
the guileless minister had become a lamb led to the slaughter
murder has become so commonplace it commands
less front-page newspaper space than holiday week-
end automobile accident fatalities. Except in rare
instances, metropolitan news editors deem their read-
ers’ interest in willful homicide so slight that murders
are relegated to the inside pages, sometimes the back
pages of big city newspapers.
Callous though it may seem, the reason for this is
based on the old law of supply and demand. Somewhere
between 8,000 and 9,000 homicides per year are com-
mitted in these United States, which automatically
diminishes their importance insofar as editorial judg-
I: IS AN IRONIC fact of life in America today that
32 ment is concerned. The front pages of newspapers are
TRUE DETECTIVE MAGAZINE, June, 1966.
TD
reserved for the unusual, the important, the momet*
tous ... for stories that grip the readers’ attention and
consequently, sell newspapers.
Hence, to win space on the front page, a murder now
adays must contain unusual elements of the bizarre
the sensational; it must contain ingredients which
stir the emotions of pity, anger, rage.
It will be a long, long time before the people of Tuls&
Oklahoma, forget the murder of one of their most Tf
spected citizens. Without question, it contained all
elements which made it front page news. 4
These elements were not immediately known, oer aa
ever, when the curtain went up on the early stages @
the tragic drama on the warm Friday night of Jum —
Be”
ry
qoeTe Seqtum ‘pxrempg “SWYTTITM
7
fhe
) ewoyeTyO peqnoo
09 esTRy
une
ci
(&
ee
ATaL Uo
Rev. Tommy Cooke died at hands of a callous killer who later admitted that his victim “
never had a chance”
"* 0967. §
sao
wo
os
(Continued from page 64)
held her as a mate
white slave case.
rial witness in a
nfronted by _ the
evidence that police knew Pete Wil-
liams had spent ti
d told that in a
ight be involve
two holdups, he m
Millie agree to
a murder: rap,
te had met her at
day night. They
at a motel and then
m Sunday morning.
hen she left for work
and that was
he had seen him.
d she had never seen
but under persis-
she admitted this
d a pistol with him
drove to California two
ore. She was booked as a
The most important
had contributed was
been in Tulsa
fternoon at about the
d Tommy Cooke
talk.
She said that Pe
the bar late
spent the night
He was there w
at four that
the last time s
Millie insiste
Pete with a gun,
tent questioning,
_ was a lie; h
when they
months bef
material witness.
information she
that Pete Wi
on Sunday a
time the Reveren
had disappeared.
As of Monda
neither the missing
fugitive had be
case was none
proaching its c
Accompanie
brother, Fred
evening at
friend in Talih
when they
hosts and w
y night, June 18th,
minister nor the
ed, but the
theless rapidly ap-
d by his wife and her
Campion had been vis-
the home of a
ina. It was 10:30 p.m.
codnight to. their
alked toward Campion’s
car.
All three were startled when a
man suddenly step
shadows and said,
liams. I want you
’m Pete Wil-
to drive me out
ecognized him at once.
but he was
probably in
+ that hung
Campion r
He could see no gun,
liams had one,
band in the shir
down over his trouse
“Why don’t you give yourself up,
the whole damn_coun-
king for you.
bound to get you,
Williams snapped
and let’s get going!”
Temporarily
attempts to reason
They’ve got
angrily, “Shut up
with the fugitive,
he was told.
er brother got
d Williams sat
half-turned so
those in back.
s wife and h
into the back seat,
beside the driver,
could keep his eyes on
He ordered Campion
miles to the
hose coolness in
ed to exceed
tor, had not given up.
illiams had calmed
while after they
tried a cou-
gambits on gen-
med respon-
fully at first, C
But Campion, w
the tense situa
that of his cap
down slightly a little
started driving,
of conversationa
eral topics. W
sive. Then, care
began to reason W:
but forcefully.
“You’re mak:
Pete,” he said,
with you. It’s only
ing a big mistake,
“dragging us along
going to make it.
that much tougher for you to get
away.”
Half a dozen times, Williams told
him to shut up and mind his own
business, but Campion noticed that
he was less emphatic each time.
Showing no trace of fear, but acting
rather as if he had Williams’ interest
at heart, Campion persistently point-
ed out reason after reason why it
was silly to involve them in his
escape plans.
At one point, Williams interrupted
in exasperation, “What the ‘hell do
you expect me to do?” he demanded.
“Walk?”
“Hell, no, Pete,” Campion respond-
ed. “There’s no reason for that. All
you got to do when we get to Wil-
burton is grab a bus for Fort Smith.
That'll put you in Arkansas in a cou-
ple of hours, and once you get out of
the state of Oklahoma, you've got it
made, man.” ;
The proof Campion’s powers of
persuasion lies in the amazing fact
that he finally convinced Pete Wil-
liams this was the wisest thing he
could possibly do.
CEREBRAL
PALSY
Nit RESEARCH
JOIN THE
Le) 3 MINUTE
MARCH
When they reached the bus sta-
tion in Wilburton, the Fort Smith
bus was loading the last of its pas-
sengers. Williams leaped out of the
Campions’ car and ran to board it.
The big bus door swung shut and a
moment later, the bus was rolling
away from the station.
Campion, his wife and his brother-
in-law, watching from their car, di
not draw a breath until it was out of
sight. Then Campion leaped out ‘and
ran to a telephone booth, from which
he called the state police to report
what had happened.
Seconds later, the alarm was being
radioed to all units on patrol along
the route the bus would take over
Highway 270. A special bulletin was
sent to Marshal Buel Richmond in
Poteau, 50 miles to the northeast,
where the bus was due to arrive at
12:27 a.m.
Cruising a considerable distance
away, Sheriff Craig and Trooper Carl
Stevens also heard the alarm and set
out in pursuit of the big bus. When
it reached Poteau they were close
behind.
Marshal Richmond was already
there, waiting tensely as the pas-
sengers filed out of the bus and into
the lunchroom. Pete Williams, he
noted, was not among the passengers
who disembarked. Waiting until the
bus appeared to be empty, Marshal
Richmond, pistol in hand, quietly
boarded the bus and stood just inside
the door, surveying the interior. He
could see no one.
Now he advanced cautiously down
the long aisle, stopping after each
couple of steps and listening. Half-
way down the length of the bus’
interior, he suddenly heard a slight
sound. One more careful step took
him to a point where he could see
a man crouched close to the floor
between two of the high-backed
seats.
It was the fugitive, Pete Williams.
Before the marshal could order
him to stand up and surrender, how-
ever, Williams made a last desperate’
bid for freedom and lunged at the |
officer.
The struggle was fierce, but brief,
and Marshal Richmond had the pris-
oner under control and handcuffed
when Sheriff Craig and Trooper Ste- »
vens rushed to his aid moments later
after braking their car to a scream
ing halt beside the bus.
Under the guns of the three offi-
cers, Pete Williams was frisked. He
was unarmed, but in his pockets they
found $489 in bills, and some loose
change.
The three officers took him to the
Poteau police headquarters and
began questioning him. Williams
spoke freely, almost too freely, his
interrogators suspected. He candidly
admitted the stickups at Tulsa and
Talihina, but he professed complete
ignorance about the Reverend Tom-
my Cooke.
“t never heard of the guy,” he
insisted after the minister’s name
had been mentioned several times.
“Whatta ya want from me?”
“We can’t believe that, Pete,”
Sheriff Craig retorted evenly.
“How'd you come to be driving his
car, the blue Olds you abandoned in
the woods near Muse?”
Williams shrugged and claimed he
had swiped it from its parking space
on a street in Tulsa. Four hours of
persistent questioning failed to shake
him from this story, but finally he |
the cat-and- |
mouse game. Then he began to talk, |
seemed to weary of
and his words confirmed the worst
fears of the officers. :
Pete Williams admitted now that
he had kidnaped the young preacher
and killed him. He had left Cooke’s
body near the hamlet of Taft, in
Muskogee County, about 40 miles
southeast of Tulsa.
Williams agreed to show them
where he had left the body, and on
Tuesday morning, he led officers to
the spot. They found the young mii-
ister lying face down in an area
overgrown with tall weeds and scrub
trees. One shot had been fired into
the back of his head.
Questioning of Williams now elicit-
ed the explanation of how he_ had
eluded the dragnet after the filling
station stickup in Tulsa. He disclosed
that he had hidden in a culvert that
was totally obscured by tall reeds.
He said he had found it by a lucky
accident—he fell into it. He hid there
until late Saturday, when ihe
emerged after dark, and went into
Tulsa to Millie Garese’s place.
He left her rooming house soon
after she departed for work on Sun-
(Continued on page 70)
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70
(Continued from page 66)
day, he said, and waited in front of
the Tulsa Public Library at 3rd
Street and Cheyenne Avenue for a
likely looking car to hijack. It was
5:30 p.m. when the blue Olds, driven
by Reverend Cooke, halted at the
intersection for a red light. There
was no other car in sight.
Williams ran out, opened the front
door on the Passenger side, and
climbed in, pointing a gun at the
young minister. He forced him to
drive south on US, 64, then told him
to turn off onto a gravel road near
Taft. At the dead end of this road,
six miles farther on, he ordered
Cooke to get out of the car. He said
that Cooke at no time appeared to
be afraid, that he seemed very trust-
ing, as though he “expected every-
thing would turn out all right.”
A detective asked Williams if
Tommy Cooke had tried to preach
to him.
“He didn’t have a chance,” the
swarthy suspect replied, “I wouldn’t
let him say anything.”
The only words Cooke uttered, he
said, were to protest Williams’ plan
to tie him up with his belt and shoe
strings. Without further ado, Pete said
calmly, he shot him in the back of
the head, killing him instantly.
Explaining why no weapon had
been found on him when he was
captured by Marshal Richmond, Wil-
liams said he had thrown the pistol
out the bus window enroute to Pot-
eau. It was later recovered, and
proved to be a .38 caliber revolver
of Spanish manufacture. It was fully
loaded with six live bullets in the
cylinder.
At a jail confrontation with Tommy
Cooke’s pastor, the Reverend Arnold
asked Williams if he had known
Cooke was a minister,
Williams shrugged, glanced up-
ward as he was lighting a cigarette,
and said, “No,”
“Would it have made any differ-
ence?” the clergyman asked sadly.
Williams seemed to ponder the
. question. He exhaled a cloud of cig-
arette smoke, squinted thoughtfully,
and finally said, “I don’t think so.”
“Do you believe in Christ?” the
pastor asked. “Has anyone’ ever
talked to you about Christ?”
“Not since I was a kid,” Pete
replied,
“Do you believe that when a man
is dead he is just dead?” the Rev-
erend Arnold asked.
“Yah,” Williams said without emo-
tion. “Just dead.”
A mere three days had elapsed
since Williams had set in motion the
chain of events which would lead: to
the murder of the young minister,
Wise in the ways of the underworld,
Pete Williams took a gamble and
pleaded guilty to the murder of Rev-
erend Cooke, figuring that a guilty
plea would win him a sentence to life
imprisonment instead of the death
sentence,
He won that gamble, and gleefully
boasted to cellmates that he had beat
the death rap. But the state of Okla-
homa was not through with Pete Wil-
liams. Authorities now proceeded to
try him on charges of kidnaping and
two counts of armed robbery. Both
offenses are capital crimes in Okla-
homa, but Williams seemed certain
that having beat the death sentence
for murder, he would not now be
sentenced to die even if convicted for
the lesser crimes of kidnaping and
armed robbery. :
He was wrong. Found guilty on all
counts, he was sentenced to die in the
electric chair in the big state peni-
tentiary at McAlester. The first ex-
ecution date set by the court was
February 1, 1957, but an eleventh-
hour stay, granted by the Oklahoma
Appellate Court on defense counsel’s
claim of technical error in the rec-
ords, saved him from the chair, It
was the first of a whole series of de-
lays as one appeal after another was
fought through court after court.
But at long last the day of reckon-
ing could not be postponed any lon-
ger. Pete Williams’ last appeal had
been made and rejected. On April 4,
1960, precisely at midnight—once
again a fateful hour in the ill-starred
career of Edward Leon “Pete” Wil-
liams, the tall, swarthy murderer
found himself strapped into the elec-
tric chair at the state prison. The
switch was thrown, and Pete’s des-
perate gamble to thwart justice was
itself thwarted.
In more than four years of re-
peated delays and the many legal re-
courses it had allowed the killer, the
law had shown infinitely more mercy
than this murderer had shown to his
innocent victim, the trusting young
preacher about whom Pete Williams
had _ callously admitted, “He didn't
have a chance.”
In a way, those unfeeling words are,
in and of
graphic sermon to those solicitous
souls who bleat so loudly about the
rights and privileges of criminals and
killers, apparently oblivious to the
rights and privileges of innocent,
law-abiding citizens, kk
Eprror’s Note:
Reverend Leslie Arnold, Jeb
Marcus, Millie Garese and Fred
Campion are not the real names of
the persons so named in the fore-,
going story. Because there is no
reason for public interest in the
identity of these persons, fictitious
names have been used.
OFFICIAL DETECTIVE
“If you think the pay is lousy wait till you see the
vacation plan.”
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°SL6T Saoqumoe *ENIZVOVN SATLOMIG UTLSWH
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Oklahoma detectives were playing a cat-and-mouse
~ game with a wily fugitive when their — "S
probe took a tragic turn... “oe
by ERIC WELLES
NE OF THE BASIC discoveries of scholars
immersed in the study of the world’s peoples
holds that man is a creature of transition, that
he can no more resist the impulse to change things
than he can stop breathing. For the most part, the
changes brought about by this irresistible impulse
have been for the good, which accounts for
humanity’s progression from the caves to split-levels.
Some are questionable, like the growth of per-
missiveness which results in children bringing up their
parents, instead of vice versa.
. A few are inequivocally deplorable, and even
become shocking when one perceives that the change
has been wrought so subtly that few people realize
what has happened.
There is no better example of this than the
phenomenon of our times which has seen death by
violence become commonplace. It can be fairly said,
paradoxical though it may sound, that murder has
become a way of life. It was not so long ago that
murder used to be front page news in the newspapers
of America. If that were still true, in most large urban
areas there would not be room on the front page to ac-
commodate stories of the dozens of murders which
occur daily in a given metropolitan area.
The result is that by far the majority of murders are
not even reported in the nation’s largest cities. They
rate no space in the daily newspapers, or on broadcast
media news reports, unless they happen to involve a
person or persons of prominence, beautiful women,
titillating sex, or macabre circumstances that will
shock the public. That, by the way, becomes more
and more difficult to do.
But it does happen from time to time, and there are
certain types of murders which leave a mark on a
community, a sort of scar on the sensitibilities of
citizens who strive to lead lives according to codes of
decency and honesty. Such a case exerted a more
profound sense of shock on the good people of Tulsa,
Oklahoma than anything which had occured in the
area in decades. ;
In retrospsect, it is clear that the tragic drama
opened with a prologue on the warm night of June
16th. The scene was a gasoline station on Tulsa’s South
Peoria Avenue, a rather sparsely settled area, dark at
midnight even on Saturday, save for the bright lights
of the gasoline pumps and the glaring floodlights on
_ the tall steel standards which illuminated the oil-
stained concrete pavement surrounding the gas sta-
tion.
Earlier in the evening, when traffic was still heavy
on the avenue, several attendants had been working
and cars moved briskly in and out of the station. When
traffic tapered off, however, all but one of the gas
jockeys took off for the night. Now he was alone.
He was standing at the work bench inside the ser-
38
ig prised to see a fellow this old wearing his hair];
: g his hair lik
wat. He was no kid. He looked to be at least in his mide
¥ sop Sears a few years older. He was
: aring well-bleached Levis, and a ts i -
4 “erket over a white t-shirt. eee
. See te driver was alighting from the old car, and the
Z ~fendant noted he was a stranger, not one of their
lar patrons. The driver was tall
. * . . é ‘ th ‘
od built, with heavy black pad aan full hen
stening, wavy black hair combed with studi
sualness over his forehead. 2 oe
The attendant later would recall thathe wasa little
“How many?” the gas i
’ ? Sas station attendant asked
bmatically as he threw the lever that zeroed the
ton the pump, then pulled the nozzle out of its
d started walking toward the gas tank of the old
Rev. Tommy Cooke failed to appear for an important sermon. His
whereabouts remained unknown until his murderer was captured
mt put your hands up. ry ¥
ellie: Sonch hold them by your * 3
The filling station attendant did exactly as he was
d He had been warned by the station owner never
_ ©/Rsist a holdup man but to surrender money, tools
yhatever the bandit demanded without question. '
walked gingerly ahead of the gunman, alittle
ardly, for in his eagerness to obey the man’s
a cousin, the dough—where do you keep it?”
, © Btill standing with his arms held rigidly at his sides.
glance at the open, empty drawer of cash «"
er seemed to satisfy the gunman that this was the
a although it was obvious he was disappointed
‘Okay, he said softly, “so turn around.” ,
; ex the attendant complied with this command
Js ndit deftly went through his pockets and ’
‘ved all the money he could find. It came toa. so *: .
og paper currency and about $3 in coins. He The ras of Rev. Tom
. mi
he was shot to death a
mc
Cooke is brought from lonely wooded
: area where
a man who forced his way into minister's car
NO QAnOn ws
OS OH REPOaH
e ceo =
cy re QO
esc ctoae ch
aa * SO
ON — Oo
oe) . :
w ws
is
mA
Then he prodded the attendant in the small of the back with
the muzzle of the pistol. “Get inside the john and lemme hear you
lock that door,” he commanded. “If you're. smart, man, you ie
keep it locked tight for about five minutes.
The attendant walked into the rest room at the corner of the
station office, went inside, and turned the bolt on the door. Relief
welled up in him as he heard the gunman’s retreating footsteps,
the start of the jaloppy’s noisy engine, and the grinding of
transmission gears as it started away.
That was as long as he waited. In the next second, he had un- *
locked the rest room door and was racing outside. It was too late
to get the numbers of the license plate on the old car; he could see
its flickering tail lights as it sped down South Peoria Avenue.
At almost the same moment, however, the attendant spotted
a cruiser of the Nite Patrol Service which had just pulled onto the
avenue from a side street. °
He yelled to get the driver's attention, then waved his arms
at the fleeing jaloppy and shouted, “Stick-up!
The uniformed patrolman for a private security agency got
the message. Pausing only long enough to yell, “Call the policel
he sped off in pursuit of the old car. He began to gain on it at
once, but as soon as the bandit realized he was being chased, he
floored the accelerator and the battered heap shot ahead with an
astonishing burst of speed.
The security officer matched it. With his newer, more power-
ful car, he had no trouble equaling the speed of the fleeing car,
but he never got an opportunity to draw abreast or pass it, due to
the breakneck speed and reckless driving of the man he was pur-
suing. Mile after mile, the chase roared on, reaching speeds of
more than 80 miles an hour at times. ' :
_ When he saw that his pursuer must surely catch him on a
stretch of straightaway, the fleeing gunman resorted to hair-
raising turns into side streets. Tires screeching, taking desperate
chances, he pulled every driving trick in the book to shake off the
car that stuck doggedly to his tail. He did not succeed. The patrol
car had too much power, and a lot more stability than the old
Perea, as the two cars neared 37th Street, now only 80
yards apart, the bandit lost control. His speeding pile of junk
veered drunkenly from side to side, then careened crazily into a
broadside skid that sent it hurtling against a massive old tree just
off the roadway. :
“That’s the end of him!” the pursuing private patrolman ex-
claimed aloud as he brought his car to a grinding stop.
But to his astonishment, the driver's door of the wrecked car
popped open and a tall, jacketed figure, seemingly all arms and
legs, scrambled out and landed in a heap on the ground.
In the next instant, as keening sirens heralded the approach of
- half a dozen police cars, the man had picked himself up and
scampered off, running like an antelope into the woods which
bordered the highway. Seconds later, he was swallowed up by
the trees.
The private patrolman waited for the arrival of the city.
police. “He's gone into the woods,” he told them, gesturing,
“Ti rough there.”
— = i. got on his radio and reported to headquarters,
others plunged into the woods after the fugitive, guns and
flashlights in hand. From the cruiser radios could be heard the
crackling voice of the dispatcher directing other cruiser units to
ne.
“ge Pree later, the Oklahoma Highway Patrol, which had
picked up the message joined the manhunt. Police emergency
units sped to the area and tumed powerful flood lights toward
~ the woods. The entire region was surrounded and sealed off as a
« line of searchers methodically combed through the dense woods.
A uniformed sergeant who had assisted in deploying the
police forces reported to the dispatcher by radio: “We've got the
' perimeters of the woods sealed off and thirty-seven men are now
in there after him. We ought to get him pretty quick.
The sergeant was wrong. The searchers in the woods reached
the far perimeter without finding a trace of the swarthy fugitive.
They started back, advancing more slowly, examining every foot
40 ?
. of ground, and again came up emptyhanded. With the arrival of
aa
dawn on Sunday morning, June 16th, the search was intensified,”
A helicopter was called in to hover over the wooded area, in cons,
stant voice communications with ground searchers, but all the
lice efforts came to naught. = ut
By some miracle, the fleeing gunman had eluded his pursuers
and made good his escape. ‘
In the meantime, detectives had concentrated their efforts on
the wrecked jaloppy: Even without its driver, it was always
possible they might find a clue to the fugitive’s identity p
in or on the car. ;
Detective Sergeants Felix Raiford and Bob Bivens took down
the numbers of its Akansas license plates and quickly requested
headquarters to check them against the hot car reports. They
were advised soon afterwards that unless the theft was so recent
that it had not yet been reported, the car was not stolen.
“I'm not surprised,” Sergeant Bivens commented. If a guy
was going to steal a-car, he’d have to be some kind of a nut to
_ Swipe a junk like this.”
Sergeant Raiford nodded agreement, then added, “Maybe
we'll do better when we can get a make from the Arkansas Motor
Vehicle Bureau.” :
But this check would have to be delayed several hours. The
detectives ordered the wreck towed to headquarters, where it
was turned over to Sergeant Ray Jones of the Technical Squad.
He tumed his experts loose on it and they went to work im-
mediately, trying to lift a readable set of fingerprints from theald
heap. :
Mecwhike. Sergeant Bivens and Raiford headed for the gas,
station where the chase had begun and interrogated the holdup
victim. They found him to be an unusually observant young man
who, despite the fact that he had been scared and didn’t care who
Ex-con Edward “Pete” Williams, 27, allegedly admitted
holdups, but vehemently denied implication in minister's murd
"
timate address, he was either lucky,
s
The detective chief's words were
me time before it was leamed e
As police continued the manhunt throughout the day, Tulsa’s
new it, had noted a number of details which promised to be
Ipful in the search for the bandit.
+ “Can you tell us what the gunman looked like?” Bivens asked.
“I sure can,” the young man said. “The guy was tall, a little
tter'n six feet. Rangy, wiry build. Thick eyebrows and deepset
tk eyes, sort of narrow eyes, I guess you'd call them. Angular
e, kinda long. He hada lot of hair, very thick and shiny, comb-
d like teenagers wear their hair—you know, hanging over his
behead, sort of. He had a very long upper lip, and a very full
er lip. That's all I can remember.
“How about his clothes? What was he wearing?” Sergeant
iford asked.
“Oh, yeah, blue jeans, pretty well bleached. And a tan wind-
eaker, with a zipper front. Lightweight, like a golfer’s rain-
et. And he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Just a white t-shirt.”
“That's pretty good,” Sergeant Raiford complimented the
uth. “Ought to be helpful.”
‘His partner was already on the radio reporting the detailed
tiption for rebroadcast to all units and the searchers.
Dawn had not yet broken, and though at this time it was
lieved the fugitive was still bottled up in the woods, stakeouts
te quickly, assigned to maintain surveillance at railroad
tions, the airport and bus terminals. News of the search was
leased to newspapers and radio and television stations, and
hile it was too late to make the Sunday newspapers, the broad-
media issued frequent bulletins on the manhunt, and
peated police warnings to motorists not to pick up any
tchhikers. The bulletins also requested that anyone noticing
spicious persons on the highways or anywhere in the area
ould report them at once to the police.
The intensified daylight search of the wooded area had yield-
no better results than the earlier searches in the dark before
wn. It continued throughout the early moming hours, but of-
‘tials by this time were all but convinced that the wanted man
d somehow made good his escape. They assigned detective
fms now to canvass all hotels and rooming houses throughout
e metropolitan area.
Sergeants Bivens and Raiford arrived at headquarters about
ght o'clock and were handed a report which had just come in
Arkansas. Bivens read it through and chuckled.
“They must have had to disturb a hell of alot of people’sSun- *
y sleep to get all this so fast,” he said.
“Is it any help?” asked Detective Chief Harry Stege, who
e out of his office at that moment.
“Not much,” Bivens replied. “The car was bought for cash last
tek at a secondhand lot in Fort Smith. Apparently by our boy
0 pulled the job here last night. The description fits, right
to the t-shirt and the windbreaker—tan, zippered.”
“What about the name he used?” Chief Stege asked. “Is it a
ony?”
Probably. He gave the dealer the name of Harold Devons.
d cash—fifty bucks for the heap—and drove off.”
‘hat about his address?”
pas coming to that,” said Sergeant Bivens. “Fort Smith police
the address he gave is legit,
old Devons, or of anyone
‘After a moment's thought,
but nobody there ever heard of a
fitting the description.”
Chief Stege said: “If he gave a
or he knows the town.
Suess is he knows the town. And if he’s from Arkansas, he’s
hg to try to get back there. He'll use that gun to doit, too, if he
to, and I think he’s going to have to.”
He only got thirty-three bucks in that stickup last night, and
lure won't be able to get far on that. He's got to make another
prophetic, but it would be
xactly how prophetic.
ter of a million people, as well as the many more thousands
trounding communities, were warned by repeated broad-
that an armed and dangerous criminal was on the loose. The
ic’s cooperation was requested and citizéns repeatedly were
ed to get in contact with the police at the least sign of anything
Photo shows suspect after being apprehended. From eft: State
Patrolman Carl Stevens, Edward Williams and Sheriff Jack Craig
or anyone acting in a suspicious manner. But the day passed with
nothing more than the ex pected rash of unfounded reports, some
genuine, others from cranks, which inevitably result from such
alarms.
Sunday morning had dawned bright, sunny and warm. In the
residential areas of the city, many property owners rose early and
busied themselves puttering around their lawns, gardens, and
backyard barbecue areas. Some stayed in bed, sleeping off the
‘effects of their Saturday night revelry.
Still others rose, donned their best clothes, and set out from
home to attend religious services at the church of their choice.
At the Glenwood Baptist Church on South Sth Avenue,
parishioners were inspired by a stirring sermon delivered by
their pastor, the Reverend Leslie Arnold. Standing on the steps of
the church when services were over, he exchanged greetings
with many of his flock who stopped to congratulate him on the
fine sermon. After the last of the congregation had departed, he
went inside and chatted briefly with his youthful assistant pastor,
Reverend Tommy Robert Cooke, who also complimented him
on his moving sermon. ;
The pastor was extremely partial to his young assistant,
~ Although only 23 years old, Tommy Cooke had already ex-
hibited all the signs of a dedicated man of God.
“Thank you, Tommy,” the pastor said. “I’m looking forward
to your sermon at this evening's services. Are you all ready for
your trip tomorrow?” :
Reverend Amold was referring to their plans to leave the next
day for Oklahoma Baptist University of Shawnee, where both
would attend a special brief (Continued on page 62)
41
72
Going My Way,
Brother Sin?
continued from page 31
fought so hard against it when the Lord had
called him.
It happened while he was in the army. He’d
always been religious, but he never thought
he'd be a preacher. He was a star athlete at
high school in Atoka, Okla. Then he went to
college a year at Southeastern State in Durant
before he went into the service. In the army,
his pastor needed Sunday school teachers, so
he volunteered.
By the time he was mustered out as a
master sergeant, the Lord was shaking him
clear down to his heels.
He prayed and told the Lord he couldn’t
talk, but it didn’t do any good, so he decided
to go ahead and give it all he had. In two
weeks now, he’d be ordained. A licensed min-
ister.
He'd studied theology at Tulsa University,
and the very next morning he and Reverend
Proctor were planning to drive to Shawnee,
Okla., to take a short course at Oklahoma
Baptist University. This afternoon, he would
go to his room in his sister and brother-in-
law’s house and pack a suitcase.
Tonight, he had to preach the evening ser-
mon
OMMY’S family believed in him, so he
didn’t feel alone in his struggle to be a good
minister, His father, a rancher near Atoka,
his mother, his four brothers, and his two
sisters encouraged him.
They worried about him, because he would
visit and talk to anybody he thought needed
the comfort of religion.
“At least, you shouldn’t pick up every hitch-
hiker you see on the road,” they would say.
“You can’t tell what they might do.”
But Tommy had won souls and church
members that way. He knew how to talk
with individuals, how to win their confidence
and listen to their troubles. His success with
lost strangers had amazed veteran ministers.
It was 3:30 that Sunday aiternoon when
Tommy finished his church visits and went
home.
His °49 Oldsmobile contained a stack of
bibles, because he never knew when he might
find a stranger in need of God’s book. He
parked the car in front of his sister’s house
and went inside.
She and her husband were visiting out of
town, so he had the house to himself. He
packed his suitcase for the.next day’s trip,
and laid out clean clothes to wear for the
evening sermon.
He studied and prayed. Then he went into
the bathroom, and turned on the shower.
Tommy’s sister and brother-in-law came
home from their trip at about 8 o’clock that
night, Sunday, June 17. The house was empty
and the phone was ringing. The caller was
Reverend Proctor.
“Have you seen Tommy? He was supposed
to preach tonight, but he didn’t come to
church. We’ve tried to reach him everywhere
we can think of, but no one has seen him since
about three or 3:30.”
“We just got home,” Tommy’s sister said.
“Hold the line while I look around the house.
Maybe he left a note.”
The house was neat and Tommy’s suitcase
was packed. In the bathroom, the shower cur-
tain was still wet. But there was no note, no
indication that Tommy had decided to miss
the evening service. She hurried back to the
telephone.
“Call me if you hear anything,” Reverend
Proctor said.
Night began without a word of Tommy,
and his sister stayed by the phong, worrying,
as the clock ticked off the minutes.
Meanwhile, in Talihina, 175 miles south
of Tulsa, Mr. and Mrs. Herman Coussens
were retiring early. The town had a popula-
tion of only 950, but the general store was a
large one, and farmers came for miles to trade
there.
The Coussens had worked hard Friday ‘and
Saturday because they were short-handed. One
of their employes, Pete Williams, had walked
away on Thursday without so much as a
word.
Shortly before 11 o’clock, they were awak-
ened by hammering on their front door.
Coussens switched on a light and squinted at
the clock. The hammering on the door was
like thunder. It must be some kind of emer-
gency.
The Coussens pulled on their clothes and
opened the door. Pete Williams stood there,
half grinning.
He had a blue steel gun pointed at them
that looked big as a cannon.
“T came back,” he said quietly. “Get your
store keys. I need some money.”
His dark eyes glittered, and the deep lines
around his. mouth were set hard. He rushed
them. “Hurry up. Come on.” But his voice
stayed low and steady and the blue steel in
his hand never wavered. Mr. Coussens hur-
ried to the store and opened it. He handed
over the store’s receipts. There hadn’t been
time to go to the bank for several days, and
there was a lot of money, about $800. Pete
Williams stuffed it in his pockets and retreated
into the shadows. A car motor roared, and
he was gone. Mr. Coussens grabbed the phone
and called county officers.
“Yes,” he told .the sheriff’s men. “It was
Pete Williams. No doubt of it.”
Within minutes, the highway patrol was
alerted and officers in LeFlore County, from
Talihina in the southwest to the county seat
at Poteau in the northeast, began patroling
the roads.
A resident of Talihina called in.
“T saw Pete Williams in town about 10:30.
He was driving a ’49 Oldsmobile.”
Minutes later, an unidentified man phoned
headquarters. “I saw Pete Williams heading
out of town a few minutes ago. He was in a
strange car, but I’d know that face anywhere.
He was heading east for Arkansas on State
Highway 63.”
A patrol car roared onto the second-class
road.
Sixty-three is a shortcut out of the state,
with few towns and no cities to stop a
man in a hurry. The road twists and winds as
it makes its way up river along the Kiamichi
River, heading for the Ozarks. Twelve miles
out of Talihina, the patrol car raced past the
town of Whitesboro. An officer muttered,
“Curves start getting shorter now. We’ll have
to slow down on them. Next town is Muse,
nine miles, We have 30 miles to catch him in
before he hits Arkansas.”
The radio crackled. “Mena (Arkansas) offi-
cers will cooperate. They’ll try to block him
at that end.”
Five minutes later, they saw tail-lights
ahead. They switched on the blinker and si-
ren.
The car ahead gained speed. The officer
mashed his foot on the accelerator.
Left curve, right curve, short left, long
right. The tires screamed and the two ve-
hicles rocked and skidded on every turn. To
the right, below the road, the Kiamichi waters
flowed slowly in the moonlight, far below the
road. ‘
The officer hunched over the wheel while
his partner sat on the edge of the seat, micro-
phone in hand.
“We’re gaining,” he told the dispatcher.
“Every curve, we’re a little closer.”
The river wound away from the road, and
trees crowded close on both sides. The patrol
car headlights were blazing against the back
of the ’49 Olds. The officer steered left to pull
alongside and force the other car to stop. Pete
Williams slammed the brakes of the car and
spun the wheel to the right. The car lunged
off the road and skidded to a stop at the edge
of the woods.
The officer braked and backed up fast, but
he was too late. Pete Williams had fled into
the forest.
They looked in the abandoned car. Papers
in the glove compartment showed that this
car belonged to Tommy Cooke, assistant pas-
tor of a Tulsa church.
The Tulsa police department has a chief
detective named Harry Stege. He has a repu-
tation for piecing together a crime so accu-
rately that the criminal is too astounded to
deny it. He was largely responsible for obtain-
ing confessions from Nannie Doss (Tulsa’s
husband-poisoner). Stege was determined to
track down the robber who’d taken $50 from
a Tulsa filling station on the previous Friday
night.
He had ordered fingerprints taken from the
wrecked '37 Pontiac the robber had aban-
doned on Yale. The car was full of prints,
and they checked out to Edward Leon (Pete)
Williams.
Stege pulled out his police record.
ONG BEACH, Cal., November 16, 1944,
auto theft and burglary. Fifteen years old.
Sent to training school; February, 1945, short-
ly after release in California, jailed in Tulsa.
Burglary suspect. Convicted August 12, 1945;
Englewood, Colo., car theft. El Reno, Okla.,
federal reformatory for three-year sentence.
Transferred federal pen at Hannibal, Mo. Es-
caped March 29, 1947. Sent back June 23,
1947,
Two counts auto theft. Paroled. Ar-
rested Tulsa, March 26, 1949. Released. Con-
victed armed robbery, Michigan City, Ind.,
November 3, 1949.
Twelve-year sentence. Paroled March, 1956.
Tulsa police knew Pete, and had evidence
against him on this holdup, but they were still
looking for him when LeFlore County officers
notified Tulsa that they, too, had chased and
lost Pete.
Their report contained the description of
the missing preacher’s automobile. They said
they were searching the woods.
It was morning when Harry Stege and Dep-
uty Sheriff Jim Hartley heard from Tommy
Cooke’s sister. She said she wanted to report
Tommy missing. The congregation, pastor and
Tommy’s family felt sure something terrible
must have happened to him. They described
his 49 Olds. Stege began fitting the pieces
together.
First, he b
in the LeFi
He arranged
the car. The
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30
Tall grass hid most of Tommy from first view by Detective Stege, Sheriff Kerr and Detective Sergeant Raiford, (1. to r.)
I'VE DONE ROTTEN THINGS, BUT | WANT TO LIVE... EVEN IN A CELL
from him and left him in the rest room.
But the guy must have got a better look
at the Pontiac than Pete realized. Two
hours later, while Pete was driving down
Yale, a police car started after him. Pete
had wrecked his car trying to get away,
and his only cover was the culvert right
under the spot where all the police con-
gregated to look for him. They’d kept
him cornered until daylight, and then
he didn’t dare come out. He’d even
heard a plane buzzing around out there,
like a waiting vulture. Now he’d lost a
day and a car. Through half-closed eyes,
he watched Judy punch a hole in a beer
can and lift it to her tiny lips between
her fat cheeks, like a baby sucking a
bottle.
She was 26, a year younger than Pete.
Yet, if you didn’t count the years he’d
spent in jail, he was still a teenager. At
15, he wound up in a California train-
ing school, for auto theft and burglary.
Since then he’d been in and out of jail
like a ball that can’t stop bouncing. The
time he’d spent in prison was years and
the time between.was months. He fig-
ured that in actual time he’d spent only
one of the past 12 years outside of jail.
He didn’t know why. There were
times when he really wanted to go
straight. He wondered what he really
wanted, Judy? A bottle? Money? What
kept wringing his tail?
“What’s the matter, Pete?’’
He looked up into her sloe eyes. A
drop of beer moved slowly from her
small moist mouth to the roundness of
her chin. He shook his head.
“Need a shave. Shower.”
He got up and stretched, trying to
shake the soreness out of his body. In
the bathroom, he stared into the. mir-
ror. He looked old. He was tall and
thin, and there were deep lines around
his big mouth and lips. Gray salted his
black hair, and his cheeks were hollow.
He twisted the hot water faucet and un-
7
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Young Reverend Tommy had way of Pete, with Oklahoma Highway Patrolman, has spent only what amounts to one
getting right through to people. of last 12 years out of jail, now believes he’s practically strapped in chair.
Snatched from bus where he was cowering between seats, Pete submits to |
thorough search by Patrolman Stevens, LeFlore County Sheriff ‘Jack Craig. i
buttoned his shirt then called to Judy:
“Hey! Bring me a bottle, I need com-
pany.”
He heard her lazy voice purring to-
ward him like a fat cat. “Honey, there’s
nothing I like more than a man who
wants company.”
QUNDAY morning, Pete and Judy
slept late while young Tommy
Cooke attended services at Glenwood
Baptist Church on South Fifty-fourth
Street. As assistant pastor, he was in
charge of the young peoples’ activities,
and he worked very hard and thought
very deeply because he was humble, and
he could not understand why the Lord
had called him.
After Sunday school, he straightened
his tie that was already straight, and
watched the people come into the audi-
torium. He’d visited many people the
week before, and saved two souls. Now
he made sure that the earthly bodies of i.
those souls were in the congregation so
they could come to the altar and join
the church at the end of the service.
Pastor Dale Proctor moved toward the
pulpit, and Tommy Cooke took his
place near him.
Tommy wouldn’t have been so sur-
prised at his becoming a minister, if
ministers didn’t have to address the
congregation. Tommy had never liked to
talk. He had a speech impediment, so
that he substituted “‘f” for “t,” espe-
cially if he were embarrassed or nervous.
That’s why he (Continued on page 72)
our talk, but
s an atheist.
HE READ: GO OUT INTO THE HIGHWAYS AND HEDGES AND
COMPEL THEM TO COME IN THAT MY HOUSE MAY BE FILLED
St. Luke: 14; XX//I
GOING MY WAY,
BROTHER SIN?
by NATHANIEL PENNYPACKER
TULSA, OKLA., JUNE 28, 1956
m There were two young men in the city of Tulsa,
Okla. One carried a Bible, and the other carried a
gun. They were as different as day and night, though
the thoughtful young preacher would have called the
other man “brother” if he had ever met him.
But a meeting was unlikely. Only God, coinci-
dence, or the devil could bring these two together.
On Saturday night, June 16, while the 23-year-old
minister said his Sabbath eve prayers and folded
back the immaculate sheet of his celibate bed, the
27-year-old criminal slipped through police-infested
woods on the outskirts of the city and made his way
to the motel cabin where his mistress, a barmaid,
was waiting for him.
The familiar weight of his .38 revolver, loaded
and waiting, in his right pocket, reassured him. He
trembled and told himself he needed a drink. His
arms and legs ached from being cramped all day in-
side a culvert under Yale Avenue. His face felt
dirty with the day’s growth of beard. He’d wrecked
his car and spent almost 17 hours in the culvert
while police tramped over and around him, and all
he’d got for his trouble was $30 he’d taken the
previous midnight from the filling station attendant.
It was a disgusted Edward Leon (Pete) Williams
who made his way through alleys and side streets
to the motel.
Judy held open the door while he stumbled inside.
She got out the bottle before he said a word, She
watched sullenly while he drank.
“Where's the car?”
. eh a RRR erremammenmNE eT en
“Wrecked it,” he muttered, without looking at her.
He wiped his oversized mouth and watched to see
if she was going to start anything. She reached for
a can of beer, and he relaxed, studying her.
She was a strange kind of woman, he thought.
Her heavy-lidded eyes could say more than a book.
She was fat, but on her it looked good. She was
quiet most of the time, and sultry. All she asked
was plenty of beer, some sports clothes, and com-
panionship. Take them away and she’d blow like a
volcano. Pete knew. He’d had to tell the police
about it that time she put a bullet in his hand. It
wasn’t a serious wound, and he’d refused to press
charges, but he’d been careful about crossing Judy
since then.
She’d stuck with him ever since he got paroled
from the Indiana pen, three months ago. She fol-
lowed wherever the mood led him, and most of the
time he kept her contented. The last six weeks, he’d
worked for a big general store in Talihina, 175 miles
south of Tulsa, and then the old restlessness got hold
of him again. He hadn’t even told the store owners,
Mr. and Mrs. Herman Coussens, that he hac to
leave. He just took off across the state line to | ort
Smith, Ark., and bought his gun in a pawnsho; and
his beatup ’37 Pontiac at a used car lot. With a
gun and a car, he figured he could make a stake in
the oil city of Tulsa. But the first job had gon all
wrong.
The filling station job should have been easy. He
pointed his blue steel .38 at the attendant, too! $30
continued on next page
ttn a
Sy Ee Fore
356 A a RAR
MRSS pron Susyifatey we al
ONE FOOT IN HEAVEN
(Continued from page 49)
Tulsa drove over and learned at first
hand the details of Tommy Cooke’s
senseless death,
“Did he talk to you about Christ?”
Proctor asked.
“He tried to, but I shut him up,”
the gunman said sullenly.
“Then you don’t believe in Christ?”
“No.”
“Do you believe in the immortality
of the soul?”
“No.”
“Then you think that when a man
is dead he’s just dead—is that right?”
“Yeah, just dead.”
During further questioning, Wil-
liams confessed to the robberies in
Arkansas, New Mexico and Califor-
nia. Then in checking his record in
- other states, the officers learned an
astonishing fact. Williams was now 28
years old. Since he had first been sent
to reform school at the age of 15, he
had served four other jail sentences
in various states.
Out of the last 13 years he had
. spent only 9 months a free man.
And Williams soon realized that he
would never know freedom again.
During the next few days, he was
charged with armed robbery in Le-
Flore County, armed robbery and kid-
naping in Tulsa County and murder
in Muskogee County. In Oklahoma,
every one of these crimes carries a
maximum penalty of death in the
electric chair.
HOUSE OF THE LORD
While Williams sat sullenly in the
LeFlore County jail, a five-car funer-
_al procession wound its way to the
Glenwood Baptist Church in Tulsa.
There the Reverend Dale Proctor
stood near the flag-draped coffin of
Tommy Robert Cooke and chose for
his text a verse from the Gospel ac-
cording to St. Luke: “Go out into the
highways and hedges and compel
them to come in, that my ‘house may
be filled.” :
“Tommy was always picking up
hitchhikers,” the minister said. “He
went out into the highways more than
any man I ever knew.”
As the preacher talked on, the two
hundred people who jammed the
church and the sidewalk outside
sweltered in the 95 degree heat of
June 21st, the first day of summer.
Proctor, his voice choked with emo-
tion, told the Old Testament story
about Enoch, who walked with God. ©
One day, God told Enoch they ‘had
walked a long way and invited him to
come to His house.
‘Td like to think when Tommy
stopped his car at 3rd and Cheyenne
Sunday, God told him: “Tommy,
we've walked a long way. Come to
my house.” THe Enp
PLEASE GOD, OUR KATHY IS ALIVE
(Continued from page 27 )
right to the heart of the matter.
“Mrs. Ruoff, does Kathy know her
name and address?” he asked.
“Indeed she does,” said the mother.
“And her telephone number, too. She
has been taught to say ‘My name is
Katheryn Ruoff and I live at 511 East
47th street.’”
LIKE OLD CRIME
Clutching at her mental picture of
the girl as she had last seen her, Mrs.
Ruoff recalled something else. “She
was wearing’ her play suit on back-
ward; she put it. on that way when .
she thought she was going to the zoo
with her brother.”
Detective Swindler left the Ruoff
home without comment, then from his _.
car he radioed to Captain Kramer,
who was directing the search for the
child from headquarters.
“Captain, I’m afraid that child is
dead,” Swindler reported. “She knows
her name and address, so any right-.
minded person would have returned
her by now. Kidnaping for ransom
is out; the father is a man of just or-
dinary means.
The detective chief recalled Seattle’s
hundred miles of waterfront. “How
about a drowning?” he suggested.
.“Not a chance,” Swindler replied.
“The home is far from either the
‘sound or Lake Washington, and we’ve
checked and found there are no back-
yard pools or fish ponds within miles,
I figure we've got another Sally Kelley
case on our hands.”
“That will hit Dick Mahoney hard,”
said Kramer,
50
They referred to Seattle’s most
notorious unsolved crime. Twenty-
one years earlier, seven-year-old
Sally Kelley had disappeared from
the halls of an apartment house,
where she was playing. Hours later,
her body was found in a garage a
_Short distance away. The finder was
Richard Mahoney, then a detective,
and now a captain and. deputy chief
of detectives. A man’s handkerchief
had been knotted tightly around her
neck and she had been hanged from
the metal handle of the garage door.
The sex fiend who had strangled her
was never apprehended, despite
months of hard work by Mahoney
- and scores of detectives and offers of
rewards totalling $3500.
“I'm asking both the newspapers to
play this story up big,” Kramer went
on. “It will be Sunday morning, so
we can get lots of volunteer workers
out there. I'll get the Boy Scouts to
go through the park. I’m hoping that
perhaps the little thing - wandered
there, looking for that elephant, and
perhaps may have gone to sleep un-
der some bush or tree. I’m also going
to have our list of sex offenders picked
up and questioned.”
“I think we'll find the answer in
the neighborhood,” Swindler said
slowly. “That’s a quiet, residential
district, and sex deviates don’t wander
there. Along the Skid Road, maybe on
the waterfront or in the parks, I’d
say yes. But the people in Walling-
-ford know or recognize each other.
Nobody for blocks around saw any
Strangers during the afternoon.”
That night, the search continued in
Woodland park, where the zoo ani-
mals stirred restlessly as flashlights
sparkled like fireflies and voices were
raised in a continuing cry of “Kathy,
Kathy Ruoff. Where are you?”
Captain Leon Greiner, of Walling-
ford district, called scout masters: of
two groups of Explorer Scouts asking
for their help. At dawn, a couple of
hours later, nearly 100_ uniformed
Scouts met in front of the. precinct
house. They were marched into the
park, with many of its hundreds of
acres .still virgin timber land. The
Scouts began moving over the area in
a long line, standing close together,
pushing through the tangled mass,
looking for tiny Kathy or some clue to
her whereabouts,
Thousands of Seattlites read their
morning papers, then hurried to the
scene to offer help. Men, women and
children fanned out for miles from
around the Ruoff home, directed by
Sergeant V. L. Webb. Restaurants in
the district served free coffee to all
who desired it.
SEARCH INSIDE
“Look into empty garages and other
outbuildings,” Detective Swindler
urged the searchers. “So much time
has passed, that she surely would have
been found by now if she was out in
the open.”
The detective, up all through the
night, gulped hot coffee and started on
an independent trail of his own. He
decided to learn what he could of
Kathy, her habits, her friends and ac-
quaintances, hoping to come up with
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Latest reports on cases published in MD
Virginia Jaspers
“KIDS GET ON MY NERVES"
(MD January, 1957)
Because infants left in her care suf-
fered unexplainable injuries, or died,
the name of Virginia Jaspers, 33, a 6
foot, 220 pound baby nurse, was stricken
from the list of nurses recommended
by New Haven, Connecticut, physicians.
However, she continued to obtain work
caring for babies.
On the evening of August 23rd, 1956,
the parents of 11-day-old Abbe Kapsi-
now went out for the first time since her
birth, leaving the child in the care of
Nurse Jaspers. When they returned
Abbe was dying. The pediatric physician
summoned later determined that the
baby had died of a subarachnoid hem-
orrhage and recalled that in December,
1951, 2-month-old Jennifer Malkan had
died of the same cause while in the care
of Nurse Jaspers.
Following an investigation, Virginia
Jaspers was arrested on October 2nd,
1956, charged with the deaths of the two
infants. She confessed having shaken
them violently because they cried. On
November 15th, 1956, Superior Court
Judge William J. Shea, in New Haven
Superior Court, sentenced Virginia Jas-
pers to 10 to 22 years in prison on man-
slaughter charges. She was taken to
the state prison for women at Niantic,
Connecticut.
“| HAVE TOO MUCH ON MY SOUL"
(MD February, 1957)
Riddled with bullets, the body of
Daniel Z. Holloman, 58, was found on
September 10th, 1956, in his living
quarters at the rear of his roadside res-
taurant in Shelby, North Carolina. Wit-
nesses described a dark car seen leaving
the restaurant grounds at about the time
MASTER DETECTIVE, MafSch,
the murder must have been committed.
On September 15th a gas station owner
in Greenville, Alabama, was shot and
wounded during a holdup. He described
the gunman and his car. This seemed
to be the same car figuring in the Shelby
murder. The gunman was identified as
George Cecil Cook, 33, an ex-convict,
formerly of Shelby. Cook was arrested
in Tulsa, Oklahoma, on September 28th
and extradited to North Carolina. He
admitted that he had stolen a car, forged
checks and committed the holdups.
After deliberating an hour and 35
minutes a special Burke County grand
jury, on November 30th, found Cook
guilty of first-degree murder in the
slaying of Daniel Holloman. The jury
did not recommend mercy, thus making
the death sentence mandatory. Judge
Hugh B. Campbell then sentenced Cook
to die in the gas chamber on January
14th, 1957.
BURIED UNDER CONCRETE
(MD August, 1956)
When a neighbor telephoned police
that Mrs. Leonor Young, 63, had not
been seen about her Tularosa, New
Mexico, home since January 20th, 1956,
her husband, John D. Young, 63, was
questioned. He gave several different
explanations for her absence, all of
which proved to be false. And when one
of Young’s grandsons said that he had
helped his grandfather pour cement for
a new garage floor about the time Mrs.
Young vanished, the floor was dug up.
Beneath it was the body of Mrs. Young.
She had been shot in the neck.
Young was arrested on March 12th.
He said that he and his wife had had an
argument and she reached for his rifle.
In a struggle for the gun she was acci-
dentally shot and he had buried the
body, fearing police would not believe
his story.
An Alamogordo, New Mexico, jury
found Young guilty of second degree
murder and Judge W. T. Scoggin sen-
tenced him to a term of 20 to 40 years
in prison.
TRIPLE PLAY TO MURDER
(MD December, 1956)
Murder does not often have a wit-
ness, but on the night of July 21st, 1956,
a car paused for a stop sign in the Se-
pulveda section of Van Nuys, California,
and the startled occupants saw Gulbank
Estanpol, 56, proprietor of a liquor store,
shot to death by a lone gunman, who
then fled in a waiting car.
The driver of the halted car described
the gunman and the getaway car to
police and on August 2nd Remel Wayne
Brice, 31, was arrested. Identified by
the witness, he was charged with mur-
der. The driver of the getaway car
also was charged, but the charge against
him was dismissed when he testified for
the state that Brice did the shooting.
On November 16th a jury of 3 men
- and 9 women found Brice guilty of first-
degree murder, with no recommendation
for mercy, thus making the death pen-
alty mandatory.
THE PREACHER MEETS
A DEADLY STRANGER
(MD October, 1956)
Fleeing after a gas station holdup near
Tulsa, Oklahoma, and pursued by a
patrol car, Edward Leon “Pete” Wil-
liams, 28, crashed his car, but escaped
uninjured. The following day, June
17th, 1956, he commandeered the car of
a young minister, Tommy Robert Cooke,
23, on his way to church. When Cooke
protested being left bound in a woods
near Taft, Oklahoma, Williams shot him
to death and fled in the young minis-
ter’s car. The next night he held up
and robbed at gun point a storekeeper in
Talihina, who had given the ex-convict
a job in the hope of helping him.
Williams was captured on a bus on
June 28th, en route to Fort Smith, Ar-
kansas. Brought to trial in Muskogee,
Oklahoma, on November 20th, 1956, for
the murder of the Reverend Cooke, he
pleaded guilty and threw himself on the
mercy of the court. District Judge E.
G. Carroll then sentenced Williams to
life imprisonment, saying, “I pledge
that as long as I may live I will never
recommend that you be pardoned.”
Tulsa County Attorney J. Howard Ed-
mondson said Williams will be returned
to Tulsa to face kidnaping and armed
robbery charges. Death is the maxi-
mum penalty on either of the charges.
Pete Williams
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shirt), awaiting trial for the slaying of a young minister in
Tulsa, Okla., was recaptured Sunday by heavily armed offi-
certs about 10 hours after he and another prisoner over-
powered a guard and escaped from jail at Muskogee, Okla.
Williams’ fellow fugitive, Daniel Mayfield, 33, was seized
an hour earlier near the spot where Williams was taken.—
AP Wirephoto.
Edward Leon (Pete) Williams (center in figured sports '~——
fied. “It’s Ruth!” he shouted. “Ruth—
are you all right?”
The girl lay sprawled grotesquely on
her back, her body twisted down the
porch steps and her head resting on the
sidewalk. A_ thin trickle of blood
coursed from her lips and joined the
stream that poured from her throat.
Wigger, accompanied by Mrs. Barnes,
hurried to her side. The girl opened
her eyes as Wigger lifted her head.
“Don’t!” she gurgled. “Please—no—
not again!”
Mrs. Barnes dropped to her knees
beside the girl and placed her arm
around her shoulders. “You're going
to be all right, Ruth,” she whispered
gently. “You’re with friends now.”
The light from a passing automobile
swept over them for a moment, then
moved on. It was enough, however, for
Wigger to catch the gleam of metal on
the sidewalk a few inches from the girl’s
head.
He picked up the object and stared
at it. It was a man’s pocketknife. The
long, vicious blade was .covered with
gore.
The girl moved her eyes, stared mor-
bidly at the blade. A spasm of trem-
bling shook ner body. She coughed
violently as the blood formed a thick
SLEUTH—
Chief of Police Nolan finally solved the murder riddle.
paste on her lips. She gasped, choked,
and a moment later, her head rolled
loosely and fell back.
Tears ran down Mrs. Barnes’ cheeks.
She was on the verge of hysterics when
Wigger shook her roughly. “This is no
time for that,” he snapped. ‘Call the
police.”
She nodded slowly and rose unstead-
ily to her feet. Wigger gently placed
the head of the girl on the sidewalk.
Her wide open eyes stared at him with
a vacant, burning intensity. He reached
down and closed them.
HIEF of Police John Nolan, accom-
panied by Députy Sheriff Milton
Wolsey, Constable Roy Jameson and
Doctor Orville Green, undertaker and
county coroner, arrived less than 15
minutes later. :
The coroner immediately bent over
the body of the youthful victim, while
Nolan questioned Mrs. Barnes and Wig-
ger, who stood huddled together on the
stoop. His aides, meanwhile, started to
search the surrounding area.
“Suppose you tell me what you know
about this,” Nolan suggested.
Mrs. Barnes, her voice tremulous with
emotion, described the sudden screams
which had frightened her and how Mr.
NEIGHBOR—
Wigger, her roomer, had finally gone
to. the girl’s aid.
“You didn’t see anyone when he
opened the door?”
“No one.”
Nolan glanced inquiringly at Wigger,
a short stocky man with unruly brown
hair. Wigger shook his head.
The girl, Mrs. Barnes explained, was
Miss Ruth Harris, a waitress, who had
been boarding with her for the past
two months. Aside from the fact that
she had come from the nearby city of
Fayetteville, Arkansas, Mrs. Barnes
could tell the officer very little about
the girl, who had been close-mouthed
about her personal affairs. _
“She was a quiet type,” the woman
said. “She worked hard on the noon-
to-seven shift at the Tarbull Tavern,
and when she came home she usually
went straight to bed.” .
Nolan glanced at his watch. “She
must have finished work more than two
hours ago,” he said. “It couldn’t have
taken her more than a half an hour at
the most to come from downtown. Did
she usually come home so late?”
“Only occasionally,” the landlady re-
plied. ‘She sometimes stayed to help
out if they were busy. I figured she was
working late tonight.”
Walter Wigger found the girl’s bleeding body on the porch.
MURDER WE/
Wigger picke
Nolan tha
past the coro:
corpse. She
slender, well-
He studied |
the feet resti
head on the
ently been go
was attacked
assailant.
The strang:
left hand ati
He bent to }
girl and gentl
involuntarily
‘The blood
been severed
The grisly
still encirclin
of the girl’s «
Nolan aros
from the gru:
coroner’s atte
Mrs. Barnes
“You said
ris? Miss or
“She neve
the landlady 1
herself ‘Miss’
‘da plea of
short while
lips pressed
if sentenced
‘n years im-
State Peni-
ndolph Cof-
protect the
tly involved
onal life.
.e had worn
‘r left finger.
ew, when the
y would be
wondered, if
band, hadn’t
. Harris?
child,” Nolan
lot nearer a
Ruth’s lover
—and_ solved
> girl’s grief-
rived at the
/ the body as
n, after giving
an plied them
a child. Can
he was going
his wife, then
was married,”
divorced only
when she came
> a fine young
ded. He main-
thful stubborn-
ijust themselves
caused them to
ld,” he added.
promise nat to
igged. “We kept
ritten them reg-
mention of any
n.
le to shed any
ir daughter, they
and there had
sre her marriage.
ad separated by
the divorce had
Before leaving
ied him with the
ex-husband.
sheriff’s office in
‘equested that the
juestioning. “Let
him,” he added,
can drive down
> him.” par
ad Jameson were
ill Tavern to in-
nployer and the
‘ked with her. “I
y men who made
| instructed.
cted a chemist in
_ where the knife
nination. He was
2 was unquestion-
yn. The blood on
was identical with
im.
iat might lead us.
.
in some way to the killer?” Nolan asked.
“Yes,” the technician said. “One thing.
We discovered it after we washed the
knife clean. There are two initials on the
side, engraved in the wood—M. M.”
ATE that afternoon Nolan drove to
Fayetteville. In the sheriff's office he
™" faced a_ dark-haired youth who ap-
peared hardly out of his teens. The boy,
visibly shaken, sat slumped in a chair and
stared at his moist hands, saying nothing.
“I want to talk to you about Ruth,”
Nolan explained.
“I just heard,” the youth said hoarsely.
“The sheriff told me. It’s terrible.”
He had had no contact with his ex-wife,
he told Nolan in a barely audible voice,
since their divorce decree. He had heard
she had left Fayetteville and was working
in Picher. He knew nothing more than
that, he insisted.
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r, her roomer, had finally gone
girl’s aid.
u didn’t see anyone when he
! the door?”
one.”
in glanced inquiringly at Wigger,
‘ stocky man with unruly brown
Vigger shook his head.
girl, Mrs. Barnes explained, was
uth Harris, a waitress, who had
oarding with her for the past
onths. Aside from the fact that
1 come from the nearby city of
ville, Arkansas, Mrs. Barnes
ell the officer very little about
, who had been close-mouthed
‘er personal affairs, _
was a quiet type,” the woman
She worked hard on the noon-
: shift at the Tarbull Tavern,
en she came home she usually
‘aight to bed,” _
: glanced at his watch. “She
ve finished work more than two
10,” he said. “It couldn’t have
more than a half an hour at
to come from downtown. Did
\ly come,home so late?”
occasionally,” the landlady re-
he sometimes stayed to help
y were busy. I figured she was
late tonight.”
bleeding body on the porch. |
MURDER WEAPON— ;
Wigger picked up the bloody pocket knife, blurring the killer's fingerprints,
Nolan thanked the woman, moved
past the coroner and stared down at the
corpse. She had been a lovely girl,
slender, well-developed, golden-haired.
He studied the position of the body,
the feet resting on the third step, the
head on the sidewalk. She had appar-
ently been going up the steps when she
was attacked and struck down by her
assailant. :
The strangely twisted position of her
left hand attracted Nolan’s attention.
He bent to his knees, leaned over the
girl and gently straightened it out. Then,
involuntarily he gasped.
The blood smeared ring finger had
been severed from the girl’s hand!
The grisly digit, a small gold band
still encircling it, was found in a fold
of the girl’s coat.
Nolan arose, shuddered, turned away
from the gruesome hand and called the
coroner’s attention to it. Then he faced
Mrs. Barnes again.
“You said her name was Miss Har-
tis? Miss or Mrs.?”
“She never mentioned a husband,”
the landlady replied. “She always called
herself ‘Miss’.”
Nolan turned to Doctor Green, who
had finished his preliminary examina-
tion.
“What was the cause of death?” he
asked.
“Drowned,” Green reported. “She
was asphyxiated.”
“What! You must be mistaken.”
“She drowned,” Green repeated even-
ly. “She drowned in her own blood.
She was stabbed, of course. One in
the chest, and her juglar vein was cut.
Her killer ripped the knife across her
throat. A little deeper and her head
would have been severed from her body
as neatly as that finger was severed
from her hand.”
He handed Nolan the purse which
he had found at the girl’s side. It was
still closed. When the chief opened it
he found it contained the usual trinkets:
lipstick, rouge, a packet of matches, a
house key—and more than $30 in cash.
“Robbery wasn’t the motive. We can
be certain of that,” the chief stated
flatly. ,
Green agreed. The girl hadn’t been
robbed and no attempt, he pointed out,
had been made to criminally assault
her. She had been stabbed, slashed
across the throat and deliberately muti-
lated.
“There could be only one motive,”
he added soberly. “Revenge.”
Nolan nodded. He turned quickly as
officers Wolsey and Jameson emerged
from the shadows. Wolsey was holding
a small packet of letters, which he turn-
ed over to the chief.
“We found them in her room,” he
explained. “They don’t look like much.
All are addressed to ‘Miss Ruth Har-
ris,’ and they appear to be from girl
friends and her parents.”
They had circled the house carefully,
he continued, and had combed the sur-
rounding area with their flashlights with-
out finding anything of interest. The
frozen ground gave up no footprints.
There were no clues that might lead
them to the identity of the killer.
Walter Wigger, who had been listen-
ing to the conversation, now stepped
forward. “Maybe this will help,” he
said. “I picked it up only a couple of
inches from her head.”
Holding it gingerly by the butt of the
handle, he (Continued on page 92)
1
92
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before an overflow throng gathered to wit-
ness what many believed would be a sen-
sational court battle.
However, the trial lasted only one day.
Hale, within minutes after Prosecutor Bur-
nett had made his opening statement, signi-
fied his willingness to plead guilty. How-
ever, his attorney, rejected both first and
second degree culpability.
After a series of conferences, and in
view of the fact that it would be difficult
to prove the victim hadn’t made threat-
ening gestures, Burnett accepted a plea of
guilty to manslaughter, ; A_ short while
later, the stocky killer, his lips pressed
tightly together, heard himself sentenced
to a term of from eight to ten years im-
prisonment in the Virginia State Peni-
tentiary.
Epiror’s Note: The name Randolph Cof-
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CRAZY IN LOVE — AND DANGEROUS
(Continued from page 11)
handed the bloodstained knife to Chief
Nolan.
“You shouldn’t have touched it!” the
officer snapped.
“I “know,” Wigger apologized. “I was
excited, and I just didn’t stop to think
about it.
if there had been any fingerprints left
by the killer on the knife, Nolan reflected
bitterly, they were now completely
| smudged and worthless.
While Green busied himself with ar-
rangements for the removal of the body
to the morgue, Nolan and his aides once
again questioned Mrs. Barnes, Wigger and
the shivering neighbors who had gathered
at the scene.
What they learned seemed of little
value. The blonde, who had been board-
ing in Mrs. Barnes’ home for two months,
had apparently kept much to herself and
had formed no close friendships. She had
received no phone calls from men, Mrs.
Barnes claimed, and had dated only oc-
casionally. The landlady couldn’t, how-
ever, identify any of the men who had
taken the victim out.
The arrival of the ambulance ended tht
fruitless inquiry. Two white-coated at-
tendants, bearing a stretcher, approached
the corpse.
“You can take her,” Green said. Mo-
ments later, he climbed behind the wheel
of his own cai and followed the ambu-
lance back to town. ; ;
Nolan and his aides, satisfied that they
had done all that was possible at the
scene of the crime, returned to head-
quarters to organize the manhunt. The
chief promptly contacted the sheriff's of-
fice, which already had thrown a cordon
around the area. No suspicious looking
person, he was informed, had been appre-
hended.
any further progress was made. Then,
a number of startling developments fol-
lowed one another in rapid order.
First, Green, having completed the au-
topsy, appeared in Nolan’s office with a
dramatic announcement. “That poor girl,”
he said quietly, “was going to have a
child.”
Nolan leaned forward.
tive?”
“No question about it,” the physician
stated. “She was three to four months
pregnant.”
The chief said, “That means it hap-
pened before she left Arkansas.” He
leaned back in his chair. It was begin-
ning to make sense, he reflected. The fact
that she knew she was going to have a
child explained a great deal.
It explained, for instance, why Ruth
Harris had hurriedly left her home to
come to Picher, where she was unknown.
It explained her lack of interest in men;
it explained her reticence’ about discuss-
fy wasn't until the following morning that
“You're posi-
ing her background and personal life.
It explained, too, why she had worn
.a gold wedding band on her left finger.
The day would come, she knew, when the
appearance of respectability would be
necessary. But why, Nolan wondered, if
‘she had worn the wedding band, hadn’t
she used the name of Mrs. Harris?
“Find the father of her child,” Nolan
told Green, “and we'll be a lot nearer a
solution.” , t
The problem of finding Ruth’s lover
proved surprisingly simple—and solved
nothing.
Shortly before noon, the girl’s grief-
stricken, aged parents arrived at the
morgue to officially identify the body as
that of their daughter. Then, after giving
them time to recover, Nolan plied them
with pertinent questions.
“Ruth was going to have a child. Can
you tell me who—-who she was going
with?”
The father glanced at his wife, then
looked away sadly. “Ruth was married,”
he announced. “She was divorced only
two months ago. That was when she came
to Picher.”
She had been married to a fine young
man in Fayetteville, he added. He main-
tained that it was only youthful stubborn-
ness and the inability to adjust themselves
to wedded life that had caused them to
separate.
“We knew about the child,” he added.
“She told us but made us promise not to
tell her husband.” He shrugged. “We kept
our promise, of course.”
Ruth, he added, had written them rég-
ularly. She had made no mention of any
men in her letters to them.
The couple was unable to shed any
light on the tragedy. Their daughter, they
insisted, had no enemies, and there had
been no jilted suitors before her marriage.
She and her husband had separated by
mutual’ agreement, and the divorce had
been a friendly one. Before leaving
Nolan’s office, they supplied him with the
name and address of. the ex-husband.
Nolan contacted the sheriff’s office in
Fayetteville at once and requested that the
man be picked up for questioning. “Let
me know when you find him,” he added,
“and hold him until I can drive down
there. I want to talk to him.” on
Meanwhile, Wolsey and Jameson were
dispatched to the Tarbull Tavern to in-
terview the victim’s employer and the
waitresses who had worked with her. “I
want to know about any men who made
a play for her,” Nolan instructed.
The chief then contacted a chemist in
Miami, the county seat, where the knife
had been sent for examination. He was
informed that the knife was unquestion-
ably the murder weapon. The blood on
its surface and blade was identical with
that of the blonde victim.
“ “Is there anything thet might lead us.
by oes a
WASHINGTON, D. .C.-
week before as the ’
after he confessed 5
actions on “war ner
_in Some way to the kij
Yes, ” the technician
We discovered it afte
knife clean. There are
side, engraved in the w
ATE that aftern
Fayetteville. In the
. Laced a dark-haij
peared hardly out of hi
visibly Shaken, sat slump
i 2
ris said she was man-shy, and the land-
lady said virtually the same thing. So I
would say that he is more likely to have
come from Century and not from here. So
we'll go to Century and talk to every
young person we can corner. Someone
among them should have some idea who
he is.”’
**There’s something else we can try,
too,’’ ventured Wolsey. ‘‘It doesn’t look
very promising, but it isa chance. I mean
that knife. I doubt that many stores carry
big frog stickers like that. So maybe if the
guy bought it in Century or here, the peo-
ple in the store will not only remember the
sale, but will know who he is. It’s a cinch
that no one sells many knives that big.”’
Nolan accepted this suggestion at
once. He was skeptical that it would pan
out, but he felt that anything was worth a
try. He knew that the fact that few stores
sold knives of any kind would be to their
advantage. The big question was if they
did find the place where the knife was
purchased, would the merchant recall the
sale and be able to identify the customer?
It didn’t take the investigators long to
learn that only two stores in Picher car-
ried the huge knives in stock. Both deal-
ers said that it had been months since
anyone had asked to purchase one of
them. Also, neither man could recall who
the customer was. The lawmen carefully
described the man who had talked with
Miss Harris at the department store, hop-
ing that the merchants might recognize
the individual. But the men both said that
they had no idea as to his identity.
Century also had two establishments
' where the over-size knives were on sale.
Discouraged by this time, the officers
were not surprised to fail in this canvass
as well.
Returning to their original idea now,
the three men parted company. In this
way they could talk with many more
youngsters than working together.
Wolsey and Jameson still had the names
of the young people they had talked with
before, and they gave Nolan several of
the names.
Now that they had a description of the
possible suspect, the men all hoped that
one of the young men or women would be
able to recognize him. They found that
their hopes were of no value. Witness’
after witness first looked puzzled, then
shook their heads as they listened to the
description of the man who had visited
Ruth Harris at her place of employment.
None of the teenagers or slightly older
young men and women seemed to know
any individual who resembled the wanted
man.
Night came before the weary lawmen
were willing to concede that this effort
had failed. They returned to Picher.
When he was alone in his office, the
chief thought back over the case from the
moment when he had viewed the body of
Ruth Harris to the present. He pondered
every move made so far and recalled
every conversation with various persons
during the entire investigation. It was
hard to believe, he told himself, that such
a respectable young girl would be struck
down in such a horrible manner. He felt
that there could be very few reasons
powerful enough to incite any man to
such frenzy. In so small a community it
should be possible to identify such.an in-
dividual. This should be true when it was
considered that Ruth Harris was barely
entering adulthood and her contacts with
the world could not extend over a long
time.
This fact, coupled with the small popu-
lation of this area, meant the victim could
not have had a very extensive acquain-
tance outside a rather small circle. So
who among her associates could have
hated her so bitterly to lie in ambush and
cut her throat? Could it possibly be a case
of mistaken identity? If so, would the kil-
ler realize his error and strike again?
The worried lawman paced the floor as
he strove to find an answer to the many
questions. Again he thought of the land-
lady telling him that the murdered teen-
ager had been in fear of and hiding from
some man who had threatened her. But
who was this man.and why had he
threatened to harm her? Was he really the
killer, or had some other person slain the
girl? Seemingly all of Miss Harris’ friends
had been interviewed but none of them
appeared to have any suggestion as to the
killer's identity nor would any of them
acknowledge knowing about a person
having said they were going to harm her.
Another thought came to him. He’d
been told that Ruth Harris seemed more
tranquil after the man who had threatened
her was arrested and put in jail. Now °
why, he asked himself, was this indi-
vidual taken into custody? What had he
been charged with? Was it a serious
crime, or was it merely a minor infraction
of some law? Was he still in jail or was he
free, and was the victim justified in being
afraid of him?
“I’m going to have a talk with that
character,’’ the officer muttered under +
his breath. ‘‘It’s a little late today, but
he’s the first thing on my menu for tomor-
row. It shouldn’t be too hard to come up.
with his name and where he lives.”’
Miami, which is the seat of Ottawa
County, is only a few miles from Picher.
It was 8 a.m. when Nolan entered the
office of Sheriff Dee Watters there. When
he explained his mission to the county
officer, Watters nodded.
‘If, as you say, this fellow was arrested
during the past few months, it won’t.be
hard to use your process of elimination to
identify him. We can sort out old men and
prisoners who were just overnight guests,
along with juveniles, too. The reason I
say to leave out the older men and the
aaa ectentaiten inde hhltitantieiltnaeltakihaialinies th deciiahariciaabemeaienenntebintiaaedecunaneienedenee
\
kids is because it doesn’t seem likely to
me that this girl would have dated men
who are even middle-aged, or kids
younger than herself. Most girls, and
especially nice ones like Ruth Harris
seems to have been, won't go out with
oldsters or boys who are their juniors.
“So that leaves us with men I'd say
would be somewhere between about 19
and maybe as muchas 30 years. old. The
girl left home approximately six months
ago, so I'd guess that was also about the
time this guy was picked up. We'll start
back seven months ago, and see what we
can dredge up.”’
It was slow work as they went over the
jail records, eliminating prisoners whom
they judged to be above. suspicion. As
Watters had suggested, this included men
who were into or beyond middle-age and
a few teenage youngsters who had fallen
afoul of the law. In addition, they bypas-
sed names of inmates who had been in jail
for an overnight stay. They also ignored
prisoners who were in state or federal.
prisons, were still in jail serving time or
awaiting trial because of inability to post
bond. At last, the list of possible suspects
had dwindled to five men free on bond.
‘*Now,”’ said the police chief, ‘‘I’d like
to try a little experiment. Let’s talk with
some of the men who've been here for
more than seven months. They were
probably here when the man we’re look-
ing for was brought in. If so, we may be’
able to save a lot of work if we have to
look up all five of the guys whose names
we have left. It’s been my experience that
some characters like to brag about their
personal exploits, and this is most often
true if the fellow is tough or thinks he is. It
also applies to guys who aren't over-
weight with brains, and the man we want
can’t be too smart to do what he did.”’
When ‘they talked with the first pris-
oner, they found that although he was
obviously a rough person, he expressed
disgust and horror at the cold-blooded
murder of the young girl.
When Nolan explained the exact
reason for his being questioned in the
matter, he began nodding slowly. *‘Yep,"’
he said quickly, ‘*I wouldn’t be surprised
that I just might be able to help you
guys.”’ He paused to grin broadly, then
resumed speaking. ‘You can take that as
a real compliment, for 1 don’t very often ~
go out of my way to help the law. The
guys in here all heard about the murder,
of course, but we couldn’t very well af-
ford to just volunteer information. We
also figured that you guys would probably
catch up with the character who pulled
the job. But as you seem to be having a
little trouble catching up with the louse,
I'll help you if 1 can. However, I do want
you to keep in mind that what I’m going to
vl
(continued on page 49)
47
ee
eee ee
Se |
Se
Oklahoma’s Kid Glove Killer
(continued from page 47)
tell you is only suspicion and may not be
actually true at all. It’s your job to prove
or disprove it.”’ :
Falling silent now, the informant stared
hard at the two eager officers. Then he
went on speaking. ‘About six months or
SO ago, a bragging punk came in here. I
ain’t positive, of course, but what hap-
pened to this girl is exactly what he said
he was going to do to some broad if she
two-timed him while he was in jail. His
name is Walter Wigger, and like most
guys around here, he’s a miner. He got a ‘
couple of years for a little two-bit heist
job, and he went out on an appeal bond
about a week ago. That’s all I can tell you
about him, but if you do land the guy who
cut up that kid, I hope he gets the hot
seat.”’
Neither the county officer or the chief
were acquainted with Walter Wigger. But
they both felt that the man should not be
too hard to locate, provided, of course,
that he had not left the area.
**So far, so good,’’ Nolan said when
they were alone. **But we can’t just grab
this guy because he shot off his mouth in
jail. For all we know, some other prisoner
could have picked up the idea after listen-
ing to him make his threats. We've got to
remember that we really haven’t much of
a motive for Wigger to do such a thing, to
say nothing about anyone else having a
reason to slaughter this girl. But whoever
did do this thing must be a wild ‘animal.”’
‘‘Nope,”’ objected Watters. ‘‘Neither
wild or domestic animals do things like
that. How many do you know that will kill
a female in cold blood, even if she attacks
him first? Didn’t you ever notice how a
male dog will run from a female, even if
she is much smaller than he is,. if she
offers to fight with him?”’
As the lawmen discussed how to pro-
ceed, Watters suggested that Nolan call
Deputy Wolsey to accompany him.
“After all,’’ he pointed out, ‘tyou don’t
have any police authority here. But Milt
Wolsey does. Otherwise, I'll swear yop in
as a special deputy, for I can’t spare
another man right now.”’ :
Wolsey reached the Miami sheriff's of-
fice in less than an hour. After he was
brought up to date on developments in the
case, he made a suggestion.
“Up until now when we talked with
young people who knew the Harris girl,
the best we had was a description of the
guy who visited her in the department
store,’’ he began. ‘‘But now we have the
names of five guys, any one of whom
could be the one we’re looking for, and
especially this Wigger. So why not spring
these names on the girls and young guys
who were friends of Ruth Harris? When
they know who we're talking about,
maybe some of them will be able to tell us
something.”’
Both Nolan and Watters quickly ag-
reed with this idea. They also agreed that
Walter Wigger was the most promising
suspect in view of what the jail inmate
said regarding his boasts and threats
while he was locked up.
The deputy recalled the name and ad-
dress of one young woman who had been
described as being the best friend of the
murdered girl. They.found her at her
home in Century. The teenager frowned
when she was asked if she knew Walter
Wigger and whether Ruth Harris had ever
dated him.
“Yes, Ruth went out with him two or
three times,”’ she stated. ‘*But she drop-
ped him when she found out that he was
about 30 years old and was a terrible
roughneck. He was put in jail for some-
thing or other about that time and I never
heard anything else about him. I don’t
know where he lives except it’s in
Miami.”’ :
The lawmen knew how to find the ad-
dress of the suspect if he was working in
any of the many lead and zinc mines in the
area. Using a public telephone, Nolan cal-
led one of th mines and literally struck
paydirt. Walter Wigger was working un-
derground there at this very moment.
When the miner got home from work,
he found the chief and Wolsey waiting for
him. And they received the shock of their
lives when they told the man why they
were here.
The suspect scowled darkly and ut-
tered a string of lurid oaths. ‘‘Hell yes!”’
he yelled. ‘‘You’re damned well right in
thinking I cut that broad’s throat. She
thought she was better than me, and. she
had the guts to say so. Then she two-)
timed me while I was in jail. I warned her
not to do that, and I told her what I’d do to
her if she did. She had it coming.’’
The confessed murderer still had the
mate of the glove they had found at the
crime scene. He also stated that the knife
picked up near the victim’s body was the
one he used to kill her.
It was January 3, 1927, when the slayer
was found guilty by a jury in the court-
room of Judge J.J. Smith at Miami.
Judge Smith told the killer that he must
die in the electric chair one June 29, 1928.
The jurist was noted for his fairness, and
he set this late date so the defendant's
attorney would have ample time for any
legal moves he might wish to make. How-
ever, in view of his own voluntary state-
ments and the overwhelming evidence .
against/him, Wigger’s appeal was denied
when he reached a higher court. :
At5 o'clock on the morning of June 29,
1928, he was led from his cell at the Ok-
lahoma Penitentiary in McAlester. He
lustily cursed the guards who were es-
corting him, and included Judge Smith in
his oaths. .
The foul-mouthed murderer had a
cigarette dangling from his lips as he sea-
ted himself in the electric chair. A guard
reached to remove it. ‘
‘Keep your lousy hands off me,”’
snarled the prisoner.
/*But it will burn your face when they
put the hood over your Head,” the man
explained.
‘*Now ain’t that too damned bad,”’
sneered Wigger. *‘Just what do you think
this chair is going to do to me?”’
When the cold-blooded slayer’s body
was removed from the chair, a small hole
had been burned in the black hood which
had covered his face. *&
Murder In The Name Of Manhood —
(continued from page 21)
He then briefed the sergeant on the re-
sults of the investigations at the scene and
of his interview with the Mangiacapra
family and told him of his concern for the
safety of whoever had been the intended
victim, assuming that the murder was a
case of mistaken identity.
Finally, he told him that he was calling
in the doctor and a ballistics man to see if
there was any possibility of tracing the
gun.
The sergeant did not think so. In his
opinion, it was unlikely that the killer was
a professional and most of the guns re-
corded in the files of the ballistics de-
partment were those owned or used by
pros.
On the other hand, he said, there was
one possible clue to the identity of the
intended victim. He looked like Man-
giacapra and, as the murderer had obvi-
ously been waiting for him in the street
outside, he was a patron of the Albergo di
Mori. The Albergo was popular, but even
_$o it should be possible to trace the iden-
‘tity of any regular patrons who resembled
Nicola Mangiacapra.
The inspector was so impressed with
the logic of this suggestion that he told the
sergeant to forget about Longa for the
moment and go immediately to the Al- |
bergo and start the questioning. He could
(continued on page 51)
. 49
=
==
TULSA, OKLA.
E DIDN’T WANT TO think about tomorrow. He was in
ol trouble again, and he knew from long experience that
the trouble would still be there tomorrow, whether he
thought about it or not. He sat on a piece of hard packed
earth on a side of the Tulsa highway, fingering the can of
beer he hugged between his knees. He was a skinny, haggard-
eyed little man who looked as if he’d needed a shave for a
few days. Every time he heard the sound of a car coming down
the highway he looked up with an abrupt, nervous movement.
He needed a ride badly, but right now he needed the beer
even more. It didn’t much matter where he went, just so
long as he got away from Tulsa and the Tulsa cops. That's
how it had always been with him. He was always looking
for a ride—he never had anyplace to go, just someplace to
run away from.
He finished the beer, tossed aside the empty can, and stood
up. Then he felt in his back pocket. The wallet was still
there—the wallet with the $30. That was all the money he
had. He hadn’t had to touch it yet. It wouldn’t go very far,
but still it was a few meals between himself and starvation.
Tomorrow, the tomorrow he didn’t like to think about, would
be time enough to figure out where to pick up some more.
He walked over to the highway and began thumbing a
ride. The traffic was heavy and moving fast. Nobody was
anxious to stop long enough to give a hitchhiker a lift.
But about 20 minutes later, a 1949 black Oldsmobile
pulled over on the shoulder ahead of him. When he got to
the car he noticed the driver was a well dressed, clean-cut
looking kid around 23 or 24 years old.
“How far are you going?” the driver asked when he got in.
“Talhinia” he answered. It was the first town that came
to his mind. All he wanted was to leave Tulsa—fast.
eens ied) Sas se EY ES oY Suess
ii i nea adSteAU GL} ARMM a a aa
>
B® NICEST GUY IN
=) OKLAHOMA?
But then he began to get fed up with the nice
guy’s God-talk, began to finger the trigger...
ay kK
Maybe they’d have
luck with hounds.
“Good. -I can take you all the way.” The driver smiled
and offered his hand. “My name’s Cooke, Tom Cooke. You
live around here?”
“Sometimes.”
Cooke nodded, as though he were digesting a paragraph of
information. “What kind of work do you do?”
The hitchhiker didn’t answer.
“Hope you don’t mind the questions,” Cooke said after a
moment’s silence. “I always try to find out what people are
like. What they do. What they’re thinking about. It’s part of
my job, in a way. I'm assistant pastor at the Glenwood
Baptist Church in Tulsa.”
“That's just fine, Reverend. You got a cigarette?”
“Sorry, don’t smoke. But what I mean is, being a pastor is
more than just a Sunday job. People need help all the time,
on Tuesday and Wednesday as much as on Sunday.”
The hitchhiker turned a pair of mean, dark eyes on him
and gave him a hard stare.
Cooke drove on, looking ahead at the road as he talked.
He talked about his work at the church, he talked about the
young fellows, as he called them, whom he had helped in the
past. There was one whom he had helped to get a job, an-
other, an alcoholic, he had helped to stop drinking. There
were others, too, whose lives he had made a little easier and
a little better by leading them onto the right path when they
had gone astray. Each time he finished with a story, he paused
as if he hoped that the hitchhiker would find something to
add to the conversation.
The hitchhiker didn’t add anything. At intervals he turned
and looked at him, taking in all the details of Cooke’s dress,
the car, everything, in fact, except what Cooke was talking
about. 2
Cooke drove on in silence for (Continued on page 91)
OSC RTM T
WILLIAMS, Edward, white, elec. OKH® (Tulsa) July 28, 1960. a
me
TULSA
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64
wife to dress.
When they had done so, he forced
them at gunpoint to go to the general
store they operated. There, | still
under the menacing pistol, Marcus
produced about $1,000 which he
handed over to the holdup man, who
stuffed it into his pockets.
“You know you'll get caught,
Pete,” Mr. Marcus said then, a note
of hurt rather than resentment in
his tone.
_ “Maybe, maybe not,” Pete said
with a shrug. His eyes avoided the
older man’s gaze, and he was obvi-
ously uncomfortable. Finally he
blurted, “You know, Mr. Marcus, I’m
sorry I had to do this to you and the
missus. You two been pretty nice to
me.”
And then he was gone.
A few minutes later, Mr. Marcus
telephoned the police and reported
that he had been held up. Talihina
Police Chief Ed Liggett drove to the
store only a few minutes later, and
his first question was: “Any idea who
it was, Jeb?”
Mr. Marcus shook his head sadly.
“It was Pete Williams,” he said. “You
know him—the young fellow who
bo working here till last Thurs-
ay.”
Chief Liggett immediately called
the sheriff’s office and reported the
holdup, giving the name and descrip-
tion of the bandit. The sheriff’s dis-
patcher at once broadcast. a bulletin
to all cars on patrol.
Like everyone else in the small
town of Talihina, Chief Liggett knew
all about Pete Williams. Jeb Marcus,
despite dire predictions that it was a
foolish thing to do, had hired Wil-
liams some six weeks earlier. At the
same time, everyone had given Mr.
Marcus a good deal of credit for giv-
ing a chance to Williams, who was
known to be an ex-convict with a
long criminal record. But there was
almost universal agreement that it
was a foolhardy thing to do, and that
Marcus would live to regret it.
Mr. Marcus now was deeply hurt
by the fact that Williams had proved
his faith unjustified: He minded that
much more than the loss of $1,000.
The unusual activity at the general
store at that late hour had aroused
nearby residents and a small crowd
quickly congregated at the scene.
The chief questioned everyone there,
_ but no one had seen anything, no one
could offer any helpful lead. The
chief’s immediate concern, of course,
was whether Williams had escaped
by car, and if so, to learn its make
and description.
Unfortunately, it appeared that he
had come and gone without being
seen by anyone except his victims.
They had not seen a car; Williams
had forced them to walk the short
distance between their home and the
general store,
But at this point, Chief Liggett got
an unexpected break. The unusual
commotion at the general store, drew
to the scene a man who had just
driven into town. When he _ heard
what had happened, he went up to
Chief Liggett and said he had just
seen Pete Williams while he was
driving home from Whitesboro.
“He was heading east on Route
69,” the informant said. “He was
driving a blue Oldsmobile sedan and
going like a bat out of hell.”
Chief Liggett quickly contacted the
sheriff’s office and reported the new
information, which was then broad-
cast to all cars on patrol. Roadblocks
were set up hastily and a dragnet
was thrown over the county, but the
night passed without any sighting of
Williams and the blue Olds he was
reported to be driving.
When he. was still unreported a
couple of hours before daylight,
Chief Liggett suggested to Sheriff
Jack Craig what seemed like the
only logical explanation for Williams
vanishing into thin air.
“He must have ditched the car and
headed into the woods. There are
all kinds of places along there where
a guy could hole up and stay out of
sight.”
The sheriff had been thinking
pretty much the same thing. At day-
light he had posses ready to begin a
search of the woods and hill country.
Chiet Liggett’s theory was con-
firmed when at 9 o’clock on Monday
morning possemen found the blue
Oldsmobile where the fugitive had
abandoned it, in some woods near
Muse, a small hamlet Jess than 20
miles southeast of Talihina. All the
search parties were now rushed into
this area, and, augmented by several
braces of bloodhounds, began an
intensive search of the forests and
foothills.
When the posses had devarted on
their assigned search missions, Sher-
iff Craig and Chief Liggett carefully
examined the blue Olds. They quick-
ly determined that the sedan was
registered to the Reverend Tommy
Robert Cooke, who lived at an
address in Tu’'a. The sheriff imme-
diately telephoned Tulsa police
headquarters and requested a check
on the Reverend Cooke.
He was told at once that the young
minister had been reported missing,
less than 15 minutes before, by his
sister and the Reverend Leslie
Arnold, his pastor.
Fast on the heels of this develop-
ment, came another. Sergeant Ray
Jones, of the Technical Squad of the
Tulsa police department, now report-
ed that he had identified fingerprints
found on the steering wheel of the
wrecked jalopy driven by the gas
station bandit.
They belonged to ex-convict Ed-
ward Leon “Pete” Williams.
The scattered pieces of the tragic
drama were now falling into place,
and the roles of the actors were tak-
ing on form and substance. Detec-
tive Chief Stege, after reviewing the
known information with some of his
detectives, outlined it tersely as it
appeared to him.
“After he cracked up and slipped
away from us the other night,” he
theorized, “Williams holed up here in
Tulsa till Sunday. The young minis-
ter went home from church on Sun-
day afternoon. He showered, packed
a bag, and early that evening he got
into his car, the blue Olds, and
started to drive back to church,
where he was supposed to deliver a
sermon that was pretty important tof
him.
“Somewhere between his home!
and the church, he ran into Pete Wil- |
liams. Cooke’s friends say he was |
always picking up hitchhikers and |
preaching the gospel when he found |
a sinner. Williams took the car away |
from him and drove it to Talihina,
where he stuck up his friend who
runs the general store, and then he
took off again until he finally aban-
doned the Olds. By that time he
probably figured it was too hot.
“The question we’ve got to answer
—and quick—is, what did he do with
—or to—Reverend Tommy Cooke?” |
Chief Stege’s fears for the missing
minister found little reassurance in
a study of Pete Williams’ criminal
record. It showed that Williams had
served two sentences in the Federal
Reformatory at El Reno, Oklahoma,
plus a stretch at Indiana State Prison
at Michigan City. He had _ been
paroled from the latter institution
only three months ago, after serving
seven years of a 12-year sentence.
Most of his encounters with the law
had been as the result of car thefts.
Now 27, he had spent all but nine
months of the past 11 years in prison.
His first arrest, for car theft, was at
the age of 15.
From underworld sources, Chief
Stege’s investigators quickly learned
- the names of several of the fugitive’s
Tulsa friends. Bits and pieces of
information thus obtained were put
together and finally led them to a
girl, Millie Garese, who reportedly
had been very friendly with Wil-
liams. She was said to work as a bar-
maid in a tavern on Delaware
Avenue. ;
Police looked for her first at a
lodging house where she had a room.
She was out, but in her room they
found abundant evidence that Pete
Williams had made himself at home
there, and quite recently. They
found his windbreaker, T-shirt and
blue jeans, the ones he was wearing
when he held up the gas sstation.
Also, a number of empty beer cans.
Lieutenant Jack Purdie and a cou-
ple of detectives went to'the tavern
where Millie worked and asked her
about Pete. They found her surly
and uncooperative. To all questions,
she retorted sullenly, “I don’t know
nothin’.”
They took her to the police station,
where a check of the records indi-
cated that Millie was no stranger to
this environment. Obviously a once-
pretty girl, she was now running to
fat, with a puffiness under the eyes
that betrayed frequent encounters
with the bottle. Three years before
she had pleaded guilty in a Tulsa
court to vagrancy by prostitution,
and her card showed similar arrests
in Fort Smith, Arkansas, Oklahoma
City, and Rochester and Geneva, in
New York state. The FBI had once
(Continued on page 66)
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he had no trouble equalling the
speed of the fleeing car, but he never
got an opportunity to draw abreast
or pass it, due to the break-neck
speed and reckless driving of the
man he was pursuing. Mile after
mile, the chase roared on, reaching
speeds of more than 80 miles an hour
at times.
When he saw that his pursuer
must surely catch him on a stretch
of straightaway, the fleeing gunman
resorted to break-neck turns into
side streets. Tires screeching, taking
desperate chances, he pulled every
driving trick in the book to shake
of. the car’ that stuck doggedly to
his tail. He didn’t succeed. The patrol
car had too much power, and a lot
more stability than the old jalopy.
Suddenly, as the two cars neared
37th Street, now only 80 yards apart,
the bandit lost control. His speeding
pile of junk veered drunkenly from
side to side, then careened into.a
broadside skid that sent it hurtling
into a massive old tree just off the
roadway.
“That’s the end of him!” the pur-
suing private patrolman exclaimed
aloud as ‘he brought his car to a stop.
But to his astonishment, the driv-
er’s door of the wrecked car popped
open and a tall, jacketed figure,
seemingly all arms and legs, scram-
bled out and landed in a heap on the
ground.
In the next instant, as screeching
sirens heralded the approach of half
a dozen police cars, the man_had
picked himself up and scampered off,
running like an antelope into the
woods which bordered the highway.
Seconds later, he was swallowed up
by the trees.
The private patrolman waited for
the arrival of the city police. “He’s
gone into the woods,” he told them,
gesturing, “right through there.”
As one officer got on his radio and
reported to headquarters, others
plunged into the woods after the
fugitive, guns and flashlights in hand.
From the cruiser radios could be
heard the crackling voice of the dis-
patcher directing other cruiser units
to the scene.
Minutes later, the Oklahoma High-
way Patrol, which had picked up the
message, joined the manhunt. Police
emergency units sped to the area
and turned powerful flood lights
toward the woods. The entire region
was surrounded and sealed off as a
line of searchers methodically
combed through the dense woods.
A uniformed sergeant who had
assisted in deploying the police forces
reported by radio, “We’ve got the
perimeters of the woods sealed off
and thirty-seven men are now in
there after him. We ought to get him
pretty quick.”
The sergeant was wrong. The
searchers in the woods reached the
far perimeter without finding a trace
of the swarthy fugitive. They started
back, advancing more slowly, exam-
ining every foot of ground, and again
came up emptyhanded. With the
arrival of dawn on Sunday morning,
June 16, 1956, the search was inten-
sified. A helicopter was called in to
hover over the wooded area, in con-
stant voice communication with
ground searchers, but all the police
efforts came to naught.
By some miracle, the fleeing gun-
man had eluded his pursuers and
made good his escape.
In the meantime, detectives had
concentrated their efforts on the
wrecked jalopy. Even without its
driver, it was always possible they
might find a clue to the man’s iden-
tity in or on the car.
Detective Sergeants Felix Raiford
and Bob Bivens took down the num-
bers of its Arkansas license plates
and requested headquarters to check
them against the hot car reports.
They were advised soon afterwards
that unless the theft was so recent
that it had not yet been reported, the
car was not stolen.
“lm not surprised,’ Sergeant
Pete Williams, ca.. ex-con with a |
Bivens ‘commented. “If a guy was
going to steal.a car, he’d have to be
a nut to swipe a junk like this.”
Sergeant Raiford nodded agree-
ment,’ then added, “Maybe we'll do
better when we can get a make from
the Arkansas Motor Vehicle Bu-
reau.”
But this check would have to be
delayed several hours. The detec-
tives ordered the wreck towed to
headquarters, where it was turned
over to Sergeant Ray Jones of the
Technical Squad. He turned his
experts loose on it and they went to
work immediately, trying to lift a
readable set of fingerprints from the
old heap.
Meanwhile, Sergeants Bivens and
Raiford headed for the gas station
where |the chase had begun and
interrogated the holdup victim. They
found him to be an unusually obser-
vant young man who, despite the fact
that he had been scared and didn’t
care who knew it, had noted a num-
ber of details which promised to be
helpful in the search for the bandit.
“Can you tell us what the gunman
looked like?” Bivens asked.
“T sure can,” the young man said.
“The guy was tall, a little better than
six feet. (Continued on page 62)
ong record, blew his second chance
when he robbed his trusting employer of $1,000 and all his faith
. 57
oy,
.er husband. The spe-
‘inst her was that of
unlawfully during the
a felony, aiding and
ult on a federal offi-
-ng to aid or instigate
ot,
‘erred imposition of
‘8 a pre-sentence in-
ige Murphy asked
xplain her actions.
9. rescue my husband
1e replied softly.
mes Pardue is an in-
ical Center where he
| he is certified com-
rial. Until he is con-
he is, of course, pre-
f all charges against
KKK
ig in a_ suspicious
> day passed with
n the expected rash
orts, some genuine,
<s, which inevitably
larms, |
ig dawned bright,
In the residential
y, many pronerty
and busied them-
‘round their lawns,
ackyard barbecue
‘d in bed, sleeping
Saturday night
donned their
set out from home
at the church of
d Baptist Church
2nue, parishioners
a stirring sermon
pastor, the Rev-
1. Standing on the
‘h when services
changed greetings
lock who stopped
on the fine ser-
of the congrega-
he went inside
with his youthful
Tommy Robert
omplimented him
1
xtremely fond of
Although only
d already exhib-
a dedicated man
my,” the pastor
orward to your
ening’s services.
for your trip
vas referring to
he next day for
University at
would attend a
He knew that
ng it with spe-
is would be his
@ re his ordina-
ust two weeks
to pack right
‘istant said. “I
‘* ready now,
mind this
.ovussion about
‘ No question about it...
their forthcoming trip,
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— so ee ee ee ee meee os all
morning service. No one had heard
had just returned from a visit with
friends out of town.
Tommy said
goodbye and walked out to his car
in the church parking lot, a blue
Oldsmobile, whose gleaming finish
attested to the loving care he gave it.
f there was one virtue the young
minister had about which there was
absolutely no question, it was his
punctuality. As long as the Reverend
Arnold had known the young man,
he had never known him to be late
for any appointment.
But it happened for the very first
time that same evening. Incredible
as it seemed, Tommy Robert Cooke
was late for his own sermon.
The thought of blaming the assis-
tant pastor never entered the mind
of his superior. Reverend Arnold
was certain Tommy must have been
delayed by some unavoidable cir-
cumstance. He took the pulpit him-
self and preached a sermon, but
when the young minister had failed
to appear, or even to telephone by
the time the evening services were
concluded, Reverend Arnold could
not suppress his concern.
This concern turned to genuine
alarm when he was unable to reach
Tommy Cooke by telephone. He kept
calling, he could hear the ringing on
the wire, but no one answered.
Finally, a little before 9 o’clock
that evening, the telephone was
answered by Tommy Cooke’s sister,
with whom he made his home.
When the Reverend’ Arnold told
her he had been trying to reach
someone there for more than an hour
and a half, she explained that she
Tommy was not at home, she said,
and she didn’t know where he was.
However, she was sure he had been
there, because she had noticed that
the shower curtain was wet and she
could tell he had packed a Suitcase.
is car was not in the garage.
Reverend Arnold, now noting the
concern in the woman’s voice, tried
to minimize his own fears in an effort
to reassure her. He was only par-
tially successful, because the fact
that her brother had not appeared
to deliver the sermon on which he
had worked hard for a week was
enough to convince her something
very serious must have occurred.
Nothing less, she knew, could have
kept Tommy away from the church
when he was scheduled to preach,
Reverend Arnold suggested that
they both try calling friends and
acquaintances of Tommy; he might
well have contacted one of them if
any emergency had arisen.
The pastor and Tommy’s sister
were on the telephone for the next
several hours. They called his close
friends first, then extended their
calls even to people they knew only
as casual acquaintances. And when
his friends learned that Tommy was
missing and there was concern for
his whereabouts, they promptly joined
in the telephone search.
It did not help. All through the
night they ke-. calling, but they
found no trace of Tommy Cooke. No
one had seen him since the Sunday
from him. No one had any idea where
he might be.
In the meantime, as these activities
were proceeding in the Tulsa area,
another act in the tragic drama was
unfolding in LeFlore County, more
than 100 miles to the southeast. By
coincidence, or possibly by design,
this event also began around mid-
night.
In Talihina, a small town of about
1,000 population situated in the foot-
hills of Winding Stair Mountain, Mr.
and Mrs. Jeb Marcus were awakened
from a _ sound sleep by someone
pounding at their door.
Sleepily pulling on a robe, Mr.
Marcus went to the door and opened
it. The light from the inside hall fell
on the young man who stood outside
and Marcus recognized him. He
asked the young man what on earth
he wanted at this hour of the night.
“I need dough, and I need it now,”
the man said brusquely,
Somewhat surprised by the other
man’s tone and manner, Mr. Marcus
said amiably, “Well, I guess I can let
you have a few dollars, Pete. I don’t
keep much in the house, though.”
“Then let’s go where you keep it!”
Pete snapped.
Any illusion that he had come to
make a small loan to tide him over
some minor emergency was dispelled
when Pete now produced a pistol
from under the sport shirt that hung
loosely over a pair of slacks. He
poked the gun into Mr. Marcus’ mid-
dle and ordered the man and his
63
62
then dug down six feet, where they
found the metal utility trailer miss-
ing from ‘the Pardue farm in Union.
Inside the trailer, they found the
badly decomposed bodies of a man
and a woman!
Through an examination by Dr, Is-
idore Mihalakis, Maryland Assistant
Medical Examiner, positive identifica-
tion was made of the body of Russell
Pardue through dental records and
fingerprints, Although positive identi-
fication could not be made, there was
no doubt but that the body of the
woman was Mrs. Daisy Link Pardue.
Dr. Mihalakis said autopsies on the
decomposed bodies revealed that each
was shot at least four times with a
large caliber rifle. Thus, the mystery
of the missing Pardues was at last
solved, along with numerous bank
robberies.
A few days later John Pardue was
transferred from Bridgeport to the
Medical Center for Federal Prisoners
in Springfield, Missouri. But, during
the trip there his condition worsened
and on April 29th John Pardue died
in a Springfield hospital.
A month later, on June 29, Mrs.
Nancy Pardue appeared before Judge
Thomas F. Murphy in the U.S. Dis-
trict Court in Hartford, Connecticut,
where she entered a plea of guilty to
a charge of attempting to help her
husband escape.
In a barely audible voice, the at-
tractive blonde admitted that on April
8th she smuggled a sawed-off rifle into
the federal courthouse in Bridgeport
and gave it to her husband. The spe-
cific charge against her was that of
using a firearm unlawfully during the
commission of a felony, aiding and
abetting an assault on a federal offi-
cer and attempting to aid or instigate
an escape attempt.
After he deferred imposition of
sentence pending a pre-sentence in-
vestigation, Judge Murphy asked
Mrs. Pardue to explain her actions.
“I attempted to rescue my husband
from custody,” she replied softly,
Meanwhile, James Pardue is an in-
mate at the Medical Center where he
will be held until he is certified com-
petent to stand trial. Until he is con-
victed by a jury he is, of course, pre-
sumed innocent of all charges against
him. wk
Oklahoma’s Case . . . (from page 57)
“Rangy, wiry build, thick eyebrows
and deep-set dark eyes—sort of nar-
row eyes, I guess you'd call ’em.
Angular face, kinda long. He had a lot
of hair, very thick and shiny, combed
like a rock ’n roller—you know, over
his forehead. He had a very long upper
lip, and a very full lower lip. That’s
all I can remember.”
“How about his clothes? What
was he wearing?” Sergeant Raiford
asked.
“Oh yeah. Blue jeans, pretty well
bleached. And a tan windbreaker,
with a zipper front, Lightweight, like
a golfer’s rain jacket. And he wasn’t
wearing a shirt. Just a white T-
shirt.” ~
“That’s pretty good,” Sergeant
Raiford complimented the youth.
“Ought to be helpful.”
His partner was already on the
radio reporting the detailed descrip-
tion for rebroadcast to all units and
the searchers. a
Dawn had not yet broken, and
though at this time it was believed
the fugitive was still bottled up in
the woods, stakeouts were quickly
assigned to maintain surveillance at
railroad stations, the airport and bus
terminals. News of the search was
released to newspapers and radio
and television stations, and while it
was too late to make the Sunday
newspapers, broadcast media issued
frequent bulletins on the manhunt
and repeated police warnings to
motorists not to pick up any hitch-
hikers. The bulletins also requested
that anyone noticing suspicious per-
sons on the highways or anywhere
in the area should report them at
once to the police.
The intensified daylight search of
the wooded area had yielded no bet-
ter results than the earlier searches
in the dark. It continued throughout
e early morning hours, but offi-
cials by this time were all but con-
vinced that the wanted man had
somehow made good _his escape.
They assigned detective teams now
to canvass all hotels and rooming
houses in the metropolitan area.
Sergeants Bivens and Raiford ar-
rived at headquarters about 8 o’clock
and were handed a report which had
just come in from Arkansas. Bivens
read it through and chuckled.
“They must have had to disturb a
lot of people’s Sunday morning sleep
to get all this so fast,” he said.
“Is it any help?” asked Detective
Chief Harry Stege, who came out of
his office at that moment.
“Not much,” Bivens replied. “The
car was bought for cash last week at
a secondhand lot in Fort Smith.
Apparently by our boy who pulled
the job here last night. The descrip-
tion fits, right down to the T-shirt
and the windbreaker—tan, zippered.”
“What about the name he used?”
Chief Stege asked. “Is it a phony?”
“Probably. He gave the dealer the
name of Harold Devons. Paid cash—
ment bucks—for the heap, and drove
Oo 9
“What about his address?”
“I was coming to that,” said Ser-
geant Bivens, “Fort Smith police say
the address he gave is legit, but
nobody there ever heard of a Har-
old Devons, nor of anyone fitting the
description.”
After a moment’s thought, Chief
Stege said, “If he gave a legitimate
address, he was either lucky, or he
knows the town. My guess is he
knows the town. And if he’s from
Arkansas, he’s going to try to get
back there. He’ll use that gun to do
it, too, if he has to, and I think he’s
going to have to.
“He only got thirty-three bucks
in that stickup last night, and he
sure won’t be able to get far on that.
He’s got to make another hit.”
The detective chief’s words were
prophetic, but it would be some time
before it was learned exactly how
prophetic.
As police continued the manhunt
throughout the day, Tulsa’s quarter
of a million people, as well as the
many more thousands in surround-
ing communities, were warned by
repeated broadcasts that an armed
and dangerous criminal was on the
loose. The public’s cooperation was
requested and _ citizens repeatedly
were urged to get in contact with the
police at the least sign of anything
or anyone acting in a_ suspicious |
manner. But the day passed with
nothing more than the expected rash
of unfounded reports, some genuine,
others from cranks, which inevitably
result from such alarms,
Sunday morning dawned bright,
sunny and warm. In the residential
areas of the city, many pronerty |.
owners rose early and busied them-
selves puttering around their lawns, |
gardens, and backyard barbecue
areas. Some stayed in bed, sleeping
off the effects of their Saturday night
revelry.
Still others arose, donned _ their
best clothes, and set out from home
to attend services at the church of
their choice.
At the Glenwood Baptist Church
on South 5th Avenue, parishioners
were inspired by a stirring sermon
delivered by their pastor, the Rev-
erend Leslie Arnold, Standing on the
steps of the church when services
were over, he exchanged greetings
with many of his flock who stopped
to congratulate him on the fine ser-
mon. After the last of the congrega-
tion had departed, he went inside
and chatted briefly with his youthful
assistant pastor, Tommy Robert
Cooke, who also complimented him
on his moving sermon.
The pastor was extremely fond of
his young assistant. Although only
23, Tommy Cooke had already exhib-
ited all the signs of a dedicated man
of God. :
“Thank you, Tommy,” the pastor
said. “I’m looking forward to your
sermon at this evening’s services,
Are you all ready for your trip
tomorrow?”
Reverend Arnold was referring to
their plans to leave the next day for
Oklahoma Baptist University at
Shawnee, where both would attend a
special brief course. He knew that
Tommy was anticipating it with spe-
cial enthusiasm, for this would be his
’ final instruction before his ordina-
tion as a minister just two weeks
ence.
“I’m going home to pack right
now,” the young assistant said. “I
want to get everything ready now,
so I won’t have it on my mind this
evening.”
After a little more discussion about
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cowed desperado. As they herded the
killer back to the main group, and to
the car that would speed him to
Muskogee County jail and justice, one
of the officers pointed to the .45 that
had been taken from the hardboiled
fugitive.
“Why didn’t you try to use that gun,
Pete?” the officer asked.
Williams replied: “With you guys
covering me from both sides?” He
looked down. “Did you think I was
going to commit suicide?”
With these words, the killer unwit-
tingly contradicted the statement he had
made to Reverend Dale Proctor, his
murder victim’s friend and superior.
“Do you believe,” the clergyman had
asked, “that when a man is dead he is
just dead?”, and the killer had mum-
HOT LOVE AND COLD MURDER
(Continued from page 25)
was removed to Brooksville, Bracken
county seat, where Coroner Carl Bach
conducted an immediate autopsy. It
confirmed his on-the-spot judgment that
she had died of strangulation by hand
and wire. There were no identifying
marks on the body. She had been preg-
nant four months at the time of her
death.
The cadaver was placed on ice in the
county morgue. The sensational story
of the “Turtle Creek Corpse,” as news-
Paper headlines referred to the case,
attracted widespread interest. A Steady
stream of curious visitors filed past her
icy bier.
“Identification isn’t going to be easy,”
Sheriff Jett told Deputy Sheriff Robert
Kelch as a week slipped uneventfully
by. “It could be our biggest headache.”
He had no idea then of how much of
a headache it was actually going to be!
gf Mag weeks after the corpse was dis-
covered in Turtle Creek, a middle-
aged woman tentatively identified her
as Celia Watkins, a 23-year-old newly-
wed who had disappeared from her
home in Augusta.
Sheriff Jett promptly paid a visit to
the Watkins apartment in a bustling,
commercial district in Augusta. The
husband of the missing girl, a sallow-
faced youth in his early twenties, wryly
admitted that his bride of five months
had left him.
“We had a tiff,” he said. “She packed
a bag and took off.”
“When was that?”
“Around the end of April.”
The time element, Jett realized ex-
citedly, checked. The body had been in
the water about two weeks when it was
found on May 10th. That meant that
the woman had been deposited in the
creek sometime during the last week in
April.
50
The youth was plainly worried when
bled: “Yes, that is my belief.”
But this had been several weeks
earlier, and the dead man referred to
had not been Edward Leon “Pete”
Williams. Now that the reference was
to himself, he no longer seemed so sure.
Tried and convicted on the kidnaping
charge, Edward Leon “Pete” Williams
remained in the shadow of the electric
chair for three and a half years, re-
ceiving thirteen stays of execution,
while appeals were made in his behalf.
But time ran out on him on July 28th,
1960. That was the day he paid the
supreme penalty for the kidnap-murder
of the young, trusting minister. *
Editor’s Note: The names Mr. and Mrs.
Walter Jacobson and Frank Merrick
are fictitious,
Sheriff Jett asked him to accompany
him to the morgue. His face was flushed
and his hands trembled as he was led
to the icy slab.
Jett reached out and removed the,
white sheet which covered the victim’s |
face.
The young man looked at the frozen
features, winced and _ turned away.
“Thank God,” he said. “That’s not
Celia,” .
While Watkins was questioned, sher-
ifs deputies brought a half dozen of his
neighbors to view the corpse. Two wo-
men hesitantly identified the body as
that of Celia Watkins. The others agreed
there was some resemblance but refused
to make any positive identification.
The youthful husband, steadily main-
taining that the victim wasn’t his run-
away bride, was held for questioning.
Newspaper stories headlined the tenta-
tive identification.
On the following afternoon, an at-
tractive 19-year-old brunette appeared
at the sheriff’s office and angrily de-
manded to see her husband.
“Who are you?” Jett asked, “and just
who is your husband?”
“I’m Celia Watkins,” she said. “Mrs.
Celia Watkins!”
She produced a driver’s license. a
half dozen intimate photos showing her
embracing her husband, and a marriage
certificate to prove beyond a doubt that
she was indeed Celia Watkins. And, she
snapped irately, she was a long way
from being dead—a factual statement
which Sheriff Jett was quite willing to
concede.
Ten minutes later, arm in arm with
her reconciled husband, the youthful
couple walked out of the door. And
Sheriff Jett was left once again with an
unidentified murder victim on_ his
hands.
One month later, on a hot June
afternoon, Sheriff Jett had a second
tentative identification. A State High-
way patrolman, visiting the morgue on
official business, glanced casually at the
unidentified corpse of the brunette. He
did a quick double-take, then hurried
DETECTIVE CASES
dintacrenitnhek wit Sate
ab chs Ste ad abla da
Te ee Pes ee
Pa nae bwin. ek val
learned of another nefarious racket
which the two sisters had engaged in.
They did their best to lure to their
establishments local farm workers who
had returned to the area with American
dollars after a season of harvesting
crops in the United States.
“These migrant workers were in-
duced to drink liquor until they got
drunk and passed out,” the girl said.
“The sisters’ gunmen took them out of
the house and robbed them of their
money. Then they laid some of them
across railway tracks and others on the
highway where they would be run over
by speeding cars.
“Still others were thrown over a cliff
in Jalisco state, into a deep ravine
called the Devil’s Gorge, where no one
ever goes.”
While the questioning of the girls
continued, the police of Guanajuato
continued to search for the missing
Gonzales sisters. On January 17th, they
were finally discovered in hiding near
the town of Purismo de Bustos.
Word of their capture spread quickly,
and when the police brought them to
San Francisco del Rincon, an angry
mob of several hundred persons had
gathered around the police station.
Chief Ayala finally had to send for
Federal troops from a nearby army
post to prevent the two women from
being lynched.
They were finally taken through the
crowd and lodged in a jail cell, how-
ever: As they sat there on the pink
bedspread of the jail cot in their dirty,
shapeless black dresses, they presented
a strange appearance.
Delfina was 55 years old while Maria
de Jesus was 40. Both had graying
black hair and the wrinkled, grimy
faces of peasant women. It was hard
to believe—as the police had already
discovered—that they were worth at
least several hundred thousand pesos
in cash and real estate.
In a desperate effort to save herself,
Delfina Gonzales told Colonel Perez:
“I am offering you 3,000 pesos so that
I do not come out as the chief criminal
in this affair.”
When he declined her offer, she said:
“If that is not enough, then add zeros
to the check.”
The colonel still refused.
Though the work of excavation was
still going on at the ranch and in the
cellars of their houses in the towns, the
Police were now able to link the two
sisters definitely with the deaths of 17
women and 9 infants, whose bodies
had been found buried on the ranch.
And so on January 21, 1964, they
were taken before Judge Timoteo Lo-
zano Martinez in the city of Leon and
formally charged with murder. They
were then returned to jail to await
trial.
Charged with the sisters as accom-
plices to murder were Captain Her-
menegildo Zuniga, Salvador Estrada,
Francisco Camerena, Enrique Ramirez
and Jose Fasio, They were also being
held in jail.
Six women, including Josefina Gut-
ierrez, Maria Guadalupe Marina and
Maria Montes, were held by the police,
but the charges against them had not
yet been determined.
News of the widespread white slave
ting whose business methods included
kidnaping, narcotics addiction and mur-
der has created a great scandal in Mex-
ico. It will no doubt result in the enact-
ment of more stringent laws to combat
these evils.
In the meantime, the Gonzales sis-
ters face the maximum penalty for
murder in Mexico—40 years imprison-
ment. Since no reputable Mexican law-
yer could take their case voluntarily,
the court has appointed two lawyers to
defend them.
When interviewed in their jail cell
in San Francisco del Rincon, the sisters
sometimes smile and sometimes weep
openly.
“We want to be well defended in
court, because we are innocent of some
of the charges against us,” says Maria
de Jesus Gonzales. “Some of the girls
just died, and then of course we had
to bury them.”
“We would rather die than be sen-
tenced to 40 years in jail,” says her
sister, Delfina.
As this account is written, many of
the girls found at the Rancho El Angel
and in the other houses have been re-
united with their relatives. But others
are orphans and homeless, and they
still remain quartered in an office of
the police station at Leon.
Employees of the court have donated
bundles of clothing to them, and the
police are hoping they can find them
jobs—perhaps in some social welfare
institution—so they do not return to
the profession which the Gonzales sis-
ters taught them.
Editor's Note: The names Lucila and
Jovita Velez are fictitious.
RED LIGHT FOR DANGER
(Continued from page 23)
file charges of first-degree murder
against the prisoner and claim him after
his trial on armed robbery charges at
Poteau.
After spending most of Monday
night in jail at Poteau, the thin, curly-
haired murderer led a party, including
Chief Stege, Sheriff Kerr, Tulsa Detec-
tive Felix Raiford and Trooper Don
Wiens, down the remote dirt trail ten
miles north of Taft to the banks of
the Arkansas River. There he silently
pointed to a clump of tall grass in
which he had dumped his victim's
corpse. The officers muttered curses of
anger and disgust when they turned the
body over. The young man of God who
“loved to tell hitchhikers about Jesus
Christ” had been shot in the back of
the head. This, they felt, was conclu-
sive proof that the young minister had
never put up a struggle for his life,
but was killed brutally and without
human feeling.
In an anti-climax to the tragedy,
Williams later led the officers to a spot
48
in the woods near Muse. Here the
murder pistol was found.
Williams, police records revealed,
was a Tulsan. He had been in various
scrapes with the authorities in that city
before he apparently wrote his death
ticket by wantonly slaying a young man
destined to a career of good.
After the killer made his full con-
fession, young Cooke’s superior, Rev-
erend Proctor, shaken by the blow
which robbed him of a valued assistant,
asked if he could talk to Williams.
Permission was granted, and in the
prisoner’s cell he asked the killer: “Do
you believe in God, Jesus Christ, or
prayer?”
In a barely audible voice, Williams
said, “No.”
“Then you believe,” the clergyman
continued, “that when a man is dead
he is just dead?”
“Yes,” the killer mumbled, and re-
fused to answer any more questions.
LeFlore County officials held Wil-
liams on armed robbery charges until
June 25th, when they turned him over
to Muskogee police for prosecution on
the murder charge. City Judge Archi-
bald Bonds entered a plea of innocent
for Williams on June 26th, when at
his arraignment the killer failed’ to
plead either way. July 9th was set as
the date for the preliminary hearing,
but County Attorney Louis Smith re-
quested that the hearing be postponed
until July 25th in order for ballistics
tests on the murder weapon to be com-
pleted. The request was granted, and
Williams was held at the Muskogee
County jail pending his hearing.
At six-forty Sunday morning, July
15th, 1956, Jailer Otto Bales was super-
vising a check-in of cot mattresses in
the cellblock corridor. His attention
was momentarily distracted by a pris-
oner who wanted a window opened—
and in that instant Pete Williams and
another inmate smashed Bales to the
floor and knocked him unconscious.
Bales was quickly bound with strips of
cloth from a mattress cover and dump-
ed in the rear of the jail.
Williams appropriated the jailer’s
keys, unlocked the door leading from
the cellblock, and entered the outer of-
fice where another jailer, Carl Cole,
was sitting at a desk.
“Don’t move!” Williams snapped,
coming up behind Cole and pressing a
knife against the guard’s throat. “I
don’t have a thing to lose!”
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Cole had been about to lock the jail
safe for the day, but Williams was
quick to spot that it was open. He
ransacked the billfolds being kept for
other prisoners, keeping all with cash
in them, and took a .45-caliber auto-
matic, plus a clip of ten cartridges.
Armed with the .45, he forced Cole
into the cellblock and locked the bar-
red door.
He and the other escapee dashed out
the building door and headed for Bales’
car, to which Williams had the key.
Within seconds they were heading west
out of Muskogee.
Jailer Cole’s shouts for help were
heard by a passerby and the officer,
released from his cage, instantly alerted
local law agencies to the break-out.
Within an hour a large-scale manhunt
had been organized and was setting off
in pursuit of the killer and his com-
panion. .
LOODHOUNDS, roadblocks, an
airplane and some eighty lawmen
and volunteers began to push out into
the area surrounding the city. Sheriff
Neville Kerr, of Muskogee County,
calmly stated: “We'll get them.”
But the hours wore on, and the
morning passed with no results. Then
Bales’ stolen auto was found, with the
empty billfolds taken from the jail safe.
It was abandoned on a lonely road in
a wooded area a mile north and three
miles west of Muskogee. Immediately, '
DETECTIVE CASES
the search posse decended on this sec-
tion, between Taft and Muskogee, and
began to unleash hounds and guns. It
was at three o'clock that Sunday after-
noon that a woman called Taft Con-
stable Joe A. Davis to report a stranger
near her farm.
“He asked me for some water,” she
reported. “I gave him three glassfuls
and he gulped them down like he was
dying of thirst.” ; i
Her description of the man identified
him to Constable Davis as Williams’
companion. Davis drove quickly to the
nearest search group, four miles east of
the farm where the fugitive had been
spotted, and led these men back to the
redhot area.
Half an hour later the hounds closed
in on their quary near a cemetery
northwest of the spot where he’d been
given water. The fugitive surrendered
without resistance, still parched for
something to drink. As he sat, hand-
cuffed, in a police car he advised the
lawmen that Williams was not only
armed but desperate.
“He ain't going to give up. Not on
his own, he ain't.” ;
“Maybe,” Sheriff Kerr told his men,
“but this sweltering heat can do a lot
to a man. I figure Williams is just as
desperate for a drink as his friend was.
The thing to do is cover all places
where he might get water.” .
While bloodhounds attempted to sniff
out the fugitive’s trail search groups
left to stake-out all farmhouses, streams
and ponds in the area. It was about
four-thirty Sunday afternoon that De-
tectives Al Hinkle and Jim Stiff reached
a pond on the farm of the woman who
had originally given the first man a
drink. With the detectives were Patrol
Officers Harvey Sollars and John For-
bes. Hinkle and Forbes paired up and
moved off in one direction to check
the area. Stiff and Sollars paused to
fire up cigarettes before moving off
another way. ; :
Stiff quickly yanked his cigarette
from his mouth and threw it away, un-
lighted. “Look! Down at the far end of
the pond!”
Crouching, as though to scoop up
water from the pond, was Pete Wil-
liams. The two officers separated, each
moving silently in on the fugitive from
opposite sides of the pond. Stiff put the
sights of his machine gun squarely on
the chest of the killer. ;
“Williams!” he shouted. “Stand still
or I'll shoot!”
The desperate fugitive looked up. On
one side was Stiff with the ready sub-
machine gun. On the other was Sollars,
heavy-calibered service revolver, steady
as a rock, thrown down on him. Wil-
liams froze. To move would have meant
instant death. :
Stiff raised his machine gun quickly
and triggered a burst to attract Hinkle
and Formes. These two officers came on
the run and snapped handcuffs on the
49
Detective Chief Harry Stege and Detective Sergeant Bob
Blivens were soon working over the wrecked Pontiac,
searching for clues. A check of its license plates revealed
that it had come from Fort Smith, Arkansas. It was not
listed to Williams, however, as he had registered it there
in a false name. Up to this point the Tulsa police had no
intimation of the identity of the criminal they were seeking.
Late that Saturday night the hunted ex-con turned up
at a motel on the outskirts of Tulsa and rented a room.
He then called a barmaid at a local tavern. She had lived
for a time with Williams and still considered him her
common-law husband. Once off duty, she hurried to the
motel and spent the night there with the wanted man.
The next afternoon, as the police continued their search,
Williams was able to slip into the city, and by evil chance
saw Tommy Cooke in his car.
In the meantime, the Tulsa police found themselves with
another problem on their hands. On Monday the sister of
the young pastor called to report that her brother was
missing. Tommy Cooke lived with her, and she said he
Murder victim’s body was removed by coroner’s men.
had not returned the night before. Strangely, she related,
the young man had left his traveling bag in his bedroom,
packed and ready for a trip.
The Reverend Dale Proctor, head pastor of the Glenwood
Baptist Church for whom Cooke acted as an assistant, con-
firmed his aide’s disappearance. He reported that he had
last seen the young man after church services at noon
Sunday. Furthermore, he said, young Cooke had been
slated to deliver a sermon at six-forty-five Sunday night
at the Glenwood Church, but had not appeared. He had
not even called to explain his absence. This troubled the
pastor, as his assistant was an extremely reliable young man
and had never before been known to miss an appointment.
The mystery was clouded further when Reverend Proctor
said that he and young Cooke were to have met at eight
o’clock Monday morning to drive to Shawnee, where they
had planned to take a refresher course at Oklahoma Baptist
University. The trip explained the presence of the packed
traveling case. The police were satisfied that Tommy Cooke
had intended to leave the next morning with his superior,
but obviously had been prevented by events beyond his
control.
As Detective Chief Stege puzzled over the case it was not
long before something in his mind began to link the young
pastor’s disappearance with the Saturday morning oil station
robbery and the subsequent escape of its perpetrator.
“Here’s what I figure,” he told Sergeant Bliven. “The
punk wrecked his own car trying to escape and some way
got next to Cooke and kidnaped him for a getaway auto.
Tommy Cooke liked to go for rides in the country, his
sister tells me. And he often gave hitchhikers lifts so he
could talk religion to them. He was out on a pleasure drive
yesterday afternoon and it’s possible this gunman flagged
him down on some deserted part of the road.”
Chief Stege then broadcast a description of Tommy
Cooke’s 1949 Oldsmobile throughout Eastern Oklahoma
and Western Arkansas, and state police in the two states
began setting up roadblocks in an effort to locate the
missing minister.
Sy BORTLY before midnight Sunday, Williams pulled up
in front of the home of his benefactors, Mr. and Mrs.
Jacobsen at Talihina, some 150 miles southeast of Tulsa in
LeFlore County. Yanking out his pistol he held it down
along his right thigh as he rapped sharply on the door. The
genial general store proprietor answered and looked out.
“So you're back,” he said without enthusiasm once he
recognized his deserting clerk in the darkness.
“I’m back,” Williams said, bringing up his pistol so it
could be seen in the light slanting out of the door. “Call
Mrs. Jacobson. We're going to make a visit to the store.”
‘Herding the couple into his car, Williams took them to
the market, forced them to open it and hand over $800 in
receipts. Once he had his hands on the money he dashed
out, leaped into his murder victim’s auto, and roared down
the road toward the Kiamichi Mountains east of Talihina.
The Jacobsons immediately notified the police of the
robbery, and the identity of the bandit. Soon several Parties
of deputies were in pursuit. When the chase grew hot early
Monday morning, Williams ditched the Oldsmobile near
the small town of Muse and struck off into the woods. At
the same time he tossed the death pistol into a thick growth
of weeds along the road. ‘
The abandoned escape auto was found by LeFlore County
officers and reported to the authorities at Tulsa. W. M.
Cooke, venetian blind company executive and father of the
slain youth, was rushed to Muse. He at once identified the
car as belonging to his missing son.
Back in Tulsa, fingerprints in the smashed oil station
holdup Pontiac were found to belong to Williams, thus
confirming Chief Stege’s theory that the holdup man and
young Cooke’s abductor were one and the same person.
After a few hours of wandering in the wooded foothills
of the Kiamichis, Williams came out on a road. Just as he
emerged, Frank Merrick of Talihina, with his wife and
|
brother, happened to be driving by. The murderer hailed
them down. Doubtlessly mindful of the ancient backtracking
dodge, Williams ordered Merrick, under the threat of death,
to drive him to Wilburton, Oklahoma. Wilberton is directly
west of Talihina, and when Williams had fled Talihina he
headed east. :
A bus was pulling out of Wilburton as the Merricks
and the fugitive drove into the heart of town. In a shrewd
move, Merrick persuaded the fugitive to catch the bus,
knowing he would be unable to leave it before the police
could catch up to him.
“You'd better get out of here and leave us alone,”
Merrick told Williams. “Take that bus to Fort Smith. That's
your best bet.” :
Once the killer was aboard the bus, Merrick quickly
called state troopers at McAlester, and a general report was
broadcast over the radio saying that the wanted man was
on the east-bound bus.
A welcoming party, consisting of LeFlore County Sheriff
Jack Craig, State Trooper Carl Stevens and City Marshal
Buel Richmond, was waiting for Williams when his bus
pulled into Poteau, county seat of LeFlore County. As the
three officers entered the bus, the slayer surrendered meekly.
Sheriff Craig, immediately after the arrest, went to call
off a posse of fourteen men with a bloodhound which was
still trying to run Williams down near Whitesboro,
Oklahoma.
At first the killer denied the Cooke murder, although he
admitted the robberies in Tulsa and Talihina. He had $489
on his person when captured. However, he soon confessed
killing the young pastor. The appearance of Sheriff Neville
C. Kerr of Muskogee County, who had hurried to Poteau
on hearing of the capture, may have speeded up -his
confession. Sheriff Kerr had a hunch, later borne out,
that Cooke had been murdered in his county.
In his verbal confession, Williams said that it wasn’t
Tommy Cooke’s preaching “that made me shoot him. I
told him I wanted his car, that's all, and he wouldn’t give
it to me. I tried to tie him up and he gave me some trouble.
I had to shoot him.” ;
At about the time Williams boarded the bus at Wilburton,
the Tulsa police, with exacting patience and acute detective
work, had discovered the motel where the fugitive had spent
Saturday night with his common-law wife. Some of his
clothes were still there.
Detectives located the girl and arrested her. She admitted
she had spent the night with Williams. She also said that he
had visited her at the tavern where she worked as late as
nine o’clock Sunday night. Detective Chief Stege scoffed
at this testimony, however, pointing out a discrepancy in
time and distance between Tulsa and Talihina that made
the visit impossible.
| eo in Poteau, LeFlore County official said they would
not release Williams as they wanted to try him for
armed robbery at Talihina. In Oklahoma armed robbery
carries a maximum penalty of death. Muskogee officers
said, however, that they would (Continued on page 48)
Oklahoma State Trooper (r.) took no chances once the elusive suspect (I.) had been put under arrest.
DETECTIVE CASES | DETECTIVE CASES
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: WILLIAMS, Edward Le, white, elec. OK®
I don’t remember our talk, but
I never said I was an atheist.
28
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FRONT PAGE DETECTIVE,
October, 1956
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a4 he dtd £4 dYLED r HOWE PA 9 W ok Ad 4 = & Nt @
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HA
TOM COOKE often picked up hitchhik-
ers, preached to them about their souls.
By Franklin Paley
[; could happen to anyone. It could
happen to you.
What would you do if your car
was waiting at a traffic light and
a hardened criminal, on the lam and
looking for a cool crate, slid in be-
side you and jabbed a gun into your
. ribs? Cops all over the state are look-
ing for him. They want to clap him
back in stir on a bookful of charges,
But he’s been hiding out and they
don’t know where he is, You've seen
him. though. You can describe him
to the cops and you can give them the
license number of the car he'll be
driving. If he lets you live.
It was Sunday, June 17, 1956, and
_ithe sun beat down ‘mercilessly on
@ Tulsa, Oklahoma. The Streets were
' jammed with traffic. Sweating Sunday
drivers mopped their faces, kept an
eye on the rising motor temperature
and wondered why in hell they hadn't
stayed home, :
Caught in the traffic on Cheyenne
Avenue at 3rd Street was a 1949 Olds-_
mobile sedan, carefully polished and in
perfect running order. Its driver, the
Reverend Tommy Robert Cooke, was
a gentle-faced, clear-eyed young man
of 23, the assistant pastor of the Glen-
wood Baptist Church of Tulsa.
Tommy Cooke : was a man who
walked with God. He had just come
from the home he shared with his
sister, where he'd had a cool, invigor-
ating shower and put on a fresh cord
suit. He was to deliver the sermon
at the evening Service, and he was on
his way to his desk at the parsonage
to glance over his notes,
Tommy Cooke was a man who lived
AFTER a careful search detectives found
used his car for a holdup after the
_ Reverend Tommy Cooke thought he could teach the ex-convict the
we
his relig
tor, pas
him “th
knew.”
with hi:
around
get peo
savior, |
ers and
As thi
changed
braked
slender,
sport sh
the curb
man had
him. Ca
sav
a ride a
stranger
right-ha
slid in be
obation officer, can
one else.
ieurotic,” they ex-
learly loved mother
aw months. She was
., one handicapped.
vas jealous of Mrs.
ll-adjusted woman
dren, and a happy
ist, Mrs. Terwilliger
3lake’s capability as
(rs. Blake could do
at she could not do
sex frustration. And
tected, she derived a
om the mystery and
created.”
iowed definite signs
she talked subse-
uatrist and the pro-
itered a formal plea
jeral District Judge
na San Francisco on
oril 25, 1956, Judge
sentence.
--year term in prison
mtence and granted
o certain conditions.
she take psychiatric
1 expense, and change
> community.
Blake, Emily Carter,
rodhorn and Joanne
foregoing story, are
have been changed
2s of persons innocently
-igation.)
1e intersection, watch-
y. He moved into the
s hand clutching his
ht clicked from green
-west traffic came to a
en any car that Wil-
upon. The next day
rould ponder the fate
i Man Williams select
2 driven by the hand-
i, 24-year-old Tommie
calm when Pete Wil-
he car door and hopped
jabbing the driver with
; unmoved despite the
Nilliams’ eyes. Tommie
1g man of tremendous
Assistant Pastor of the
Church, and was on his
. the Sunday evening
sry moment. “Tommie
ast of us,” his brother
t him later. “He seemed
opier. He was an inspi-
_ He never got mad or
vays in control of him-
called Tom Cooke the
» young man I ever
as familiar with strang-
often picked up hitch-
could preach the word
‘Highway 64,” Williams
2 car moved away from
If you try anything, Tl
drove the car steadily
- occupant said a word
Oklahoma, Williams
s was low, and he
jull into the first gas
he attendant and you're
ms muttered. Tommie
jafraid. R. J. Necessary,
tation, filled the tank on
Williams’ orders. The desperado took
Tommie’s wallet, picked out a five-dollar
bill and handed it to the attendant. When
he got the change, he put it in his own
pocket along with the youth’s wallet.
Tommie was still calm when the car
started up, and he began to talk, despite
Williams’ surly expression. Tommie spoke
of his church, of his work in the Army, in
which he had served as a dental techni-
cian until being mustered out as a master
sergeant in 1955.
He told of his decision to become a min-
ister after he had taught Sunday School
classes during the Army hitch, and of
how he had often wavered in this decision
because he didn’t feel that he was good
enough for the job. But he had done well
in his work as youth director of the Boul-
der Avenue Church and now as assistant
director of the Glenwood Church. In two
more weeks, he was to become a fully
ordained preacher.
“That’s enough talk,” Williams inter-
rupted. But Tommie went on for a mo-
ment. He picked up the Bible lying near
him on the front seat. Infuriated, Williams
took it away from’ him and threw it out
of the window.
“Turn left here,” Williams ordered. The
car skidded to a stop, and then moved onto
a country road. They were about four
miles east of Taft, Oklahoma. Tommie
drove the car six more miles along a dusty,
rocky dead-end road, un Williams
ly ordered him to stop and get out.
Williams pushed the gun into Tommie’s
back. “Walk, just walk,” he pronounced
grimly. Tommie walked 130 feet forward
from where the car was parked, pushing
aside the neck-high grass that rubbed
against his body. They were close to the
bank of the Arkansas River. Finally, Wil-
liams told the youth to stop and to take
off his belt and the laces of his shoes.
“T need the car,” Williams said. “I’m
going to tie you up and leave you here.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe they’ll
find you some day.”
Tommie Cooke listened, weighing the
harsh words. Then he asked Williams not
to tie him up, saying that he would not
report the car theft and that Williams
could easily get away safely.
The vicious gunman drank in the plea
for leniency. The two men were standing
about four feet apart.
Then Williams grinned sardonically.
“You don’t want to be tied up, do you?”
he said. “O.K. We won't have to tie you
up.” He lifted the revolver, pressed the
trigger. The bullet entered the right side
of Tommie Cooke’s head, killing him in-
stantly. Without a second glance, Killer
Williams turned away and headed back
for the stolen car, leaving the lifeless body
exactly as it had fallen into its grass
coffin. ...
Herman Coussens and his wife were
sound asleep when the murderer knocked
on their door just before midnight Sun-
day, less than five hours after his cold-
blooded slaying of Tommie Bob Cooke.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Cous-
sens staggered to the door. He was greeted
by the business end of the lethal .38 and
the red-eyed face of Killer Williams.
Williams had been employed at Cous-
sens’ store in Talihina, Oklahoma, for
” the past two months, until Thursday of the
previous week when Williams had taken
off for Fort Smith, Arkansas, without ex-
planation. Now he was back, for work—
deadly work!
“Get your wife out of bed, and let’s go
down to the store,” Williams ordered.
Still driving Tommie Cooke’s Oldsmo-
bile, the desperado forced his captives to
accompany him to the Twin Gins general
store. After Coussens opened the safe,
Williams grabbed almost $1,000 in cash
and tucked it into a bag he took from the
counter. Then he locked the terrorized
couple in the rest room. |. '
It was only a few mihutes later that
Herman Coussens notified the county po-
lice of the robbery, arousing Sheriff Jack
Craig and Deputies Orville McCrosky and
Bill Pickle of Poteau. Aldng with Deputy
Sheriff Grover Barron of Talihind they
combed the area for a sign of the get- -
away car. At Muse, Oklahoma, 18 miles
southeast of Talihina, they discovered the
1949 Oldsmobile abandoned on a dirt road.
It took only a cursory glarice at the license
to establish that this was the car driven
by Tommie Bob Cooke when he was last
seen alive in Tulsa. The United States at-
torney’s office immediately issued 4 war-
rant for Williams’ arrest for “unlawful
flight to escape prosecution.” A hunt got
underway at once in the desperate hope
that Tommie Cooke was still alive.
The trail led to the Kiamichi Mountains
in southeastern_ Oklahoma, about 125
miles from Tulsa. Sheriff Craig gathered
a posse, together with a bloodhound, to
ferret out Williams in the thickly wooded
area. At 8 a.m., a report laced Williams.
in a nearby farmhouse, where he had ap-
peared to ask for breakfast. The farmer
and Williams had become suspicious of
each other at about the same time, and
Williams had slipped away before the re-
port of his presence could be telephoned
to the county seat. At 1 in the afternoon,
Williams was sighted again, this time by
a young boy who saw the hunted fugitive
slinking about an empty, house near an
oil pumping station at Whitesboro, Okla-
homa. The posse pushed. on, desperately
intent on capturing Williams quickly in
the vain hope that he might lead them to
Tommie Cooke before it was too late.
. Williams, about a mile ahead of the
search party, slithered an a post
the underbrush, his facd badly torn by
thorns and his body a mass of welts raised
by insect bites. He scrambled along rap-
idly, goaded on by deadly fear. His path
was in the form of a large circle, so that he
soon approached Talihind, the town from
which he had fled in desperation early
the same day.
The desperado took his gun out when
he neared the small Stanridge store on the
outskirts of the town. This burglary went
quickly and smoothly. He got $30 from
the cash register. More important to him
was the food that he scooped up from the
wall shelves. He swiftly headed back to
the protection of the trees, and gulped
down the stolen merchandise. ‘
When a car came cruising by, Williams
stood. directly in its path, so that the
startled driver was forced to come to an
abrupt halt almost in front of him. He
walked to the driver's window and
flashed the much-used revolver into the
nose of Clarence Angel.
“Tt want to go to Wilburton,” Williams
demanded. “You take me there.” He
slipped into the front seat, alongside of
Mrs. Angel. Mrs. Angel’s brother was in
the back of the car. “This gun works real
well,” Williams said threateningly, “so
let’s get the car moving.’
At Wilburton, the next town up the
road, Williams got out of the Angels’ car.
Waving the gun at his hostages, he shouted
for them to get moving and to keep their
mouths shut. Then he headed quickly for
the village bus station. Clarence Angel
drove his car to a secluded side street
which afforded a protected view of the
bus terminal. There he sat and waited.
He soon saw Williams board a bus marked
with big white letters: “Fort Smith.” An-
gel ran to the nearest telephone booth and
called the Wilburton town marshal, out-
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ia cat
an oe Hers
had been unable to reach her attorney.
She grudgingly granted permission to
search the premises.
Conway, Uttley and Dempsey explored
living room, bedrooms, kitchen, dining
room, toolshed, garage and closets. In the
bedroom, they found a standard type-
writer and a case that once had: held a
Corona portable. Conway asked Mrs. Ter-
williger what she used the case for.
| “I keep my cosmetics there,” she replied.
| Conway sniffed at the case. “Corona
cosmetics?” he asked. “It smells more like
a typewriter to me.”
' Dempsey and Uttley meanwhile ex-
plored outside the house. Conway was
fairly certain they would have luck near
the bedroom window.
Pulling back a bushy geranium, the
searchers discovered sheets of onionskin
paper of the type used for many of the
poison pen letters, and a quantity of well-
worn carbon paper. Under ultraviolet
light, the carbons revealed the text of 15
to 20 letters of the kind that had been re-
ceived by the Palo Alto residents.
Uttley returned to the side of the house
with a flashlight. Five feet from the bed-
room window, wedged between a gera-
nium bed and the house, he found a
Corona portable typewriter. Its location
suggested that the woman had leaned out
the window and flung it from her.
Sure of themselves now, the inspectors
typed a sample from the machine. The
same familiar letter defects popped up as
they had observed under the microscope
in the poison pen letters. '
Elinor Terwilliger was pri in increas-
ingly hysterical. Feeling that the presence
of a woman might help, Conway tele-
phoned Helen Blake, who responded at
once. .
She sought to soothe the widow’s jumpy
nerves while Conway telephoned ist-
ant United States Attorney Lynn Gillard
in San Francisco. The inspector was re-
porting that he feared a suicide attempt,
when Mrs. Blake ran out of the bedroom.
“My God!” she exclaimed. “She has a
bottle of sleeping pills in her hand—an
it’s empty!”
Breaking his connection to San Fran-
cisco, Conway dialed for an ambulance.
Mrs. Terwilliger was rushed to Palo Alto
Hospital, where her stomach was yo
and doctors confirmed that she had taken
a sizable quantity of sodium amytal.
She was confined to the hospital over-
night, and next day the inspectors took
her by car to San Francisco. During the
ride, she freely admitted the authorship of
both letters and phone calls. She seemed
more at ease after she had made the con-
fession.
“You'll feel better if you tell the whole
story. It will do you good to get it out of
your system,” Conway advised.
The distressed woman apparently took
his words to heart. Later she repeated
them to a psychiatrist, Dr. Maier I. Tuch-
ler, who found her sane “as of the pres-
ent, and at the time she wrote the letters.”
Why did she write more than 200 of
these offensive missives?
Conway and Uttley, who talked to the
psychiatrist and the probation officer, can
answer as well as anyone else.
“She was a psychoneurotic,” they ex-
plained. “She lost her dearly loved mother
and husband within a few months. She was
left with two children, one handicapped.
“Undoubtedly she was jealous of Mrs.
Carter, a poised, well-adjusted woman
with two normal children, and a happy
married life. By contrast, Mrs. Terwilliger
was lonely.
“She resented Mrs. Blake’s capability as
a speech therapist. Mrs. Blake could do
things for her son that she could not do
herself.
“There was obvious sex frustration. And
as she remained undetected, she derived a
certain satisfaction from the mystery and
the consternation she created.”
Mrs. Terwilliger showed definite signs
of improvement as she talked subse-
quently to the, psychiatrist and the pro-
bation officer. She entered a formal plea
of ory, before Federal District Judge
Oliver D. Hamlin in San Francisco on
April: 4, and on April 25, 1956, Judge
Hamlin pronounced sentence.
He ordained a four-year term in prison
—but suspended sentence and granted
probation, subject to certain conditions.
These included that she take psychiatric
treatment at her own expense, and change
residence to another community.
(Note: The names Helen Blake, Emily Carter,
Lorna Gordon, Arthur Wood! and Joanne
Warren, as used in the foregoing story, are
fictitious. The real names have been changed
to protect the identities of persons innocently
involved in the investigation.)
The Sinner Meets the Saint
[Continued from page 9]
etch June 16-19, 1956 into Tulsans’ memo-
ries as the time of the most unreasonable,
the most brutal, and the least necessary
murder in the metropolitan city’s history.
, And somewhere in the sleeping city a
young man, long since in bed, could not
prewey have known that fate had selected
im as the murder victim of a midnight
robber. It remained! for destiny to bring
the two men together.
The Tulsa police began to fan out around
the neighborhood of the filling station,
searching for the armed robber’s 1937 Pon-
tiac. Nineteen-year-old cars, they figured,
are uncommon enough to stand out in the .
light, early-morning traffic. Their search
circles spread wider and wider, as they
meticulously combed the city’s streets
and byways during the next two hours,
The persistency finally paid off when
Night Watchman Ray DeVoe spotted the
Pontiac cruising up a residential street.
DeVoe pressed down on his accelerator
and gave chase. The two cars sped crazily
through the dark, deserted Tulsa streets;
screeching wildly as they careened aroun
corners. At 37th Street and Yale Avenue,
the bandit’s Pontiac swerved insanely to
the right, hopped the curb and went
crashing into a telephone pole. The driver
leaped from the sedan and disappeared
into the night before Officer DeVoe could
come to a stop. The police search party
shifted quickly to the new area and sys-
tematically began to set its webbed trap
for the robber. But the man wasn’t to be
found.
As the police searched, they failed to
notice a shadowy figure that crept stealth-
ily from behind a large stone, not far from
the scene of the crash. The man crawled
slowly among the street shadows until he
52 ray
Williams
was within 20 feet of a group of congre-
gated officers. Then he sped silently to
one side of a patrol car while officers ex-
changed notes on the other side. Finally,
the fugitive slipped into the culvert close
by. The drain crosses Yale Avenue, and
on the other side the bandit raced breath-
lessly into the safe shelter of a deep patch
of trees. Twenty minutes later, with the
predawn light just beginning to be. seen
in the skies, the officers abandoned the’
search. They had already scoured the
wrecked car, and sets of fresh fingerprints
were sent to the yo rd at police head-
quarters. A short time later, the prints
established the identity of the armed rob-
ber as Edward Leon “Pete” Williams, a
28-year-old native Tulsan.
Williams’ record was quickly reviewed
by Chief of Detectives Harry E. Stege and
Detective Jack Purdy. The Tulsa police
had the criminal’s record, dating back to
his arrest in 1944. An F.B.I. report filled
in the gaps up to date.
“He’s only been out of prison for nine
months in the past 11 years!” Stege ex-
claimed as he checked the files.
“He gets bolder and bolder,” Detective
Purdy declared. “This, guy is vicious.
We've got to catch him, and catch him
quickly.”
The search for Williams was concen-
trated in the South Cheyenne Street area,
where the fugitive was known to have
shared an apartment with a mistress.
The hunch was correct, for Williams
was indeed holed up with the girl in a
hide away. However, when she left him
on Sunday afternoon to go to work, Pete
became restless and jumpy.
He had to get another car, he had to get
some quick money. He had to get mov-
The hoodlum left the apartment and
walked the few blocks to the Tulsa Pub-
lic Library at the corner of Third and
Cheyenne. There was a steady flow of
traffic this Sunday afternoon. Williams
‘loitered briefly at the intersection, watch-
ing the cars ease by. He moved into the
street suddenly, his hand clutching his
gun. The signal light clicked from green
= _— and the east-west traffic came to a
alt.
. It could have been any car that Wil-
liams set his eyes upon. The next day
terrified Tulsans would ponder the fate
that had made Bad Man Williams select
the 1949 Oldsmobile driven by the hand-
some, good-natured, 24-year-old Tommie
Bob Cooke.
Cooke remained calm when Pete Wil-
liams jerked open the car door and hopped
into the front seat, jabbing the driver with
_the .38. Cooke was unmoved despite the
desperate look in Williams’ eyes. Tommie
Cooke was a young man of tremendous
faith. He served as Assistant Pastor of the
Glenwood Baptist Church, and was on his |
way to help with the Sunday evening
service at that very moment. “Tommie
wasn’t like the rest of us,” his brother
Eddie would say of him later. “He seemed
more alive and happier. He was an inspi-
ration to all of us. He never got mad or
upset. He was always in control of him-
self.” His pastor called Tom Cooke the
“most Christ-like young man I ever
knew.” Tommie was familiar with strang-
ers in his car. He often picked up hitch-
hikers so that he could preach the word
of Christ to them.
“Keep going to Highway 64,” Williams
commanded as the car moved away from
the intersection. “If you try anything, I’ll
kill you.”
Tommie Cooke drove the car steadily
eastward. Neither occupant said a word
at first. Near Bixby, Oklahoma, Williams
noticed that the gas was low, and he
ordered Tommie to pull into the first gas
station.
“One word to the attendant and you’re
through,” Williams muttered. Tommie
Cooke smiled, unafraid. R. J. Necessary,
operator of the station, filled the tank on
Williams’ orders. T
Tommie’s wallet, pic)
bill and handed it to
he got the change, }
pocket along w:
Tommie was
started up, and
Williams’ surly expre
of his church, of his \
which he had servec
cian until being mus!
sergeant in 1955.
He told of his decis
ister after he had tz
classes during the
how he had often wa
because he didn’t fe
enough for the job. ]
in his work as youth
der Avenue Church
director of the Glen
more weeks, he we
ordained preacher.
“That’s enough t:
rupted. But Tommi
ment. He picked up
him on the front sea’
took it away from }
of the window.
“Turn left here,” ‘
car skidded to a stop
a country road. Tt
miles east of Taft,
drove the car six mo
rocky dead-end r
gruffly ordered him
Williams pushed t
back. “Walk, just \
grimly. Tommie wa
from where the car
aside the neck-hig
against his body. T
bank of the Arkans:
liams told the yout
off his belt and the
“I need the car,
going to tie you up
He shrugged his shc
find you some day.
Tommie Cooke |
harsh words. Then
to tie him up, sayi
report the car the
could easily g
The vicious
for leniency. °
about four feet apa
Then Williams
“You don’t want tc
he said. “O.K. We
up.” He lifted the
trigger. The bullet
of Tommie Cooke’:
stantly. Without a
Williams turned a
for the stolen car, |:
exactly as it had
coffin. ...
Herman Cousse:
sound asleep when
on their door just
day, less than five
blooded slaying 0!
Rubbing the sleep
sens staggered to ti
by the business en
the red-eyed face «
Williams had be
, sens’ store in Ta
the past two month
previous week wh
off for Fort Smith,
planation. Now he
deadly work!
“Get your wife «
down to the store,”
Still driving To:
bile, the desperad«
accompany him to
store. After Cous
c
aS I
lining the details of the ride with Williams
and the fugitive’s presence on the south-
bound bus. The lawmen quickly relayed
the information to authorities at the -
county seat in Poteau, 60 miles away.
There were only two men in the Poteau
headquarters when the important call
came from Wilburton. All other officers
were out with the posse. The discussion
between Policeman Buell Richmond and
Jailer William R. Seale on the posse’s
prospects came to an abrupt end with the
telephone ane
“What's the schedule of the Fort Smith
bus?” Richmond asked excitedly.
Seale checked the timetable posted over
his desk. “She’s due to arrive in Poteau
at 12:26,” he said. “That gives ar plenty
of time to pick it up down the line.’
Richmond hurriedly put in a call to
State Highway Patro Carl Stevens,
one of the men who had been with the
mountain-combing posse, in the hope that
he might have returned for the night from
the hunt. Stevens was long in answering
the phone.
“What do you want?” he demanded
irritably. “I just got into bed 20 minutes
ago, and I’ve been out without sleep for
the past 24 hours.”
Richmond relayed the new information
on Williams’ whereabouts, and Stevens
was immediately wide-awake and ready
to r “T’ll be with you in a minute,” he
said. “I’ve got the patrol car here with
me.” The State Highway Patrolman
grabbed Nn a — to take along with
him in addition to his service revolver.
Officers Richmond and Stevens were
soon speeding down the highway toward
Wister, the first town of any importance
between Wilburton and Poteau. They
thought that the bus might stop there and
they could apprehend Williams. The police
car was parked in the shadows when the
silver and blue bus barreled into the
sleepy community, but it rolled down the
main street and out of the town without
a halt.
“Guess there are no passengers for pick
up here tonight,” Stevens said. The law-
men once more began cruising along the
iia a discreet distance
us.
“We'd better not try to stop the bus
now,” Richmond said. “It’s too dark and
Williams might have a chance to get
away. We'll grab him at Poteau.”
Richmond and Stevens sped ahead of
the big bus a few blocks before the Poteau
station, and they were at the door when
the driver opened it to let the local pas-
sengers dismount. Quickly the patrolman
boarded the vehicle. He stepped up to the
rail by the driver’s seat, leveled his shot-
gun and calmly, without raising his voice,
told the passengers that they’d better “get
down and crawl off the bus.” After a few
bewildered men had followed his instruc-
tions, Stevens spotted Williams. He told
hind the >
the thug to stand up and move slowly to
the front of the bus.
Williams’ first statement as he came for-
ward was a flat denial of the crimes. “I
haven’t done anything,” he whined. “Hon-
est Officer, I haven’t done anything.”
Sheriff Craig arrived at the bus station
just at this moment, and he took, over the
careful search of the quivering culprit.
Williams was found to be unarmed—there
was $489 in cash in his wallet. —
herded the prisoner off to the county jail.
The ex-convict went meekly enough.
It was 12:45 on Tuesday morning, June
19, 1956, when Williams was booked; just
two days and 30 minutes after his bloody
crime spree had begun with the stick-up
of Claudie Kirk at his gas station in Tulsa.
Though dog-tired from the day long
search, Sheriff Craig nonetheless began
to question Williams. Time was pr g
if Tommie Cooke was still alive. When-
ever Craig asked questions about Cooke,
however, Williams kept insisting that he
would never hurt anybody. After a while,
the sheriff gave up, and he and Officer
Stevens went out for a much-needed cup
of coffee. Undersheriff Orville McCorsky
took over the questioning.
ea was perched on the corner of
a desk in the small headquarters room as
he began to fire questions at the desperado.
Williams, slumped in a chair no more than
five feet from the officer, seemed com-
ney | at ease and unconcerned. He said
very little at first, rarely raising his voice.
When he did speak, it was to utter two
or three words at a time.
He denied knowing the whereabouts of
Tommie Cooke. Very soon, however, he
began to admit the robberies, giving pre-
cise details on each. McCorsky suspected
that the robbery confessions were co
much too readily, as if the suspect wan
to keep attention focused on them alone.
The undetsheriff turned the line of
questioning. “Let’s take it from the be-
ginning,” he said. “We'll get it all cleared
WP now. You might as well tell us all
about it, because we'll find out anyhow.
Let’s start from the time you got out of
the penitentiary last March.”
Williams 7 ed up the story and casu-
ally told of his crimes ranging from Ark-
ansas to the Pacific Coast and back again.
He detailed eight specific robberies.
“You admit to armed robberies,” Mc-
Corsky prodded. “That’s just as bad as
murder in this state. Why don’t you tell
us about the preacher? Where is his body?
If he’s tied up somewhere, maybe we can
help him.”
At that moment the telephone rang.
McCorsky answered it, talked briefly in
monosyllables, and then hung up.
“That was the minister’s family,” the
lawman said. “They’re very much wor-
ried about him. They’re very anxious to
know where he is. Why don’t you tell us
what you’ve done with him?”
Williams, his voice barely more than a
Ww r, repeated his first statement. “I
wouldn’t hurt anybody,” he said.
McCorsky stood up, defeated for the
moment, and headed for the door. He had
taken only a few steps, however, when ©
Williams’ voice sounded behind him. The
statement was clear and concise, much
louder than usual.
“T might as well tell you now,” he said.
“Ym gonna die anyway.”
Then came an oral confession. Williams
admitted the cold-blooded murder of
Tommie Bob Cooke, repeating several
times that he had had “no reason at all”
for killing the young preacher. He didn’t
know why he had done it, he said.
Williams agreed to take the officers to
the murder sor and as soon as he was
there, he non tly indicated the exact
location of the crumpled co: . Later the
same morning, he repeated confession
to a police stenographer, and he was ar-
raigned and held without bail by LeFlore
County pire James Babb.
The next day State in Tae Patrolman
Carl Stevens, the same officer as had aided
in the capture of Williams, located the
38-caliber pistol in a stream beside the
road between Wilburton and Wister. Wil-
liams had thrown it there during the bus
ride. It was an old, rusty Spanish-made
revolver, p by Williams in a Fort
Smith, Arkansas, pawnshop for $29.50. It
was so old and poorly kept that the offi-
cers were surprised it had been able to
fire. Stevens also recovered Tommie
Cooke’s wallet along the road at Porum,
and Tommie’s draft card at another spot
farther down the highway.
Meanwhile in Tulsa, 200 mourners ap-
peared at the funeral services for Tom-
mie Cooke,'in which the Revetend Dale
Proctor told them about Tommie’s in-
ability to pronounce the letter t. “He’d
always say f instead,” the Reverend Proc-
tor related. “When he came to Heaven,
*m sure Tommie said, ‘I don’t belong here,
Lord, I didn’t do nuffin’.” Then the min-
ister broke down and couldn’t finish his
eulogy of the beloved young preacher.
In the Poteau jail, Cooke’s killer
ae awaited his preliminary poe |
in ore County on the charge of arm
robbery. There were also ee other
charges, all carrying the death penalty,
pending against him in other jurisdic-
tions. e was for the murder of Tom-
mie Bob Cooke in Muskogee County, and
the other two were for kidnaping and
armed robbery in Tulsa County.
Once d his questioning of Wil-
liams, Officer McCorsky had asked him:
“Ig Tommie Cooke dead?”
“He’s dead,” Williams had replied. “Just
as dead as I’m gonna be soon.”
The Oklahoma prosecutors were all in-
tent on making these last words the most
correct that Williams ever spoke in his
entire sinful life.
3 Girls and a Gun
[Continued from page 31]
well with the others who worked there,
but so far as I know there was no serious
trouble. Unless,” the man added as an
afterthought, “it was about money.”
“He had money trouble?”
“From what I hear he owed everybody,
and couldn’t or wouldn’t pay up.”
Turner, it was learned, apparently
lived on the modest earnings of his wife,
who operated a children’s nursery on
54 A
LETT
Hanover Street. But the man had had
expensive tastes which a few dollars
wouldn’t satisfy.
The manager and employes at the My-
O-My Club were unable to advance any
helpful information concerning the iden-
tity of the tall, broad-shouldered man
described by Mrs. Turner.
At a conference at headquarters, Detec-
tives Keefe and Paschal talked things
over with Captain Lackey, Chief of
Columbia: Police L. J. Campbell and As-
sistant Solicitor John W. Foard Jr., and
decided to concentrate on tracing the
murder gun. ;
“What puzzles me is that none of the
nearest neighbors even heard the four
shots,” Paschal remarked. “Of course, a
22 doesn’t make much noise, but it cer-
tainly makes enough to be heard a few
yards away—at 3 o'clock on a still morn-
in: “a
The rounds of the hardware stores,
sporting goods shops and pawn brokers
brought no results d the morning.
Captain Lackey sugg that, since it
was apparent this killing was a well-
planned one, the murderer might have
purchased the pistol several days earlier.
So the weary officers began a second
round of shops, inquiring of purchases
within the past month.
It was slow, discc
finally Detectives Ke:
a faint nibble at a
center of the city.
“Well now, let me
plied. “I do recall a :
It was a woman, and
know the first thing a
she wanted a small .
protection. There’s be
and assaults on wo
know.”
“Go on, what abou
“There were reall:
one hung in the bz
didn’t want to be sec
“What did the wo:
gun look like? Youn;
“Oh, she was you
well dressed. A bit
maybe, but still nice
“Did she give her
The broker grinne
Same name as all the
Brown, take your p
The date, the paw:
Friday, June 1, 1956
Then began anotk
of Turner’s known \
none of whom fittec
nished by the pawn
ingly, just another «
leads that must be
like this, Detective
sourly.
“Well, we’re at a
might as well start
try to stir up somet
The “beginning”
Turner home, and <
out to Hanover Str
viewed all the aspe
that might give the
on. By this time, th
would be calm eno
details on her hus
be helpful.
Although still hi;
eyes swollen from
readily consented t
But it soon beca
knew little of he
outside the home.
not inclined to di:
“Tell us again
forced his way intc
ing. Can you recal
him? His clothes,
Joyce Ann Tu
“I’m sorry, but Iw
ened by the sudd«
sure I had never :
“Would you kn
agan.?”
“I doubt it.”
“How did Lonn
customers—the w
children in your n
About as he di
she said slowly;
and they didn’t b:
Keefe changed 1
seem upset last ni;
anything was wo)
“No, we spent :
night, went to bec
“Have any visit:
“No.”
A voice from th:
Mrs. Turner’s 12
been standing qi
listening to the cc
“Why, Mother,
Clestell was here’
“That’s right,
Turner turned |
speaking of an o:
Gay. She only dr
utes; left befor:
‘AFTER. T
ew.
Sa
HE.
i
/AUTOPSY—
hot. of Ruth H
es,
arris, the
,
-
Was there any link between
the pretty victim’s severed ring
finger and the fact that she was
three to four months pregnant?
By GLENN SHIRLEY
BITING north wind howled through
the streets of Picher, Oklahoma,
on the night of October 23. In
her boarding house at C and Main
Streets, Mrs. Helen Barnes, a stately
middle-aged woman, drew her shawl
more closely about her shoulders as she
bent over her knitting. It was getting
close to bedtime, she mused, glancing
at the wall clock. It was only a few
minutes before nine. .
Outside, the wind whipped up to a
frenzied gale. Mrs. Barnes shivered. It
was a miserable night. She decided to
put on a pot of coffee. Ruth Harris,
her attractive, 19-year-old boarder,
would be home from work any minute
now.
As she stood up, a piercing, agoniz-
ed shriek startled her. The knitting fell
from her suddenly powerless fingers.
The scream, exaggerated by the wind,
was terrifying. She clutched one hand
to her palpitating heart and gasped for
breath,
She stood there almost a full minute,
too frightened to move, as the wailing
continued. A bedroom door in the rear
suddenly banged open, and Walter Wig-
ger, still buttoning his shirt, rushed into
the room.
“My God!” he cried. “What’s hap-
pened?”
Mrs. Barnes attempted to speak, then
shook her head helplessly. The wild
shrieks had subsided to a_ pathetic
whimpering now. The cries seemed to
be coming from just outside the house.
Wigger hurried to the door and open-
ed it. He paused for a moment, horri
be]
9
pr
WO
it is alittle odd that she never dated any-
one at all.”’
‘*Well,’’ she said thoughtfully, ‘‘it isn’t
quite as big a mystery as it appears to be.
_ You see, she told me when she first
moved in that she had dated a fellow a
couple of times, then he was arrested, but
she didn’t know why, and he was in jail.
She said he was very tough and she had
broken off with him. He had warned her
to wait for him, and told her if she didn’t,
she would be sorry. She was deathly af-
raid that he would get out and she didn’t
want him to know where she was. Al-
though she didn’t put it into words, I got
the impression that he had threatened her
by letter while hé was in the county jail
over at Miami.” ;
**When did this happen, and who is this
fellow?’’ he broke in.
The woman shook her head. ‘tHe was
arrested in Miami, but she didn’t tell me
why or when exactly. That’s really all she
ever said about it, but she was a very
nervous and unhappy girl.’’
The officer spent more than an hour
examining the victim’s room. But he
found nothing which he judged could pos-
sibly be of help toward apprehending her
murderer.
Going to headquarters, he found De-
puty Wolsey and Jameson there. Wolsey
told him that two relatives of Miss Harris
were at the morgue and he hurried there
to meet them. He hoped that the slain
girl’s kinsmen would have some idea as to
who had killed her.
He was disappointed when he talked
with the grieving people. Neither of them .
could advance any reason why the young
girl had been murdered so brutally or who
might have committed the crime. They
knew nothing about the man whom the
landlady had said threatened Ruth. Nor
were they aware that the blonde had ever
been involved with anyone who had been
arrested and sent to jail.
At the end of this conversation with the
bereaved people, the investigator was
thoughtful for a moment. Then he asked
them if he could look through the dead
girl’s personal effects which she might
have left behind when she moved to.
Picher. The man and woman quickly ag-
reed to help him. Now he asked if they
could give him a list of the young men and
women who had been friends of Ruth
Harris. They mentioned the names and
addresses of several youngsters.
The man and woman accompanied the
officer to their home where he could in-
spect the bedroom the slain girl had oc-
cupied. He soon discovered that Ruth
Harris had apparently left nothing here
which could possibly be of any help in
locating her slayer. It was early morning
when he finally left the Harris home and
returned to Picher.
It was just 7 o’clock when he returned
to headquarters after only two hours
sleep. He found Deputy Wolsey and Con-
stable Jameson already there. The three
men decided on their plan of action.
Wolsey and Jameson would talk with the
several people whose names Nolan has
listed in his notebook as being friends of
Ruth. Nolan would visit the department
store where the girl had worked. He
would talk with her fellow workers and
the store management. With the possibil-
ity still in-mind that the kid glove they had
found could be connected with the mur-
der, he would also attempt to learn who
had purchased it. The glove seemed to be
new and, although it did not carry the
name of the store that had sold it, it did
bear a name brand. He felt that this name
, might be enough to learn if the glove had
been sold by the store where the girl had
been employed.
However, he did not place too much
faith in the value of this:possible clue. He
realized that there was little chance that
anyone at the store would be able to recall
who had purchased the glove. The fact
that it was seemingly new meant little. It
could have been purchased many months
ago and never worn.
There were four young women who.
had worked with Ruth Harris, and Nolan
talked with them one at a time. All of the
clerks were very nervous and it soon de-
veloped that they could be of no help to
him. They did all say that glove sales .
were somewhat slow at this time of year,
but none of them could recall making
such a sale in recent months. One of the
girls was more disturbed than the others,
and the officer did not press her too much
when she burst into tears.
_All of the co-workers described Ruth
Harris as a very pleasent person, but she ©
did not associate with any of them except
at the store. She was very quiet and did.
not talk about her present or past life.
When she was invited to join any of the
others in a social activity, she always de-
clined.
**She was a rather odd person,”’ one .
clerk declared, *‘and she somehow gave
the impression that she was afraid of men.
Of course we don’t have many male cus-
tomers in our department, but sometimes
a man will wander in. Ruth would wait on
him if she had to do it. But she usually
managed to get one of us to take care of
him.”’ :
» She paused suddenly to stare hard at
the policeman. Then she nodded slowly.
‘‘I just remembered something,’’ she ex-
claimed. ‘‘A young fellow came ina |
couple of days ago and he bought a pair of
unlined kid gloves from Ruth, That glove
you have could be one of them. Ruth
showed that she was pretty upset when he
left the store and I thought she was going
to cry. I asked her what the trouble was, -
and she just shrugged and walked away. I,
noticed, though, that she looked worried
for the rest of the day.’’
Nolan half expected -what she would
say when he asked if she knew the iden-
‘tity of this customer. Yet he was some-
what disappointed when she shook her
head and said she’d never seen the man .
before. However, she was able to give a
rather good description of the potential
suspect. She stated that he was heavily
built, and was about five feet, six inches.
She judged that he was in his late 20s and
had dark brown hair. She would not ven-
ture a guess as to the man’s weight. Nor
had she been close enough to see the
color of his eyes. The customer had been
wearing a dark blue suit and a gray felt -
/ (continued on page 46)
. Killer hid out in this shack until
-his young victim happened by.
by CHET JACKSON
Ruth Harris drew her coat
more closely about her trim
figure and glanced appre-
hensively at the lightning
leaping among the black
clouds over Picher, Oklaho-
ma. It was just past 9 p.m.
and as the 19-year-old
blonde girl hurried along the
street, she flinched as each
lightning bolt flashed and
thunder shook the earth. It
was May 10, 1926, and this
impending storm would be
just one of the many that
always take place in this
Lf part of the country during
t the spring season.
a Just as the girl reached the corner of
te Main and C streets, the rain began pelting
her with huge drops while the thunder
crashed almost constantly with the lightn-
ing. Ruth shuddered at the impact of the
cold rain on her cheeks, and quickened
her pace toward the warm haven of the
ie boarding house where she lived while
few working downtown in a department
ve store. :
But Ruth Harris was oblivious to her
surroundings. She was passing an ancient
one-room shack less than 100 feet from
her destination when a dark muffled fig-
ure stepped from the old building to fol-
low her. Completely unaware of the
stalker, the unsuspecting girl had reached
the front gate of her boarding house when
‘the intruder uttered a vile oath while his
left hand shot out to knock her rainhat to
the ground. The startled girl half turned
as a strong hand grasped her long golden
hair. A piercing scream came from her
lips as she was jerked violently backward
and a knee was thrust roughly against her
back.
Again she screamed and the attacker
cursed savagely. Now his right hand
' flashed upward, holding a long-bladed
knife. Only once did the weapon strike,
for the criminal knew that he need not
repeat the stroke. He released the hair of
his helpless victim and smashed his fist
into her face. As Ruth fell to the rain-
soaked ground, the slasher turned and
vanished into the storm.
Inside the boarding house, the landlady
had heard the scream of the girl above the
patter of the rain and she opened the door
=F
Pe ae)
S
‘Fe rareger =
Fiends Who Went To The Chair
Foul-mouthed killer, seen here in police mug shot, wore kid gloves.
to peer into the black night. A brilliant
flash of lightning illuminated the yard for
an instant, long enough to reveal to the
woman the crumpled figure lying by the
gate. A startled cry came from the matron
as another lightning bolt lit the scene. She
realized that her boarder was out there
and she ran to the fallen girl’s side.
_ Now'the lightning revealed to her hor-
rified gaze that Ruth Harris was lyingina
great pool of blood which was gushing
from her throat. Although she couldn’t
tell if the girl was alive, she stumbled into
the house and to the telephone.
Chief of Police Joseph Nolan was still
ny
ae
M4
oy
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nd
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oe
is
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ead.
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*
oa
on. duty along with Patrolmen Milt. eet
Wolsey and Roy Jameson who had come.’ mA
into the station to escape the storm. In 4
addition to being a city policeman, a”
Wolsey was also a deputy sheriff, while ze
Jameson was a constable. Along with a
Nolan, they comprised the entire Picher . gy
law enforcement department,
At first the chief could not: understand - ti
the almost hysterical woman. When he. -.
could make out what she was saying, he.
told her that he would come to her home
cs
2
at once.’ * int
(continued on next page) : q
Mi
"
23
(The snarling slayer had a cigarette dangling casually |
from his lips as he walked to the chair. Told it
would burn the black hood he was about to wear,
he snapped: ‘Now what do you think this
ie chair’s gonna do to me?’ *)
Replacing the telephone receiver, he
turned to his men. ‘*A girl has been hurt
over onC street,’’ he said. *‘Her landlady
says she is covered with blood and she
thinks the girl is dead. Let’s go.’
The two patrolmen hastened to follow
Nolan to his car. In the small town, they
had no trouble finding the address the
boarding house keeper had mentioned.
Using powerful flashlights, the three
officers were sickened when they viewed
Ruth Harris. The beautiful blonde teen-
ager lay on her back with a huge pool of
blood on the ground on either side of her
head.
By this time, several neighbors had
come to the scene when they heard the
siren and saw the flashing red light on
Nolan's car. The rain had stopped now,
and the spectators stood in a group near
‘ the gate.
Playing his light on the-victim’s face,
the chief knew there could be no doubt
that she was dead. He shuddered as.he
eyed the ghastly wound in her white
throat. Her head had been almost com-
pletely severed from her body. Obvi-
ously, great force had been used by the
killer to inflict such an extensive injury as
this. Tearing his gaze away, the officer
picked up a large black purse which lay
nearby. The purse contained the usual
things carried by women, along with five
$1 bills. Turning to the agitated landlady
now, he requested that she enter the
house with him,
With surprising calm, the woman told
him the name of the girl and that she was
the only lodger in the place. She had been
here for about six months, and had come
to Picher from her home in the village of
‘Century only a short distance away. Her
only visitors.had been two relatives from
her hometown. She had never gone on
dates and was never seen in company
with any man or youth.
**How about mail?’’ the policeman in-
quired. ‘‘Did she receive many letters or
get phone calls from men?”’
**She never got any mail at all and no
. one ever called her,’’ was the reply. ‘‘Ex-
cept for me and the two people who came
24
*
to see her, she apparently had no friends.
She kept strictly to herself.”’
Turning to the phone, the officer called
Orville Green, the county coroner, who
lived a few blocks away.
The landlady said that Miss Harris had
lived in the town of Century a few miles
away and her relatives still lived there.
The policeman glanced at Deputy Wolsey
and requested that he go to Century and
notify the relatives of the dead girl.
Just then, the coroner arrived and
made a very‘brief examination of the
body. ‘‘Without a doubt, this is the most
brutal crime I have ever been called on,”’
Green exclaimed as he viewed the extent
of the wound in the victim’s throat.
‘Whoever did this must have used a very
big, razor-sharp knife. He also is obvi-
ously extremely strong. That cut comes
very close to reaching the backbone. She
couldn’t have lived for more than a few
minutes, and after she was wounded she’
could not scream or utter much sound.
There is no sign of a sex attack or at-
tempt.”’
By this time the crowd of spectators
had grown to about 50, and Nolan turned
to them. He had little hope any of these
neighbors would be of any help, but he
couldn’t afford to pass up any chance to
solve this horrible murder. He felt that
despite what the landlady had said, there
was a possibility that other persons might
have seen a prowler or other suspicious
character in the area before the crime. He
soon learned that no one here had noticed
any man who did not belong in the neigh-
borhood, ndr had they seen any au-
tomobile either parked or cruising near
here at any time. None of the people had
been acquainted with Ruth Harris nor
knew anything of her habits or her as-
sociates. }
Requesting the spectators to return to
. their homes, the chief went back to the
spot where the girl had fallen. Sweeping
his flashlight slowly, he searched the
earth, hoping that he might discover a
footprint other than those made by he and
his colleagues. He found no such pzi *”,
but suddenly his light fell upon a shiny
object a few feet from the actual murder
spot. When he hurried to inspect it, he
saw that it was a huge open jack-knife
with a blade fully five inches long. The
blade and handle were both covered with
blood and he knew this was the murder
weapon. Handling the knife gingerly, he
could see that it appeared to be new and
bore a razor-like edge. Turning his light
back on the ground, he saw nothing else
of interest and was joined at that moment
by Constable Roy Jameson.
Jameson was well acquainted with the
neighborhood and had been talking with
some of his friends, hoping they might
know something about the slain Miss
Harris. However, he had met with the
same failure in this effort as had the chief.
Now the sharp-eyed constable added
his own light to that of Nolan’s and they
scanned the surrounding earth together.
Jameson centered his beam on something
that caught his eye, and he walked a few
steps to look closer. ‘‘Hey, look,’’ he cal-
led out, ‘‘here’s a brand new kid glove.
This ‘slasher must have been wearing it
and dropped it here when he cut the girl’s
throat.”
As the men examined the knife and
glove they agreed that although it was
very probable that the knife had been the
murder weapon, the glove might have no
connection with the crime.
Deputy Wolsey had not returned yet,
and Jameson took the glove and knife to
headquarters where he would alert all
area lawmen to be on the lookout for pos-
sible suspects. Nolan entered the board-
ing house now. He wanted to examine the
bedroom where Miss Harris stayed, on
the chance that he might find some clue to
her murderer. :
The chief had no liking for prying intoa
woman’s things, but he felt that it was
necessary. ‘‘This looks as if it could be
the work of some jealous man,” he told
the landlady, who was watching him.
‘Even though this girl didn’t seem to
have any boyfriends, it just doesn’t seem
natural with a young girl like her. Her
working in public means that she must
have contacted lots of men every day, so
Fatal Friday For The Newlyweds
(continued from page 45)
numerous perverted sexual practices in
which he both watched and participated.
Gilbert was arrested and charged with
two counts of kidnapping and rape.
Though the case was later dropped by the
district attorney’s office because of the
“low credibility’’ of the two women, the
arrest came at a difficult time for Gilbert.
His business was doing badly and the
publicity was not going to help it any. At
the same time, he had proposed to his
_ fiancé Carol Vaughn and they were to
be married in a few weeks, at the time of
his arrest. Carol did not blink an eye when
she learned of the arrest — like the song
she decided to ‘Stand By Her Man” and
quickly posted $3,000 in cash to satisfy
the bond.
A few months later Gilbert’s name was
again before police. This time he was
something of a hero and was credited with
the saving of a state senator's life.
State Senator William Valentine
owned a janitorial business with former
State Representative James McGee. A
disagreement occurred between the two
men and McGee was suddenly bounced
from the business. Then McGee allegedly
sought to have his ex-partner murdered in
order to collect on the $200,000 life insur-
ance policy. Gilbert learned of the
scheme and was asked if he wanted in. He
agreed, then told police about the murder
plot. The former state representative was
indicted for conspiring to kill Valentine
and is scheduled to go on trial sometime
this year. McGee must be considered in-
nocent pending his trial.
State Senator Valentine, shocked upon
hearing of the plot, later credited Gilbert
with saving his life.
Nine months later Gilbert was back in
the police station, and this time the
charge was murder. Questioned at first
about the restaurant shooting, Gilbert,
his eyes cast to the table top, allegedly
admitted: ‘I guess it was me. I don’t re-
member much."
Sergeant Ness and Detective Jasler
steered the questioning to Thursday
evening when Gilbert's truck was seen at
‘the front of the Johnson house. The Viet-
nam vet did not deny that he knew Kenn
and Noel. He said they were friends and
he had visited them that evening. In the
next 45 minutes, Gilbert made admissions
that led the investigators to believe they
had found the killer of Kenn and Noel
Johnson.
While questioning the suspect, a tele-
Phone call from the Valencia County
Sheriff's Office was put through to the
investigators. Two sheriff's men armed
with a warrant entered Gilbert's Los
46
Lunas house and had found Carol Gil-
bert. Her clothed body lay face up in the
kitchen. She had been shot three times at
close range.
Completing the questioning, Gilbert
agreed to take the two police officers to.
his house and show them his .357 Mag-
num, the weapon allegedly used-in the
Johnson murders. Also confiscated was
an extension cord.
‘ After retrieving the weapon Gilbert al-
legedly told investigators: ‘tl guess you
might as well know about Barbara.”’
Asked who Barbara was, Gilbert repu-
tedly replied: ‘‘Barbara McMullen. She
was a model and she’s dead too.”’
Barbara McMullen was a 24-year-old
freelance fashion model who was last
seen by a friend on January 8 at a city
lounge. Gilbert took investigators to an
arroyo south of Albuquerque and pointed
to an area covered by heavy brush. ‘*She
is there. That’s where she’s hid, under
the brush,’* Gilbert said. Removing the
brush, police discovered that he had told
the truth. The badly decomposed body
was later identified as Barbara
McMullen’s.
Late Saturday evening William Gilbert
was returned to the city-county jail to be
booked on four counts of murder. He
spent the weekend in jail then was
whisked away to the small city of Belen,
where he was arraigned. Valencia County
Magistrate Gil Sanchez ordered Gilbert
returned to his jail cell and held without
bond.
Since his arrest New Mexico.lawmen
are looking into two other unsolved mur-
ders. In September 1979 State Highway
Department employes found the body of
a nude woman near Highway 6. The body
was wrapped in a bedsheet and an electri-
cal’ cord was looped around her neck:
Police have traced the woman to Califor-
nia, but no positive identification has
been established.
Less than a month later, on October 6,
the body of a Mexican national was found
shot to death in a clump of tumbleweeds
25 feet from Interstate 25. The body was
found by a passing motorist. State medi-
cal examiners determined the victim had
been dead for at least 24 hours. He had
been shot at least four times at close range
with a shotgun. He had one wound in the
middle of his chest, two in the face and
one on the side of his head.
No personal items were found on the
body and it took sheriff's officers two
months to learn the man’s identity. ‘‘He
had the initials T.V. on his arm and we
found out a guy matching that description
had worked for Valley Gold Dairies at
one time or another,”’ Sheriff's Captain
John Sands explained. ‘tOn a long shot
we sent a copy of his fingerprints to Mex-
ico City. We were surprised when they
sent a copy of his fingerprints back and
they matched. As far as we are'concerned
the identification is positive.”
No one claimed the body so it was
turned over to the University of New -
Mexico Medical School.’ Captain Sands
said it was too early to tell whether the
sheriff's office would bring another mur-
der charge against Gilbert. As of this writ-
ing Gilbert has not been charged with this
killing but Captain Sands stressed that
Gilbert is a suspect and the case is not
closed.
Meanwhile, Gilbert remains locked
behind bars in the city-county jail. He will
go on trial later this year. He must be
considered innocent of all charges until
he has had his day in court. -
(Editor’s note: The name Robert DeFalco is fic-
titious as it would serve no purpose to reveal his
true identity.)
Oklahoma’s Kid Glove Killer
(continued from page 25)
hat. This was all the informant could tell
the investigator, but she promised to
notify authorities if she should see him
again.
It was well past noon when Nolan re-
turned’ to his office, where he found
Wolsey and Jameson. The patrolmen had
spoken with a number of young persons
who had known the dead girl. But they
soon discovered that Ruth Harris had not
been well known in Picher. They had
therefore gone to neighboring Century,
her hometown. Yet, despite the victim:
having been widely acquainted there, the
lawmen found that apparently none of her
peers had the slightest idea who could
have committed the crime and for what
reason.
All three policemen admitted that they
were at a loss as to what to do next. It‘
seemed that the man who had visited the
girl at the store was not only the most
likely looking suspect, but the only one
they had heard about. But who was he?
No one at the department store had ever
seen him before.
“It’s a cinch that in a town this size,
someone besides those store clerks must
have seen this guy,’’ grumbled the chief.
“Those girls who worked with Ruth Har-
(continued on next page)
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and preaching the word when he found a sinner,
BY DAVID FELDON
T THE STROKE of midnight on April 4, 1960,
The State of Oklahoma, in the presence of wit-
nesses as directed by law, took the life of a
30-year-old man. This was a legal execution in the
electric chair of the Oklahoma State Penitentiary
at McAlester. A long time before, the man who that
night paid his debt to society had pleaded guilty to
the wanton murder of a 23-year-old minister, the
Reverend Tommy Robert Cooke of Tulsa, but he
had not been executed for murder; for that crime
he had been sentenced to life imprisonment.
At the time, this criminal had gleefully boasted to fellow
prison mates that he had “beat the death rap.” Wise in
the ways of legal evasion, he gambled that a quick plea
of guilty might save his life. It was a gamble he won, but
only temporarily, for he thoroughly misjudged the minions
of justice.
In Oklahoma, armed robbery is a capital crime; as is
kidnaping. He had been charged with two counts of armed
robbery and one of kidnaping, but he never dreamed the
capital sentence would be imposed for either of these
offenses after his guilty plea and life sentence for murder.
He was wrong, yet he came very close to being right.
To understand how close, it is necessary to go back
nearly four years to another midnight that spawned the
first act in a chain of violent events that led this man
to the death chamber. The scene was Tulsa, Oklahoma,
at a gas station on South Peoria Avenue, a rather sparsely
settled area, dark at midnight save for the lights atop the
pumps and a couple of floodlights on tall steel standards
which illuminated the oil-stained concrete pavement sur-
rounding the filling station.
One attendant was on duty as an old gray jalopy clat-
tered in and pulled up to the pumps. The attendant put
down the car radio with which he had been tinkering and
-walked out to the gray heap, casually noting the young
fellow climbing out from behind the wheel. He was tall,
rangy, swarthy, with heavy black brows, a full head of
The young minister was always picking up hitchhikers
but he finally met a killer who wouldn’t listen
——
Rev. Tommy Cooke“never had a chance.”
glistening black wavy hair combed with studied casualness
over his forehead—a male hair style much in vogue with
the young rock-’n’-roll set, although this fellow seemed
to be at least in his middle 20s. He was wearing Levis
and a tan, zipper-front jacket over a white T-shirt.
“How many?” the attendant asked automatically ‘as he
threw the lever that zeroed the meter on the pumps.
He received no reply. The motorist took three steps that
brought him very close. Hands in the pockets of his jacket,
he said softly, “Forget the gas, chum. What I want is
money.” His right hand came out of the pocket, holding a
revolver. “Let’s go inside. Don’t put your hands up. Just
hold ’em by your sides where I can see ’em.”
As the attendant walked gingerly ahead of him into the
station, the gunman asked, “Where’s the dough, chum?
Where do you keep it?”
Nervously the attendant said, “We don’t keep much
money around here at night—nothing in the till. Just
what I have on me.”
A glance at the open, empty drawer of the cash register
seemed to satisfy the gunman that this was the truth. He
stepped lightly behind the attendant and deftly went
through his pockets. He found $30 in bills and about $3
in change, all of which he took. Then he motioned with
the pistol toward the rest room. :
“Get inside there and lemme hear you lock that door.
If you’re smart, chum, you'll keep it locked for about five
minutes.”
Hastily locking himself in, the attendant listened with
relief to the holdup man’s retreating footsteps, the start of
the jalopy’s noisy motor, and the grinding of gears as it
started off. That was all he waited to hear. In an instant
he was out of the john and racing outside where he could
see the flickering taillights of the jalopy speeding down
South Peoria Avenue. At almost the same moment he
spotted a cruiser of the Nite Patrol Service, which had
just pulled onto the avenue from a side street.
Waving his arm toward the fleeing jalopy he shouted,
“Stickup!” -
The uniformed driver for the private industrial security
“096T-ge=1, UO. (ESTRE) EMOYLTYO peynooayoote fa
2
west
54
BNE eo
Trooper Stevens (1.), Sheriff Craig found captive unarmed
agency paused only long enough to yell, “Call the police,”
then sped in pursuit. He gained on the old car at once,
but as soon as the bandit realized he was being chased he
poured the gas to his beat-up heap and it shot ahead with
a burst of speed which astonished the pursuing private
officer.
For mile after mile, the chase roared on, reaching speeds
of 80 miles an hour. When he saw that his pursuer must
surely catch him on the straightaway, the bandit resorted
to breakneck turns into side streets. With tires screeching,
taking desperate chances, he tried every driving trick he
knew to shake off the car which stuck doggedly to his tail.
He did not succeed; the second car had too much power
and infinitely more stability than the jalopy. Suddenly, as
the two cars neared 37th Street, now only 80 yards apart,
the bandit lost control. His speeding pile of junk veered
drunkenly from side to side, then went into a broadside
skid that sent it crashing into a massive old tree just off
the road.
“That’s the end of him,” his pursuer gasped involun-
tarily as he braked to a stop, but to his amazement, the
driver’s door of the wrecked car popped open and a tall,
jacketed figure, seemingly all arms and legs, burst out and
landed in a heap on the ground. In the next second, as
screaming sirens heralded the approach of half a dozen
police cars, the man had picked himself up and took off,
running like a deer into the woods which bordered the
highway. In another instant he was swallowed up by the
trees. .
Guns and powerful flashlights in hand, the police were
in the woods after him only minutes later. Over patrol
car radios, other officers reported to headquarters and, as
the alarm was broadcast, units of the Oklahoma Highway
Patrol joined the manhunt. Police emergency units sped
to the scene and turned powerful floodlights toward the
woods. The entire area was surrounded and sealed off as
a line, of searchers combed through the woods.
Capture of the bandit seemed imminent, but incredibly,
he eluded this foot-by-foot search, not only then, but when
it was again repeated.
With the arrival of dawn on that Saturday morning,
June 16th, the search was intensified. A helicopter joined
the ground hunt, hovering over the wooded area in con-
stant communication with ground units, but the results
were no better. By some miracle, the fugitive had made
good his escape.
Meanwhile, Tulsa police had not neglected the wrecked
jalopy. Though its driver could not immediately be located,
it was possible the car might provide a clue to his identity.
Detective Sergeants Felix Raiford and: Bob Bivens jotted
down the numbers on its Arkansas license tag and re-
quested headquarters to run them through the hot car
lists. In a very short time they were told that unless the
theft was so recent it had not yet been reported, the car
had not been stolen.
‘Tm not surprised,” Sergeant Biven observed ruefully.
‘If a guy was going to steal a car, he’d have to be a
lunatic to cop a junk like this.”
“Maybe we’ll do better when the Arkansas Motor Vehicle
Bureau checks out the ownership,” his partner replied.
That would have to await daylight. They ordered the
wreck towed to headquarters, where it was turned over to
Sergeant Ray Jones of the technical squad. He immedi-
ately went to work with his men in an effort to lift finger-
prints.
Sergeants Bivens and Raiford went back to the filling
station where the chase had begun and interviewed the
victim of the holdup. From him they obtained a detailed
description of the robber and relayed it at once to radio
control, where it was broadcast to all units. Though at
this time—daylight had not yet broken—the fugitive was
still believed to be bottled up in the woods, as a routine
precaution stakeouts were assigned to railroad stations,
the airport and all bus terminals. The early morning news-
_ casts on radio and television broadcast bulletins of the
manhunt and warned motorists against picking up hitch-
hikers. It also requested that any suspicious persons,seen
on the highways be reported to police at once.
When the first daylight search failed to find any trace
of the wanted man, teams of detectives were immediately
assigned te canvass all hotels and rooming houses in the
metropolitan area.
At 8 a.m. Sergeants Bivens and Raiford arrived at head-
quarters from the search scene and were handed the report
just received from Arkansas authorities.
When he had read it, Bivens chuckled. “They must have
had to wake a few people up, to get all this so fast.”
“Any help?” asked Detective Chief Harry Stege, who
joined them at that moment.
“Not much,” Bivens answered. “The car was bought for
cash last week at a second-hand lot in Fort Smith. Appar-
ently by our boy who pulled the job here last night. The
description fits, right down to the T-shirt and tan jacket,
windbreaker type.”
“How about the name?” asked Stege. “A phony?”
“Probably. Gave the dealer the name of Harold Devons.
Paid cash, 50 bucks, and took off. Fort Smith police say
the address he gave is legit, but nobody there ever heard
of a Harold Devons, nor anyone fitting the description.”
Chief Stege reflected a moment, then said, “If he gave
a legitimate address, he was either lucky, or he knows the
town. My guess is he knows the town. And if he’s from
Arkansas, he’s going to try to get back there. He'll use
that gun to do it, too.”
As police continued the manhunt throughout Saturday,
Tulsa’s quarter of a million people, as well as the many
more thousands in surrounding communities, were warned
by newspapers and broadcasts that an armed and dangerous
fugitive was on the loose. The public’s cooperation was
requested and citizens repeatedly were urged to contact
the police at the slightest sign of anything or anyone sus-
picious. But Saturday passed with nothing more than the
usual number of unfounded reports, some genuine, others
from cranks, which inevitably result from such alarms.
Sunday~morning dawned bright, sunny and warm. In
»
Prisoner told Capt. Stege, Sheriff Kerr, Sgt. Raiford (I. to r.) where body of slain preacher lay
the residential areas of Tulsa, many householders rose early
and puttered about their property. Some slept off the
. effects of Saturday night merry-making. Many, more got
up, donned their best clothes, and attended the church of
their choice.
Parishioners of the Glenwood Baptist Church on South
54th Avenue, heard a fine sermon by their pastor, the
Reverend Dale Proctor. Afterwards, standing on the steps
of the church, he exchanged greetings with many of his
flock, then went inside and talked briefly with his young
assistant pastor, Tommy Robert Cooke, who complimented
him on his moving sermon.
* Whe pastor was extremely fond of his young assistant
wl»o, though only 23, already exhibited all the signs of a
dedicated man of God. “Thank you, Tommy,” he said.
“Tm looking forward to your sermon at this evening’s
seryices. Are you all ready for our trip tomorrow?”
He was referring to their plans to leave the next day for
Oklahoma Baptist University at Shawnee where both would
attend a special brief course. Tommy, he knew, was an-
ticipating it with special enthusiasm, for this would be his
final instruction before his ordination as a minister, two
weeks hence.
Tommy said he was going home to pack right then. After
a little more conversation about the trip, he left and went
out to his car in the church parking lot, a blue Olds, whose
gleaming finish attested to the loving care the young min-
ister gave to it.
One thing the Reverend Dale Proctor had always admired
in Tommy Cooke was his punctuality. As long as he had
known the young man, he had never known him to be late
for any appointment. It happened for the first time that
very evening. Tommy Robert Cooke was late for his own
sermon.
The idea of blaming the assistant pastor never entered
the mind of his superior; Reverend Proctor was sure he
must have been delayed by some unavoidable circumstance.
But when Tommy failed to appear by the time the service
was concluded and Proctor was unable to reach him at
home by telephone, the pastor became genuinely alarmed.
He kept calling Tommy’s house (Continued on page 83)
ba aoe
SS
asked Williams if he had known Cooke
was a minister.
Williams shrugged, glanced upward
as he was lighting a cigarette, and
said, “No.”
“Would it have made any differ-
ence?” the clergyman asked sadly.
Williams seemed to ponder the ques-
tion. He exhaled a cloud of cigarette
smoke, squinted thoughtfully, and
finally said, “I don’t think so.” .
“Do you believe in Christ?” the
pastor asked. “Has an anyone ever talked
to you about Christ?’
“Not since I was a kid,” Pete replied.
“Do you believe that when a man
is dead, he is just dead?” the Reverend
Arnold asked.
“Yeah,” Williams said without emo-
tion. “Just dead.”
A mere three days had elapsed since
Williams had set in motion the chain of
events which would lead to the murder
of a trusting young minister. Wise in
the ways of the underworld, Pete Wil-
liams took a gamble and pleaded guilty
to the murder of the Reverend Tommy
Cooke, figuring that a guilty plea would
win him a sentence to life imprison-
ment instead of the death sentence.
He won that gamble, and gleefully
boasted to cellmates that he had beat
the death rap. But the State of Okla-
homa was not through with Pete Wil-
liams. Authorities now proceeded to try
him on charges of kidnaping and two
counts of armed robbery. Both offenses
are capital crimes in Oklahoma, but
Williams seemed certain that having
beat the death sentence for murder,
he. would not now be sentenced to die
even if convicted for the lesser crimes of
kidnaping and armed robbery. ;
He was wrong. Found guilty on all
counts, he was sentenced to die in the
electric chair in the big state peniten-
tiary at McAlester. The first execution
date set by the court was February 1,
1957, but an eleventh-hour stay,
granted by the Oklahoma Appellate
Court on defense counsel’s c of
technical error in the records, saved
him from the chair. It was the first of
a whole series of delays as one appeal
after another was fought through court
after court. |
But at long last the da of reckoning
could not be pel arene any longer.
Pete Williams’ last appeal had been
made and rejected. On April 4, 1960,
soyieng at midnight—once again a
ateful hour in the ill-starred career
of Edward Leon “Pete” Williams—the
tall, swarthy murderer f
strapped into the electric chair »
state prison. The switch wag was ‘thes :
and Pete’s desperate gamble to Sse: |
greg Ac ena thwarted. © = =
n more than four years of 4
delays and the many legal ron i
had allowed the Killer, the py fx
shown infinitely more mere thang
murderer had shown to his Antes. 4
victim, the trusting young © ‘
about whom Pete Williams “ee
ly admitted, “He didn’t have 8 thames:
In a way, those unf rie
in and of themselves, a starkh
sermon to those overly-solicite
who bleat so loudly about the
and privileges of criminals anf |] |
ers, apparently oblivious to the ae we
and privileges of rages aWeBoey |
citizens. Nee a be, ‘263
The names Mr. pl Mrs Bi
Millie Garsee, Fred Campion & i
the Reverend Leslie Arno pion a “s
in the soreporse: story, are. ge
real names of the persons coneeraes
These persons have been giten @&
are names to proretd *
tities. ~ . + ee
The Big Interstate
Gypsy Swindle
(Continued from page 27)
$17,000 would multiply to $100,000. Mrs.
Caster added that the $100,000 figure
had been discussed several times dur-
ing her visits with Sister Helen in Kan-
sas City.
Then, after telling Mrs. Caster she
would return the following day, Sister
Helen instructed her to take the en-
velope to the safe deposit box and
cautioned her not to open it because
it would break the spell and the money
would stop growing. The Gypsy also
told the woman not to wear anything
anyone who had died had given her.
Sister Helen noticed an expensive dia-
mond ring Mrs. Caster was wearing
and inquired about it. Mrs. Caster told
her it was a gift from a deceased friend.
Sister Helen told her to take off the
ring and wrap it in a napkin and put
it in her purse. Under no circumstances
was she to continue wearing it.
“Did the Gypsy return the following
day?” McCann asked.
‘Yes, she did. And when she left she
at my diamond ring,” Mrs. Caster
said.
In describing the loss of the ring the
woman said when Sister Helen came to
the apartment the following afternoon
she told Mrs. Caster the spirit had told
her to take the ring and bury it—and
that later, it would appear in her safe
deposit box along with the $100,000.
. While Mrs. Caster was taking the
ring from her purse Sister Helen ob-
served: “You know what, half of that
money is alread ly in your safe deposit
box right now.” And a few minutes
later, after assuring Mrs. Caster she
would be hearing from her again soon,
Sister Helen departed—with the ring.
“Mrs. Caster, ’m afraid you’ve been
a victim of what we call the ‘Gypsy
swindle’.”” McCann said soberly. He told
Mrs. Caster and the Gypsy undoubtedly
had taken the money from the envelope
while Mrs. Caster was in the bathroom
getting the towel.
“That’s probably why she wanted the
money in $1,000 bills. It was much
easier to conceal on her person. She
went through the act of flushing it
down the toilet to distract you,” McIn-
tosh explained.
“When did you decide to come to the
police?” McCann asked.
“A couple of days age I woke up in
the middle of the night and all at once
I thought ‘My God, what have I done?
Where is my money and my ring?’
Then I realized what had ha appened. Is
there anything I can do?” the woman
inquired.
The officers explained it was cus-
tomary in a “gypsy swindle” confidence
game for the Gypsy to call the victim
several times in what officers describe
as cooling. off” calls.
“This is done to assure the victim
everything is all right and also to learn
if the victim has become suspicious,”
the officers explained.
“About the best we can hope for,
assuming this woman has left the area,
is that she will contact you again.
These people are pretty hard to find
once they get away. We'll check with
Kansas City and see what the police
there have on this woman and keep you
informed,” McCann said.
In view of the possibility that Sister
Helen would be calling Mrs. Caster
within the next few days to reassure
her, the officers requested her permis-
sion to put an electronic recording de- -
vice on her telephone so that the con-
versation could be taped. Mrs. Caster
readily agreed.
After Mrs. Caster left, Sergeant
McCann began preparing a report from
the notes he and his partner, Sergeant
McIntosh, had taken during the inter-
view. As veteran police officers who
had encountered many confidence
games they were well aware the prob-
ability that Mrs. Caster would ever
again see any of her money was negli-
gible. Their best hope, of course, was
that Sister Helen would call Mrs.
Soe and the call could ‘bet TeCE Ty!
Accordingly, the following. sero
the officers, accompanied by
Paul Franey, a specialist in ee
affairs with the Los Angeles oa Police
partment, went to Mrs. Caster’s
ment and attached the recording
vice. She was shown how to tum %
the recorder when the telephoue |
The next night Mrs. Cas :
a telephone call from Sister Helen ©
eoened the conversation with “
you, dear?”
When Mrs. Caster replied she we
right and asked how Sister Helen. ¥¥
feeling, the Gypsy replied: 9)
“Well, I’m just so tired. You
what happened?” eae
The recorder attached to Mrs. { .
ter’s telephone recorded the foll@e™
conversation: ee
Sister H— I had a phone ‘call
day and I had to come home, — si
Mrs. C.— Oh, you’re home. ©
Sister H.— Because there ;
thing that I didn’t finish before EF cone
The conversation continued If ©
eralities with Sister Helen asking nila
Caster, “Are you worried a ge
thing?” When Mrs. Caster re
wasn’t, Sister Helen sai “I :
luck for you,” then add 2 tne
member what I told you. You.
your faith.” :
Sister Helen asked her" “if he
burned the candle she aye her 3
she had prayed. Mrs. told >
she had and Sister Helen. beng eh
would send her some holy rae
Phe NR LOE LGD SEL NRE . A EO NA A
ie, : ¢ ie ot Se 3 re Me
cea Bere ean Qn aig gion See RPh RETRO Ba aeasie
on her face to make her a
er. Mrs. Caster thanked was rete
asked the Gypsy when she was
ing to California. Sister Hel en J
and said, “That costs mon cheat
Mrs. Caster pressed the
Helen said “I’ve got to go.
She promised to. call again the pacer
ing Monday at eight p.m.9 =" - —
As the officers went over the
next day, it was obvious to thea ‘
a “cooling off” call. Sister Helet.
back in Kansas City and
her victim from becoming ©
But what intrigued them was Me ese
of coins being dropped before pats i |
ee (eitasemanaiince
for the Preacher
, (Continued from page 55)
and at last, about 8:30, the phone was an-
swered by Tommy’s sister, with whom he
lived. She had just returned from a visit
with friends in Atoka. Tommy was not
. there, she said, but she was sure he had
been home earlier, because the shower cur-
tain was wet and she could tell he had
packed a suitcase. His car was not in the
garage.
Detecting the concern which now became
apparent in the woman’s voice, Dale Proc-
tor tried to minimize his own fears in an
effort to reassure her. He suggested that
they both try calling friends and acquaint-
ances of Tommy; possibly he had contacted
one of them if some crisis had arisen.
For the next few hours, they stayed on
the telephone, calling Tommy’s ¢losest
friends, first, then extending their inquiries
even to people they knew only as casual
acquaintances. When his friends heard that
the young clergyman had disappeared, they
in turn joined in the telephone search, but
the hours of the night ebbed away without
anyone finding a trace of Tommy Cooke.
While his worried friends vainly sought
sis
‘il
ee eis peeeren ee
Peer eee ee
chapter in the tragic drama began to un-
fold more than 100 miles to the south, in
LeFlore County. Again the hour was close
j to midnight, 15 minutes before 12 o’clock,
; to be exact. In Talihina, a small town of
i about 1,000 population situated in the foot-
hills of Winding Stair Mountain, Mr. and
Mrs. Herman Coussens were awakened by
the sound of a loud pounding at their door.
Drowsily, Herman Coussens went to the
door and opened it. He recognized the
young fellow who. stood there and asked
him what he wanted at this hour.
j “TI need dough, and I need it now,” the
caller said tersely.
Somewhat surprised at the tone of the
other’s voice, Coussens said amiably, “Why,
I guess I can let you have a few dollars,
Pete. I don’t keep much in the house,
though.”
; , Pete’s reply was even more surprising.
“Then let’s go where you keep it!’ he
snapped. From under the sport shirt that
hung loose over a pair of slacks, he pro-
duced a pistol and poked the muzzle into
Coussen’s middle. He ordered both Cous-
s sens and his wife to dress, after which he
forced them at gun point to go to the gen-
eral store Coussens owned and operated.
There, still under the menacing pistol, the
‘ owner produced about $1,000 which he
handed over to the holdup man, who
stuffed it into his pockets.
A note of hurt, rather than resentment
in his tone, Coussens said sadly, “You
know you'll get caught, Pete.”
Pete shrugged. ‘‘Maybe, maybe not.” For
a moment he averted his gaze uncomfort-
ably, then blurted, “You know, Mr. Cous-
sens, I’m sorry I had to do this to you and
the missus. You two been pretty nice to
me.”
Less than two minutes after he took his
departure, Coussens was on the phone re-
porting the holdup to the police. To Ed Lig-
gett, Talihina’s chief of police who drove
up a few minutes later, he said, “It was
Pete Williams. You know him—the young
fellow who was working here till last
Thursday.”
Liggett immediately called the sheriff’s
office and reported the stickup, giving the
‘ name and description of the bandit. From
there the alarm was broadcast at once to
all cars on patrol
to locate him in the Tulsa area, another,
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Talihina, Chief
Pete Williams,
‘Like everyone else in
Liggett knew all about
whom Herman Coussens had hired six
weeks before despite dire predictions and
much head-shaking. Everyone had given
Coussens a good deal of credit for giving a
chance to Williams, who was known to be
an ex-convict with a long criminal record.
But most folks also agreed it was foolhardy
and Coussens would live to regret it.
More than the loss of $1,000, Coussens
was now deeply hurt that Williams had
proved his faith was unjustified. The com-
motion at the general store had roused
nearby neighbors and a small crowd
quickly gathered at the scene. None could
contribute anything helpful in response to
the chief’s questions. He was primarily
concerned with determining whether Wil-
liams had escaped by car, and if so, its
make and description, but no one had seen
him leave. ie
Attracted by the crowd, a car which had
just pulled into town drove over to the
general store. When its driver heard what
had happened, he went over to the chief
and told him he had just seen Williams
while he was driving home from Whites-
boro. :
“He was heading east on Route 69,” he
a countywide dragnet, the fugitive and his
said, “driving a blue Oldsmobile sedan and
going like a bat out of hell.”
Again the chief called the sheriff’s office
and the new information was radioed to all
units on patrol. But despite roadblocks and
car were not sighted.
When a couple of hours had passed with-
out a report, Liggett offered to Sheriff Jack
Craig the only explanation which seemed
logical: ‘“‘“He must have ditched the car and
headed into the woods. There are all kinds
of places along there where a guy could
hole up and stay out of sight.”
Sheriff Craig had been thinking the same
thing, and at daylight he had posses ready
to begin a search of the woods and hill
country. At nine o’clock on Monday morn-
ing they found the Olds where the bandit
had abandoned it in some woods near
Muse, a small hamlet lesgjiiemaiQ.e miles.
southeast of Talihinggaithé Es rales
verged on this. Re
bloodhounds, beg;
the forests angst
As this g¢)
the shexjge
They quig
registerea™
Cooke, who
eT ee
yt
s ado LY y $ Kel Wo a Hy el 9
F. Wane
fi Ta
Rev. Cooke, right, had the Bible;
Herman and Marie Coussens,
above, faced the man with the-gun
Tommy Cooke, assistant pastor of
the Glenwood Baptist Church at
Tulsa, Oklahoma. Tommy loved his
Lord, loved working for and talking
about Him. Sunday, June 17, 1956, was
special in that he. was going that eve-
ning with his friend and superior, the
Reverend Dale Proctor, to the Baptist
University at Shawnee for a two-week
refresher course during which «he,
Tommy, would be ordained into the
ministry.
Knowing what this meant to him, \
Reverend Proctor was surprised when
he failed to appear to lead the young
people’s service that evening. It was.
his particular job, one he thoroughly
enjoyed. :
Surprise turned to uneasiness as the
worship hour approached with no word
or sign of his young assistant. Reverend
Proctor dialed the home of the sister
with whom Tommy lived. No one
answered. Worried, the minister con-
Seem was important to young
‘ducted the night service himself, then
tried again to telephone. Still no
answer.
“I don’t understand it,” he said to a
group of young adults who lingered af-
ter the service. “We were to leave for
Shawnee tonight. Tommy would have
called me if he knew he was going to
be delayed. Unless, for some reason, he
changed his mind about everything—
and even so, he would have let me
know.” .
“He didn’t change his mind,” one of
the young men cut in positively. “I
spoke to him as he left the church this
morning. He was all pepped up about
going. Did you try his brother’s place?
He stays there part of the time.”
The Eddie Cooke home didn’t answer -
either. Reverend Proctor gave up his
trip to Shawnee and stayed by the tele-
phone. : a ;
Around midnight he got an answer
from the sister.
“No, Tommy isn’t here,” she said in
surprise. “I thought he’d gone with you.
14
We've been away all day. Wait while I
look around. He may have left a note.”
She was back in a moment. “He’s
been here, his suitcase is packed and
ready to.go.”
“Can you think of anyplace he might
have gone and been delayed for any
reason?” the pastor asked anxiously.
“No, I can’t. You're worried, aren't
you, Reverend? It is strange. Not like
Tommy. I'll ask the rest of the family
and.call you right back.”
OK SP (Tul
sa County) on 7/28/1960,
Behind Tulsa's
The Kidnaping
Her questions didn't bring any news.
In the quiet of his study,: Reverend.
Proctor waited, aware of an urgency
that wouldn't let him rest. At one
o’clock he called the hospitals to ask
about a possible accident. At two he
reached out to dial the police, then
hesitated. Any moment now his young
friend might call in with a good reason
for his absence. :
But with dawn, he could wait no
longer and at five o’clock on the morn-
Throughout Eastern Oklahoma, Police Were on the
Lookout for Two Men Who Were About the Same
Age, One With a Bible in His Hands, the Other With
A Gun. And When They. Found the Gunman First—
ing of June 18 a description of Tommy
Cooke, 24, and of his 1949 Oldsmobile
convertible flashed across police tele-
types.
Meanwhile Tulsa’s local authorities
questioned the Proctors and Tommy
Cooke’s family. ;
“Tell us all you can about this young
man and why you think something has
happened to him. He could be just out
on the town, you know.”
“NOT Tommy,” Reverend Proctor
said decisively. “He’s a fine young
man, a fine Christian. He wouldn’t be.”
“He is a handsome boy,” the minis-
ter’s wife said softly, close to tears in
her anxiety. “His hair is dark and sort
of wavy and he has the sweetest smile.
He’s liked by old and young because
he’s so friendly, so eager. Tommy just
loves everybody.” ;
“Do you have any theory about what
could have happened to him?” the
questioning officer persisted. ;
“No, unless he picked up a hitch-.
hiker. That's all I can think of. I know *
he would have called us if he could, to
tell me about any change in plans. And
if he had to leave town I’m sure he
meant to be back in time for the eve-
* ning service.”
Interviewing the family, the police
asked about Tommy Cooke’s friends,
women friends in particular.
“He didn’t have any,” a brother de-
clared promptly. “Tommy wants to
‘preach. He’s always wanted to. Oh, he
dated some but he swears he isn’t going
to marry until he’s established and so
ne —* let himself get interested in
girls.” .
The sister of the missing man also
was thinking about hitch-hikers.
“Tommy is forever picking them up,”
she declared. “He’s been warned over
and over but he laughs and says it gives
him a chance to tell them about the
Lord. That’s the way he is, always talk-
ing about the Lord.”
“And anyhow, he’s pretty husky,”
Eddie Cooke put in. ‘“‘He should be able
to take care of himself.”
The police left with the feeling that
the relatives were talking to bolster
their own courage.
Tommy didn’t show up for work
Monday at the Venetian-blind factory
where he was a part-time sales repre-
sentative. The routine search went on.’
Down in Talihina, a small town al-
most 200 miles south of Tulsa in the
fringe of the Kiamichi Mountains, June
identified Chem as Che men they knew as
Smith and Brown.
A telephone call brought the informa
tion that both men had been released
on parole in the early part of 1955. A
condition of the parole was that they
were not to assoviate wtih each other
because of their past criminal experi-
enees
“And that solves our problem,” Gregg
said. “We don't need a robbery charge.
We can have them picked up as parole
violators and then work on them for
the robberies.” :
Greve called the Coast Guard. He
supplied the information about the sail-
boat Vagabond and the three persons
aboard: it, and requested that they be
taken into custody.
He made a _ long-distance call to
Sheriff Miles Brown at Port Angeles in
Jefferson County. ‘They may put in
there before heading out to the ocean,”
Gregg said. “Keep your eyes open for
them.”
The Kidnaping of Reverend Cooke (Continued trom Page 16)
go!” Dill complained, “If I'd just
known! He left a car runnin’ yonder in
the alley, Herman. Edwards, who owns
the tavern there, heard it and finally
called me. I had the keys out and I was
standin’ there beside it when Pete came
back. He wasn’t excited or nothin’. He
said he'd left the motor runnin’ because
the battery was low. And he even asked
me to stand by until he started it again
to make sure he wouldn't need a push!
Where's your phone, Herman? We've
got to get on this fast!”
OUSSENS looked at the clock. Mid-
night. The ten minutes were more
than up. “You call the sheriff while I
fill up my car,” he said. “Maybe we can
run him down.”
He picked up the keys his wife laid
out and ran outside. Marsha] Dill called
Sheriff Jack Craig at Poteau, 40 miles
to the northeast, and was through with
his report by the time the car was ready.
He and Edwards, the tavernkeeper who
had called him, jumped in. Coussens
stopped long enough to get his carbine
and they were off, making a sharp turn
at the town’s main street and then
pausing at an oil station at the far end
to inquire if Pete Williams and been
seen.
“He was by here just a minute ago,”
said the attendant. “He gassed up here
and headed out south. Anything wrong,
Marshal?”
“Sure is! Any idea where he was go-
ing?”
“He said he was going to Clayton.
What’s he done, Marshal?”
They had no time to explain.
The highway forks a little way out of
Talihina, a black-top going southwest
to Clayton and a graveled road east-
ward across the mountains toward the
Arkansas line.
“He said Clayton; that means he’s
going the other way,’ Coussens mut-
tered and swung into the graveled road.
Almost at once it began to climb,
with timber on either side obscuring the
view. They hadn’t gone far when they
saw a@ car swing toward them around a
curve. Coussens drew up crosswise of
the road to halt it and asked the driver
if he had passed anyone in the last few
minutes.
“Sure did, goin’ like a streak,” was
the quick reply. “He durned near run
me down on a sharp curve back yonder.”
Coussens headed his Olds around and
was off again. a
Mounting the next rise, they could
see far ahead a thick cloud of dust ris-
ing in the wake of a speeding vehicle.
He bore down on the gas pedal, narrow-
ing the distance between cars bit by bit
until the one ahead became. visible
through the dust.
Then they saw it swerve sharply to
the left and grind to a halt. A figure
60
In addition to the Coast Guard, Gree
solicited the help of the Civilian Air
Patrol tin looking for the snilbont that
was heading up Puget Sound on the frst
leg of its long journey to Mexico.
“Do not attempt to board or stop
them,” all units except the Coast Guard
were warned. “These men are armed
and danrerous. Report their position
and keep them under surveillance if
possible.”
When the sailboat had not been
sighted by nightfall, Coast Guard men
reasoned that it had made the Straits
of Juan De Fuca and was headed into
the ocean. The Royal Canadian Air
Force authorities were asked to help in
the search. They alerted their Rescue
Coordination Center which in turn ad-
vised all commercial boats in the area.
Early the following morning, the
Vancouver, British Columbia, tub, the
Sea Lion, skippered by Captain C. G.
Tait, sighted the Vagabond.
He radioed in his report and a Coast
leaped out and for one fleeting second
Ora Dill had it in the sights of the car-
bine. Then he, too, lowered the gun
rather than shoot a man in the back.
The fugitive hit the ditch running
and vanished into the timber.
They were in the heart of the Kia-
michis and a search at night was out
of the question. “You fellows go back
to town,” Dill decided. ‘Call the Sheriff
and tell him where the car is. Take the
license number so he can find out whose
it is. I'l] wait here. Tell him I won't
touch anything until he gets here.”
Coussens did as directed. Geared to
quick action, Sheriff Craig radioed the
Highway Patrol] Headquarters in ‘that
area, alerting them and inquiring about
the car. If stolen, they had no report
on it yet. He then called the sheriff of
each nearby county, including Sheriff
Hobart Hensley at Mena, Arkansas,
across the state line.
“The car is about eighteen miles east
of Talihina,” he told Hensley. “That
will put it close to the state line. We'll
have to flush the fellow out of the woods
and it’s going to be a real job.”
“You want my dog, Jack?” Hensley
inquired. ‘‘He’s right good at tracking.”
“Bring him along. We'll need all the
help we can get. The patrol boys are
coming in. I’ll meet you out there as
quick as I can make it.”
Craig and Undersheriff Orville Mc-
Croskey left Poteau around 1:30 in the
morning, heading into the mountains
to what was, in effect, the apex of a
vast triangle. This is rough territory,
densely timbered with undergrowth so
thick that a man can lose himself
within a few yards of the road. An oc-
casional farm home with its few cleared
acres forms a smal] oasis but in the
main it is thick forest and Craig knew
that a gigantic posse would be required
to cover it if the man they sought chose
to remain inside.
RAIG and McCroskey were the first
to reach the car, with Sheriff Hens-
ley a close second. Marshal Dill, carbine
in hand, came out of the shadows as
they approached. The car was a 1949
Oldsmobile, a convertible with a Tulsa
County license. Turning a spotlight into
it, they found a briefcase on the seat
and the floor scattered with papers,
blank sales slips and business cards.
McCroskey picked out one of the
cards. “‘Tulsa Venetian Blind Company,
1640 East Third Street,” it said, and
in one corner the name of the firm's
representative, Tommy Cooke.
As yet they knew nothing of the
young pastor's disappearance.
“You're sure it wasn't Cooke driving
this car, Dill?” McCroskey inquired. _
“No, it wasn’t Cooke,” Dill said sharp-
ly. “It was a fellow named Williams,
‘Pete’,, he’s called, but I think maybe
Guard cubler steamed out of) Port
Townsend at full speed.
“Don't approach them’ Coptiain
‘Tait was advised. ‘"Phey are armed
and dangerous.”
As the Coast Guard ship came up,
Captain ‘Tail, who had his glasses
trained on the small sailboat, reported:
“They're throwing puns overboard,
I've seen them toss over a half-dozen
rifles and a number of pistols.”
The Coast Guard ship returned the
Vagabond and the trio aboard to Port
Townsend where they were taken into
custody by Sheriff Brown and his chief
deputy, Robert Zweifel.
The two men admitted their true
names were George William Montgom-
ery and Norman Xavier Knelleken. The
redheaded woman gave her name as
Alieta Montgomery.
The three were returned to Tacoma,
where the redhead gave the Tacoma
police a sample of her proficiency in
fighting when newspapermen at-
that’s a nickname. He's been around
Talihina for a couple of months, workin’
for the loca) store mostly. He seemed a
right sort of guy until tonight.”
“Is that all you know about him?”
“Just about. He's young, dark-
skinned, with a lot of bushy black hair
and some tattoo marks on his arms. He
and his wife came to Talihina around
the first of May. So far as I know,
Pete’s never given any trouble. Herman
Coussens would te the one to talk to.
He knows Pete better than anybody.”
By this time other cars loaded with
officers were arriving. Leaving the
search in their hands, Craig drove on
to Talihina to talk with Coussens and
to call Tulsa for some information on
Tommy Cooke.
“Pete came to me looking for a job
about six weeks ago,” the merchant ex-
plained. “He told me he used to live
around here and wanted to make this
his home. He rented a little house and
bought some furniture off me on con-
tract. He worked all right but he seemed
bothered about something.”
s HAT was his attitude. Mr. Cous-
sens? His disposition? Did he
pay his bills?”
“Yes. along the last of May he paid
on the furniture. He said he'd borrowed
on his insurance to do it. His disposition
was all right. Friendly enough. But he
seemed troubled, like something was
eating on him.”
“And you thought it was family trou-
ble?”
“I did, yes. He quit once for a few
days, then came back and asked to be
taken on again.”
“And you had no idea he was plan-
ning to rob you?”
“None that I recognized at the time.
He did go to my wife one night and ask
her to open the store so he could get
some cigarets. I was out at the rodeo.
She told him to find me and get the
keys but he didn’t come near. It could
be he was feeling her out to see if she
carried a set because there were a
dozen places where he could get cig-
arets,
“That's about all I know, Sheriff, ex-
cept that the car out yonder isn’t his.
He drives a Pontiac. He quit again last
Thursday and I didn’t see him again’
until he walked in on us tonight.”
Craig returned to the hills. With the
coming of day, scores of officers had
fanned out through the forest, Hen-
sley’s dog took the trail from the car,
followed it some distance through the
woods and lost it when it came out into
a patch of grassland. Apparently the
early morning dew in the open spaces
had obliterated it.
By seven o’clock Craig’s car radio was
crackling as his office at Poteau relayed
a report from the Tulsa police. Tommy
tempted = lo photograph her ihe
bruised the shins of two officers in a
wild) struggle
On the day he retired after 28 years
of service, June 6, 1956, Chief of Detec-
tives Perey Grege proudly claimed that
he had obtained confessions from Mont-
romery and Knelleken, which cleared
up nearly a score of burglaries and rob.
beries in ‘Tacoma and Seattle.
He left the Department with his desk
clear for the new chief of detectives,
Captain Emile Smith.
George Montgomery and Norman
Xavier Knelleken are being held in
custody on charges of parole violation
and armed robbery. Mrs. Alieta Mont-
gomery was cleared of all suspicion and
released.
Watch the department “Up to the
Minute” in future issues for final word
on disposition of the charges against
Knelleken and Montgomery.
The name Dolly is fictitious.
Read I¢ First In
OFFICIAL DETECTIVE STORIES
Cooke, ministerial student and part-
time employe of the Tulsa Venetian
Blind Company, had been missing since
noon the day before.
The men with Craig gathered in a
huddle, weary and heartsick. Where
was Tommy Cooke? Had he loaned his
car to Williams thinking him a friend,
maybe, or was he lying dead by the side
of the road somewhere?
Morning papers carried a story on
the popular young pastor and brought
dozens of volunteers to aid in the
search for the man who had been driv-
ing his car. Cautiously, they spread out
in small groups, armed and watchful,
warning everyone they saw to be on the
watch for the fugitive and, in the in-
terest of their own safety, to comply
with any order he might give and not
cross him in any way.
So the morning passed and at 11:30
a group of searchers deep in the hills
approached the home of a Mr. Mise.
Here they found the first trace of the
hunted man.
“There was a fellow along here about
seven this morning,” Mise said. “He told
me he was hungry and wanted to know
if he could have some breakfast. After
he ate he sat on the porch awhile, rest-
ing. I figured he was in trouble, because
we don’t have hobos in here any more.
In fact, I thought I knew him but if his
name is Williams he’s not the boy I
took him for. He went down through
the cornfield, making for the river,
probably. No, he didn’t give us any
trouble—but my boy was sitting inside
with a gun on him, just in case.”
Once more they used the dog but by
this time the heat was a hindering fac-
tor. They could follow Williams through
the cornfield but the dog could not pick
up his scent and presently the trail
itself was lost where the fugitive had
plunged into the forest again.
In Tulsa the police were seeking out
members of the Glenwood Baptist con-
gregation in the hope of finding some-
one who had seen the missing youth at
a later hour. They also scanned records
for information on Pete Williams and
found, back in 1945, a report on a four-
teen-year-old Edward.Leon Williams,
sometimes called Pete, who had been
sent to a state school for boys for bur-
glary. : .
b.
*¢1 UN A check on this Edward Leon,”
the chief suggested. “Could be he’s
the same guy. If so, between that crime
and this there’s sure to be a record. Lo-
cate him and his family, and _ his
friends, if any. See what you can dig up
on him.” ’
The family of that young offender
was hard to find. At an old address, the
investigating officer ran across a man
who had known them once. ;
“That boy—seems like he’s been in
4
nnaneee sul
aoe a
Se a os
ah ee) |
needed it and listened to his talk about
the young wife with whom he wasn't
getting along so well. She couldn't be-
lieve he really would rob them. Yet,
when she was told to get her husband's
clothes from the bedroom she did man-
age to throw ‘his billfold containing
nearly $200 into a dark corner.
A STREET light is directly in front of
the store. A man passing on the op-
posite side of the street saw Coussens,
his wife and employe enter the store
and thought nothing of it. é
The office is in the middle of a vast,
sprawling building with stacks of mer-
chandise to hide it from view of the
street. There they could not be seen
from the street. Williams knew it and
moved with deliberation and what they:
were to believe later was the sureness of
long practice. At the time they found
it hard to believe that he wasn’t joking
until he said, voice sharp, eyes blazing,
“Get the cash! Get it quick, without
any fooling around! I could cut you two
down and be far off before anybody
could get to you!” .
Herman Coussens opened the safe.
It held around $800. Williams wasn’t
satisfied and rifled the various com-
partments with one hand, coming up
with an envelope that contained a roll
of currency. That, Coussens told him,
was the weekly pay of an employe who
preferred cash to a check and hadn't
called for it yet. Pete Williams hesi-
tated, then stuffed it back in the safe.
The moment of softness—if that’s
what it was—passed. Harshly, he or-
dered the owner and his wife back to
the stockroom. Terror caught the heart
of Marie Coussens. She knew—they all
knew—that the stockroom was piled
high with merchandise and this would
muffie any shots. He meant to kill them
there, she thought, and she refused to
move. ,
“I won't go, Pete. My boy is over
home, asleep. I’m not going to be locked
up and leave him there alone.”
Again Williams seemed to waver. “I'll
sure mess Herman up if you don’t go,”
he said, but his voice lacked conviction.
“Do you want to die?” ‘
Herman Coussens grinned in spite of
the tension. “No, but I figure you don’t
want to kill anybody, Pete. You've got
the money. Why don’t you just go on?”
And then, getting no answer, he added,
16
“We'll give you time to get away. You
‘can go with us and tear out the phone.
We'll give you ten minutes before we
try to call anyone.”
In the dim light of the office the lean,
brown face of Pete Williams looked
haggard and younger than his 27 years.
“How do I know you'll do that?” he
demanded. ;
“You've got my word, Pete. It’s all I
have, and it’s always been good.”
In silence, the little procession re-
turned to the home. At the door fear
gripped Mrs. Coussens again. She
couldn’t bear having this man in the
house again. Turning quickly, she put
her hand against his chest.
“Don’t come in, Pete!” she pleaded.
“Go now! We'll wait, I promise you.
I’ve been good to you, Pete. You know I °
have. We'll give you time to get away.
Please, Pete!”
He stepped back a pace. “Shut up,
Marie,” he said, and he shoved her in-
side. Motioning Coussens to follow, he
entered, closing the door and bracing
himself against it.
Watching him closely, Coussens
again thought he saw indecision.
“Sit down, fellow, while we talk this
over and be sure you want to go through
with it,” the grocer said. “I can take the
loss all right—I've taken losses before.
But this sort of thing never Pays.
Sooner or later you'll be caught.”
“I've worked hard all my life and it’s
never got me anything,” Williams cut
in sullenly.
Coussens tried again. “I have, too,
and I’ve had things go wrong. But I
keep on working. You get a satisfaction
in doing things the honorable way...”
It went on for perhaps 20 minutes,
the weirdest 20 minutes Herman Cous-
sens ever had spent. Williams listened,
in silence mostly. At last his head went
down on folded arms and the fingers
on the gun loosened slightly. For a
moment, Coussens thought he had won.
Then the gun hand tightened and Wil-
rane stood up, his thin face set in hard
es. .
“I’ve made up my mind,” he said.
“Give me ten minutes and the keys to
your car. You'd run me down with that
Olds. I'll leave the keys where you can
find them.”
Mrs. Coussens held her breath.
Would he demand the set of keys she
carried? Apparently he didn’t think of
:
Undersheriff Orville McCroskey:
A father's final plea helped him
Ihree who had to wait for the
bus: Officer Richmond, State
Trooper Stevens, Sheriff Craig
them. “Ten minutes,” he said. “Then
nobody will wet hurt.”
Herman Coussens watched him cross
under the street light and reached for
the loaded carbine that stood behind a
door. Then he put it down, He had
promised ten minutes and he was a man
of his word. And anyway, he couldn't
shoot a man in the back, even one who
had just robbed him.
So he watched the clock. It was a
quarter to twelve. The minutes crawled.
Four... five...six...
And then a sharp knock sounded at
the door. He opened it to find a tall,
square-shouldered man with silvery
hair and a silver shield on his shirt.
“Evenin’, Herman,” Night Marshal
Ora Dill said slowly. “Somethin’ kind
of odd just happened. That boy you’ve
got workin’ for you, Pete Williams, he’s
drivin’ a car I never saw him in before. ;
I saw your light on and thought I'd -
come over and see if it’s all right.” ;
“He just stuck me up for a thousand
dollars, Ora. Where is he? How come
you got here so quick?”
oo mean the boy robbed you just
now?” .
“That’s right. What happened, Ora?
Where is he?”
“I had him in my hands and let him
(Continued on Page 60)
“y te Cee, m eye, oid »
atest Sensation:
Dt Reverend Cooke
By
Alison Blake
Special Investigator for
OFFICIAL DETECTIVE
STORIES
17 turned out to be important to Her-
man Coussens, too. Coussens lives next
door to the big general merchandise
store he owns and operates and is
prominent in the town’s social and civic
affairs.
The importance of the day didn’t be-
gin until it was almost over—10:30, in
faci.
Mrs. Coussens had retired and Her-
man was undressing when they heard
a rap at the door. Because he was half
dressed, Coussens paused before open-
ing the door to ask who was there.
“It's Pete,” was the ready reply. “I’d
like to talk to you a minute, Herman.”
Coussens recognized the voice. It be-
longed to Pete Williams, a slim, dark-
faced young man who had worked for
him six weeks on odd jobs at the store
and the ranch Coussens owned a little
way out of town.
“Sure, Pete. What’s on your mind?”
he asked as he swung the door wide:
“Come in and sit down. I'll get into
some clothes.” .
He turned toward the bedroom, and
then stopped as though he had come
up against a wall when the man behind
him said, “I don’t want to sit down. I
want your money.”
Coussens whirled about. :
A .38 revolver was pointed squarely
at his middle.
“You're kidding, Pete!’
“No, I'm not, Herman. Where's
Marie? I want her, too.”
Coussens, quick to snap out of shock,
said warily, “She’s asleep. There’s no
use getting her up.”
“I want her. We're going over to the
store to get the money.”
But Marie Coussens, the. attractive,
dark-eyed wife of the merchant, came
out of the bedroom then, wrapping her
robe about her. :
“Pete, we don’t have any money over
there,” she protested. “We cash a lot of
checks on Saturday, you know that. We
ip keep much on hand over the week
end.”
Williams was as steady as a rock and
just as hard. “We're going over!”
Mrs. Coussens, at this point, was
amazed rather than frightened. This
youth she had fed in her kitchen. She
had loaned money to him when he
Pete Williams was unarmed when
officers searched him this time -
uch taller
the boys;
and struck
2 to force
had been
antic flail-
nsiderably
read into
£ sex. de-
»stigation
d. These
al death
witnesses
parking -
1; to find
3) in the
boys
hent
ng down
ribune is
ontinues
views, of
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ile tak-
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hr tro age er
THE BABY NOBODY WANTED
(Continued from page 15)
white skin. What. the hell did he
think, crawling over ‘the floor to-
wards the door? Listening, sniffing to
the deliciousness beyorid the locked
door! Did he whimper? Did he cry
out at all? Did he understand?,I could |
see him, hunched by the door, not
making a sound, You only cry out at
the unexpected pain, the una m-
ed anguish and misery. William Muel-
ler, in all of his five years, had known
little else. This was his life, crouch-
ing by this door. What did he know
about full stomachs? About eating all
you could? About father—mother
love? All he knew as he died was
loneliness. and hunger—listening to
other kids play in the street beyond
the. shades he was too weak to lift.
He’d probably died by that door.
He'd slumped from his crouch to the
floor and maybe then he’d whimpered
piteously a second before he found
the first comfort he’d ever known.
Died of starvation while Albert Muel-
ler, with his tight, cruel face, was
wolfing his own food down. Died of
loneliness and terror and all the things
that he could never understand while |
Gladys Mueller, his mother, flipped
the hamburgers on the stove. |
NO REASON
What had he done wrong? Broken
a cracked dish? Talked back, in des-
perate bravery, to the man who
locked him in his room? Wanted to
go out and play with the other kids?
Wet his pants? I pulled my eyes from
the spot by the door where he’d died
and bowed my head. I wished I knew
better how to pray. I wished I could
somehow tell this little boy that all
homes weren’t like this—that other
mothers and fathers loved their chil-
dren and tried to make them eat. to
grow strong and fat. I thought of all
the quiet prayers that went. up from
childless homes and wondered what
cruel quirk had sent an unwarited
boy to a house like this. I sat there
a long time. Then the door from the
porch opened_and someone came in.
There were footsteps across the
front room floor. I got up and tiptoed
to the door, I opened it a crack. A
girl stood there, maybe ‘nine or ten.
years old, with a five-year-old kid,
- maybe her brother, holding tightly to
her hand. They were looking fearfully
around the house.
“Where’s William now?” the little
boy whispered.
“He’s gone,” the girl said.
“Where’s William gone?”
“To Heaven.”
“Why hasn’t he played with me for
such a long time?”
His sister thought a while. “His
mama and papa wouldn’t let him,”
she said. P
The boy was quiet, then. They tip-
toed over to stand near me on the
other side of the door. i
“He died in there,” the girl said.
“How did William die?”
“His mama and papa wouldn’t give
him any food.”
“Why.”
“They said he was bad.”
“When: I’m bad, mama feeds me.”
“She loves you,” the girl said.
The boy stared at the door, then
drew back.
“Why didn’t they love him?” he
asked. “Weren’t they his mama and
papa? Why wouldn’t they give him
any food just because he was a little
bad? I thought all mamas and Papas
loved their little boys. Why did they
have a little boy if they weren't go-
ing to give him any food and make
him die?”
“I don’t know,” the girl said.
They turned and left.
I didn’t know, either. I couldn't
‘figure an answer to that one all the
way back to town.
Albert,’ 6, William’s brother, had
been taken to the Easton Hospital and
I stopped by. He weighed 24 pounds
and wouldn’t have lived very much
longer, Dr. Merton Cohen said. The
two younger children had been taken
to a foster home. On April 27, 1956,
Albert. and Gladys Mueller were
charged with murder and involuntary
manslaughter and were jailed await-
ing indictment.
Then, on May 9, the: Muellers, in a
prelimi hearing, were formally
charged with murder, involuntary
manslaughter and neglect to maintain.
a child. A plea of not guilty was en-
tered for them by George Weitzman,
attorney for the defense.
‘CHANGE OF HEART
On June 11 the trail began, with the
Commonwealth contending that the
boy had died of malnutrition,
Two days later Alfred Mueller sud- —
denly changed his plea to guilty. The
jury sentenced him to six to 12 years
in prison, Mrs. Mueller was adjudged
mentally defective and was ordered
committed to the Laurelton State
Village for mental defectives, :
After the sentence was passed’ the
husband and wife wept as they clung °
to each other. I felt no emotion ex-
cept that of extreme nausea as I
watched the sobbing, blubbering pair.
It’s much too late for tears now. It’s
too late for anything. No amount of
tears, or pity, or repentence can help
little Billy Mueller, Tae Enp
Be sure and read
EYEWITNESS
DETECTIVE —
On sale at your
newsstands
September 15
- ONE FOOT IN HEAVEN
(Continued from page 17)
He’d financed the trip by sticking
up a theatre in Fort Smith, Arkansas,
a liquor store in Albuquerque, another
in Long Beach, California, a servi
station in Los Angeles.
TOO SOFT
Back in Tulsa, he’d stuck up an-
other gas station a little after mid-
night the previous morning, Saturday.
For peanuts. Driving his own. 1937
Pontiac, he’d forced Claudie Kirk, the
attendant, to give him his wallet,
which contained only $30. Then he’d
locked Kirk in the washroom.
But he’d been too soft. According to
the papers, Kirk started yelling and
another customer let him out right
away. Then Kirk described his Pontiac
to the cops and before he knew it there
was a prowl car on his tail. He’d
jammed his foot on the gas and tried
to get away. But he’d skidded on wet
Pavement and ended up in a ditch.
He’d walked away without a scratch
and hidden in a woods. But more cops
had arrived and cordoned off the
woods and started to search for him.
He’d outsmarted them, though.
Creeping back to the road in the dark-
ness, he had crawled through a cul-
vert to the other side, cut across to
another road and thumbed a ride back
to Tulsa. He’d spent the night and the
next morning at a motel in the arms
of his Honey Chile.
But then she’d had to go to the bar
where she worked, And now it was up
to him to go through with the job
he’d planned. He’d been working in a
large general store in Talihina for six
weeks, casing the joint, and he knew
that on Sunday night’ the week-end
receipts would be locked in the safe
47
nai Ra =
. in the store. He had to pull the job
tonight, and that was why he needed
a car. It would be a real big haul.
There’d be enough money:so that he
and Honey Chile could hit the road
again until the heat was off.
The clean-cut young man was
watching the driver out of the corners
of his eyes. A strange jerk, he thought.
He didn’t look nervous enough.
They were out in the suburbs now
and the traffic was thinning out. Sud-
denly he saw a-police car coming to-
ward them. He ground the gun into
the driver’s ribs. “One false move and
you'll be dead.”
He was lighting a cigarette, a hand
before his face, as the police car
passed and went on.
The driver looked toward him. “My
name is Tommy Cooke and I’m a
minister,” he said in a friendly tone.
“What’s your name?”
The stranger’s eyes hardened. “None
of your damn business, Turn right on
Route 64.”
Cooke made the turn. “I take it
you’re a wanted criminal trying to
escape the police,” he said.
“Shut up. Just drive.”
“You may get away from the po-
lice, but you’ll never escape from your
own conscience. Think of your im-
mortal soul. You want to go to heaven,
don’t you?” e
The stranger didn’t answer.
“Has anyone talked to you of the
glory of God that is in Christ Jesus?”
“You’re low on gas. Pull in at that
station ahead and fill up. If you try
anything or open your trap, you'll get
a gut full of lead.” '
_ Cooke stopped, got the gas and paid
for it and they started up again. As
they drove on, the préacher kept try-
ing to show the gunman the error of
his ways and bring him to God. He’
got little response.
_Then when they were crossing the
wasteland near the village of: Taft,
his‘passenger said, “Cut out that crazy
talk. Turn left.”
Cooke turned down a narrow dirt
road leading through fields of John-
Son grass as tall as a man. They
traveled about two miles down a
gradual slope into-the marshv flood-
land of the Arkansas River. The. sun
was slowly sinking. :
“Stop here. Get out of the car.”
SHOT IN HEAD
Cooke’s normal instinct of. self-
preservation was finally coming to
the fore and he looked anxiously . at
his captor. “Why do you want me to
leave the car?” f
The man jabbed ‘the gun harder |
against his side. ,
Cooke got out and at his captor’s
command walked into the tall grass.
’ “Take off your-belt.”
The preacher did.
‘“Now give me your shoelaces,”
Cooke bent down and began to take
‘them out. He knew now that the man
meant to tie him up and steal his car.
But they were at least a mile from
the nearest shack and he realized
that he could shout his lungs out and
no one would hear him.
He rose and faced his captor. “Look,
I don’t want to stay out here all night.”
The gunman’s eyes glittered in. an
expressionless face. “Well, maybe
there’s another. way. Turn your back
to me. Promise you'll stand there that
way for an hour.”
“All right.” Cooke turned around.
The clean-cut young man raised the
revolver to the back of the preacher’s
head and pulled the trigger. As the
smoke drifted into the sultry evening
air, he looked down at the -twisted
body that lay on the ground. Blood
and brains were oozing from the
blackened wound. He took Cooke’s
wallet, then went to the car, backed
up till-he could turn around, and
headed for the highway again.
Back at Tulsa police headquarters
‘at about this time, Sergeant Bob
Bivens handed Detective Chief Harry
Stege a card from the fingerprint file
along with a photograph of prints
takeh from the 1937 Pontiac.
CATCHING UP
“The identification is positive,” Biv-
ens said. “The man who stuck up that
gas station is Edward Leon Williams
—nickname Pete—28 years old, of
Whitesboro. He was arrested in Tulsa
back in 1944 on a Federal charge of
transporting a stolen car across a
state line. We fingerprinted and
mugged him then. But he’s had no
local record since. Maybe he’s been
out of the state.” :
“Wonder how long he’s been back
in these parts,” Stege said.
“Til try to find out.” Bivens tele-
Phoned a deputy sheriff at Whites-
boro, a village in the Kiamichi moun-
tains at the southeastern corner of
the state.
“He’s been seen around Whitesboro
off and on for four months,” the ser-
geant reported. “For the last month
or so he’s been working as a clerk in
the big general store at Talihina, a
few miles away.”
“Maybe he’s hiding out in that area.
I'll call the LeFlore County sheriff's
office and tell them to keep an eye
out for him.”
While road patrol cars were re-
ceiving radioed instructions to watch
for Williams, the 1949 Oldsmobile
drew up in front of a small. white
house near the general store in Tali-
hina. Slipping his gun into his belt
ae
and pulling his shirt over it, Williams
rang the bell.
‘The door was opened by Herman
Coussens, owner of the general store.
The mild-mannered, elderly store-
keeper looked at Williams in surprise. -
“Why, Pete. What do you want at
this time of night. And. where were
you Friday and Saturday?”
Williams lied about a sick friend in:
Tulsa. Then he asked to speak with
Mrs. Coussens.
MORE TROUBLE
The storekeeper called his wife. A
graying, motherly woman came to
the doorway.
Williams whipped out his revolver.
“This is a stick-up,” he announced.
“I want the week-end receipts from
the store safe, and I want them fast.”
“Pete Williams—after all I’ve done
for you! I gave you. a job when I
knew you'd done time for armed rob-
bery. I helped you because I remem-
bered you as a kid in Whitesboro—”.
“Shut the hell up. Where are the
store keys?” ,
“In the kitchen.”
“Get them. If you go near that tele-
phone, your wife will get a bullet in
her belly.”
The elderly man hurried to the
kitchen and returned at once with a
ring of keys.
' “Now head for the store, both of
you. I’m keeping you covered.” As
the couple walked along the deserted
street, Williams fell in behind them.
Coussens unlocked the front door
and they went to the safe. There the
bandit beamed his flashlight on the
combination lock while the store-
keeper worked the tumblers. The door
swung open. :
“Give me the money in the cashbox.
How much is there?”
“Nearly a thousand dollars.”
“That'll do.” As Coussens scooped
out the bills, Williams stuffed them
havhazardly into his pockets,
“OK. Now I'm going to give you
people a break. Stay in the store for
an hour and don’t call the cops. If you
cross me up and call them before
that. I'll be back with this gun and
kill both of you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Pete, we understand.”
Williams backed to the door, then
walked rapidly to the car.
As he sped out of town, a feeling of
high elation spread over him. Every-
thing had gone smoothly and a thous-
and bucks would take him a long
way. Now to head back to Tulsa and
pick up Honey Chile.
He was near the state line, and he
decided to cross into Arkansas and
travel northward there. That would
put him out of reach of the LeFlore
County deputies and the Oklahoma
a, Ieee
Tommy Cooke’s body lying in a marsh. Cooke, a minister,
murder. Williams was smug and at first denied the killing,
his religion. The Reverend Dale Proc-
tor, pastor of the church, once called
him “the most Christ-like man I ever
knew.” When Tommy wasn’t busy
with his duties at the church, he’d go
around knocking en doors, trying to
get people to accept Christ as their
savior, He liked to pick up hitchhik-
ers and talk to them about God.
As the traffic inched forward, a light
changed and the Reverend Cooke
braked his car to a stop. He saw a
slender, dark-haired stranger in a
sport shirt and dungarees standing at
the curb waiting for a ride. The young
.man had an alert, clean-cut look about
him. Cooke wondered whether he had
been saved. He was about to offer him
a ride and talk with him when the
Stranger suddenly’ grabbed open the
right-hand door of Cooke’s car and
slid in beside him.
words of God but he wound up with a bullet in his head instead.
Cooke felt something hard against
his ribs. He looked down and saw a
small, snub-nosed revolver.
“Drive” hissed the clean-cut young
man. “One wrong move and I'll blast
you to hell.” :
Cooke looked at him calmly. He.
_ had seen active service with a medical
outfit during the war. He had seen
plenty of blood, guts and violence and
he wasn’t afraid.
“Where do you want to go?” he
asked mildly. oe
“Straight ahead. South. Head for
U.S. 64.”
As the preacher started up with the
traffic, the stranger relaxed beside
him, though he kept the gun tight
against Cooke’s ribs. This crate will
be OK, the stranger thought. Not fast,
but in good shape and respectable-
looking. And the jerk driving it looks
was shot by ex-convict Pete Williams who had kidnaped him and
then broke down and confessed after constant police questioning.
dumb and easy enough to handle.
Glancing around, the gunman saw a
pile of Bibles in the back seat. That
was a laugh. Him with Bibles!
He’d been on the lam for four
months—ever since they let him out of
Indiana State Prison after he’d’ done
seven years of a 12-year rap for
armed robbery. He’d jumped parole
and headed south to his birthplace,
..Whitesboro,.. Oklahoma, ‘then had
‘drifted to Tulsa, where he’d met Lee~
Jean Sitsler. \
Lee Jean was a barmaid, slender
but pleasantly bosomy,. with a fair
- skin, soft black hair and liquid brown
eyes. He called her Honey Chile. She
was a girl who possessed special tal-
ents with men and he'd. gone nuts
about her and taken her west with
him on a trip to California. a
2 ‘(Continued on page 47)
: ee Pale
Bey
Ro See
Sed sata ore LRG a eae
i taeda mans:
troopers for’a while. He sank back
under the wheel feeling safe and com-
fortable, thinking about the good
.times he and Honey Chile would have
‘in Florida.
He remembered how it had been
when he pulled the job in Indiana—
the one for which he’d been sent up
for the long stretch. His stolen car
had been spotted and he’d ditched it,
flagged down a Knox County farmer
and forced him to drive him to
Princeton. In Princeton, the terrified
farmer had jumped out of the moving
car. Williams had slid under the wheel
and driven on.
But the farmer had gone to the cops
and they’d set up road blocks and
he’d had to ditch that car too and
head out across country. Finally on
a backroad he’d hitched a ride with
another farmer to Vincennes—and
that was where he’d made his mis-
take. The farmer had looked harm-
less,. but he’d had fight in him.
When they were in downtown Vin-
cennes, the farmer had turned sud-
denly and hit him over the head with
a wrench. They’d started to scuf-
fle while the car swerved crazily
down the street, and a traffic cop had
come running up. Williams had tried
to shoot it out, but the farmer had
grabbed his gun and held him until
other cops got there and took him to:
the station. \
MATURITY
That wouldn’t happen again, Wil-
liams decided. He had been just a
kid then, wet behind the ears, Now
he had smartened up. That preacher
couldn’t squeal to the cops: because
he was dead.
Suddenly he saw bright, flashing
lights in his rear vision mirror. Then
he heard the whine of a police siren.
He jammed the gas to the floorboard.
The cops had got onto him somehow
and he knew that he wouldn’t be able
to get away from a police car in the
crate he was driving.
He ducked into a sideroad that led
into the Ozark National Forest—
wild, rugged terrain that was thickly
wooded and covered with tumbled
rock. He’d roamed these woods as a
boy. He knew them well and knew
that he’d be safe. He switched off the
car lights and plunged into the woods.
In the police car behind Williams
was Talihina Police Chief Ed Liggett.
- Herman Coussens had run to the front
‘of the store the instant the bandit
had closed the door. He’d seen Wil-
liams head east along Route 63 and
had telephoned the police chief at
once. Liggett had given chase and
spotted the fugitive’s car within a few
minutes. He had drawn just close
enough to see the flash of its stop
lights as it made the turn into the
side road.
The chief turned and pulled up be-
hind the abandoned Oldsmobile. It
was obviously impossible for a lone
man to find the bandit in that tumbled
wilderness at night. He looked over
the car, noticed with interest the pile
of Bibles in the back seat. Then in
.the glove compartment he found the
registration, in the name of the Rev-
erend Thomas Robert Cooke of Tulsa.
Liggett drove to the nearby village
of Muse, knocked on a door, and tele-
phoned the police of Tulsa. He told
Detective Chief Stege about finding
the abandoned car.
Stege said that the Reverend Cooke
had been reported missing by his sis-
ter about an hour previously. The
preacher had not shown up to deliver
his evening sermon and the Reverend
Proctor had telephoned her about him.
She had waited all evening and had
heard nothing from her brother. Fin--
ally at midnght she became very wor-
ried and had called the police.
“Well, Cooke’s car was just used in
the hold-up of a store in Talihina by
Pete Williams,” Liggett said. “If he’s
missing, then Williams probably kid-
naped him in order to get his car.”
Liggett next telephoned LeFlore
County Sheriff Jack Craig at Poteau.
Craig routed 13 deputies out of bed
and formed a posse which sped by
car to Muse. Though no active search-
ing could be done at night, the de-.
puties patroled the roads bordering
the forest. Then at daybreak they
fanned out through the woods in an
all-out manhunt.
Meanwhile in Tulsa, Chief Stege’s
officers had found a man who had seen
Cooke driving along Cheyenne Ave-
nue at about 5:15 Sunday with a
stranger in his car. Stege was now
certain that the minister had been
kidnaped by the bandit. Possibly he
was being held captive somewhere,
but a more likely possibility was that
he had been murdered. .
The detective captain contacted the
Tulsa County sheriff's office, and a
caravan of Tulsa police and county
deputies drove to Muse and joined in
the search for Williams.
SEARCHING
All day Monday the manhunt con-
tinued. A plane crisscrossed the area.
Bloodhounds brought from Arkansas
joined in the hunt. But by nightfall
Monday, no trace of the fugitive had
been found. :
Actually, Willams had slept most of
Sunday night on a bed of pine needles
among the rocks. On Monday, he had
made his way under cover of deep
forest back toward Talihina.
At about 11 o’clock that evening,
hunger drove him to a roadside stand
near Talihina.
“What's all the excitement down the
road?” he asked the waitress as he
sat munching a hamburger.
“They're looking for a man who
murdered a preacher,” she said. .
Williams wondered whether the
body had been found. At any rate the
police had linked him somehow to the
minister’s disappearance and this put
things in a different light. If he was
suspected of murder, he wouldn’t risk
going back to Tulsa just now. He’d
head for Florida alone.
RECOGNIZED
He went out to the highway and
flagged down the first car that came
along. He had hidden his gun in the
woods and was now unarmed. “I'll
give you thirty dollars to drive me
to the bus station at Wilburton,” he
told the driver, Clarence Angel.
Angel recognized him from a pic-
ture in that morning’s paper as Pete
Williams. But he had his wife with
him and he thought Williams was
armed. He told the bandit to get in.
At. the bus station, Williams was
lucky enough to get on an eastbound
bus that was just pulling out. The
moment the bandit was gone, Angel
ran into the station and called the
local police. They telephoned the sher-
iff’s office at Poteau, the bus’s next
scheduled stop.
At Poteau, an undersheriff and
three other police officers boarded the
bus and took Williams off. He put
up no resistance.
Chief Stege, still at Muse, was noti-
fied of the bandit’s capture and head-
ed for Poteau at once. The LeFlore
County deputies searched him and
found his pockets loaded with loosely
wadded money. They took him to jail,
where he confessed to the robberies
at-Talihina and Tulsa. But he denied
knowing anything about Reverend
Tommy Cooke.
Then at three a.m. Tuesday, after
two hours of intensive grilling, he
broke down and confessed to mur-
dering Cocke in Muskogee County
near Taft.
Sheriff Neville Kerr of that county
led a posse to the marshland, but
they were unable to find the body. ‘
Kerr radioed Poteau, and Cooke was
brought to the scene. He led the of-
ficers into the Johnson grass, and they
found the minister, his body stiff with
rigor mortis, hundreds of insects dig-
ging into his flesh.
Williams then led the police to the
place near Muse where he had hid-
den his- gun, and they recovered it.
He was taken back to the jail at Pot-
eau, and a little later that Tuesday
morning, the -Reverend Proctor of
Ripe
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“Did you know she was going to have
a child?) Your child?”
The boy stared. “No,” he said slowly.
“I didn’t know. If I had known, things
might have worked out differently.”
Continued questioning produced no ad-
ditional information of value to the inves-
tigation. Their marriage, filled with con-
stant quarrels and bitter fights, had
brought only misery to both of them. “We
were just too young, 1 guess,” he con-
cluded.
The Arkansas sheriff had checked the
youth's alibi for the date of the slaying.
He had been at work in a local canning
plant from six P. M. to two A. M., and
time-clock records bore him out. Half a
dozen others employed on the night shift
verified that he had been on duty the en-
tire eight hours, with the exception of a
half an hour for lunch. It would have
been physically impossible for him to have
driven to Picher, committed the crime,
and returned. Besides, his lunch hour,
coming at ten o’clock as it did, was ap-
proximately a full hour after the time the
murder had been committed.
Satisfied that he had nothing to do with
the death of his former wife, Nolan or-
dered the youth released.
Upon his return to Picher, the chief
found three people waiting for him in his
office—Wolsey, Jameson and a girl whom
Wolsey introduced as May Hughes, a
waitress at the Tarbull.
“She was Ruth’s close friend,” Wolsey
explained.
The girl told Nolan, “More than, that.
I was supposed to stand up for her today.
Ruth was going to be married today.”
“Go on,” the chief urged. “Let’s have
the whole story. Who was she marrying?
Why?”
“Poor kid,” Miss Hughes said, “she
didn’t know what to do. She was grasp-
ing at straws and was nice to every man
who came in. She was hoping to find
someone who would marry her and give
her a name for her child. Then Jack came
along. 7
“Jack?” Nolan interrupted.
“Jack Manning,” she continued. “He
was very nice. Handsome, too. He fell
for Ruth, and Ruth liked him a lot. He
would come in and sit in a booth for
hours, and she would talk to him in be-
.tween customers. They didn’t go out
much—Ruth worked hard and was always
too tiréd—but they set a date for the wed-
ding. It was supposed to be today. Then,
yesterday, something happened.”
Nolan nodded grimly. “You mean Ruth
was killed?” .
“No, before that. Ruth didn’t want to
go home last night. She told me she was
going to work late, and she asked the boss
to let her work a couple hours overtime.
I asked her about the wedding, and she
said it was off—just like that. But she was
afraid to go home. She kept watching the
clock. I told her I'd walk home with her,
and she refused. The next thing I knew
the poor kid was dead.”
This was all the girl knew. Nolan
thanked her for her help and requested
that she keep herself available for further
questioning.
“It’s not a pretty story,” Nolan com-
mented after: she had left. Jack Manning
and Ruth Harris planned to be married.
They quarreled the day before the wed-
ding. The wedding plans were cancelled.
That Ruth was desperately afraid of what
he might do seems obvious enough. It
explains her reluctance to go home.
“And what caused the quarrel?” Nolan
asked rhetorically. “Did he discover that
the girl he loved and planned to marry
was going to have a child? Did it drive
him berserk?” ;
He had probably threatened the girl.
And that night hé could have hidden in
the darkness near the girl’s home, deter-
mined to avenge himself. The severed
ring finger was, indeed, a grisly symbol.
“There’s only one thing wrong,” Wolsey
put in. “Jack Manning doesn’t fit into
this pattern,” he said emphatically. “I
know the boy. He’s an easy going chap,
no temper at all, mild as a lamb. Why,
that boy could no more commit a fiendish
murder like this than—than I could,” he
finished weakly. :
“I hope you're right,” Nolan said. “But .
. we'll have to find out.”
ESS than a half an hour later, Wolsey
himself brought-the young man into
the chief’s office. Ordinarily a neat
person, the impression he now made wasn’t
_a pleasant one. He was bleary-eyed. His
hair was tousled and his clothing wrinkled.
He smelled of liquor. ¥
“Sober him up,” Nolan ordered. “We'll
talk to him later.”
After a cold shower and several cups
of steaming black coffee, Manning was
ready for questioning.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he faced Nolan.
“I guess I was pretty drunk.” He shrugged |
and added, “But I had a reason.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Nolan said.
Manning looked surprised. “What do
you know about it?”
“Suppose you tell me,” the.police chief
countered, “why you were drunk.”
“I had a fight with my girl,” Manning
admitted. “We were supposed to get mar-
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ried. But she
bought some
eyed.”
“Then,” N.
and killed R
The youth
He stood ther
shock. “My
you trying to
looked from
each officer n
to his seat, c
and_ sobbing
The officer:
His reaction
completely: u
place.
Nolan quic
the girl's deat
“I swear
Manning proc
He told th
during her lui
noon. They h
about the we
‘very small aff
“Then Ruth
tell me,” Man
she was going
of course, tha
vorced. But it
shock. I gues
face.
“She said th
difference I
begged her to
a little time to
I could think
wanted to for
away from me
““T guess I
what happene
“She stopped
her home that
and she asked
head. That's \
her.”
Nolan was
broken her en;
mean to say s}
her home?”
“IT know it sc
mitted, “But R
we decided to ;
be afraid to wi
never let me v
to the corner w
ask me to wat.
“Why?”
“I don’t kno
because she di:
It made sense tc
After she ha
he had gotten d
seen no one sin
sey had rapped
“Can you prc
between eight a
Nolan asked.
Manning sho
mitted. “I can’
but myself.”
Nolan said »
hold you for a
HEN Jame
youth away.
and faced h
still convinced t
I searched his
trace of blood
from the looks «
in them after h
And the man \
Ruth Harris co
blood on his cl:
“There’s one
ning’s story th
said. “Both he
4d me she was
isked the boss
purs overtime.
ding, and she
. But she was
. watching the
ome with her,
thing I knew
knew. Nolan
and requested
ole for further
* Nolan com-
Jack Manning
to be married.
fore the wed-
were cancelled.
afraid of what
cus enough. It
go home.
juarrel?” Nolan
ie discover that
.nned to marry
12 Did it drive
itened the girl.
have hidden in
\’s- home, deter-
7, The severed
1 grisly symbol.
wrong,” Wolsey
doesn’t fit into
mphatically. “I
-asy going chap,
3a lamb. Why,
ommit a fiendish
yan I could,” he
Nolan said. “But -
yur later, Wolsey
young man into
rdinarily a neat
now made wasn't
bleary-eyed. His
clothing wrinkled.
a ordered. “We'll
and several cups
ze, Manning was
s he faced Nolan.
ink.” He shrugged |
a reason.”
Nolan said.
orised. “What do
.,” the police chief
vere drunk.”
my girl,” Manning
pposed to get mar-
VERS
VE
aa il
as
ried. But she called it off, so 1 went out,
bought some bootleg stuff and got pie-
eyed.”
“Then,” Nolan accused, “you went out
and killed Ruth Harris!”
The youth jumped up from his chair.
He stood there shaking, his eyes wide with
shock. “My God!” he cried. “What are
you trying to tell me? Is Ruth dead?” He
looked from one face to another, and as
each officer nodded to him, he sank back
to his seat, cupping his face in his hands
and sobbing bitterly. :
The officers exchanged puzzled glances.
His reaction indicated that Manning was
completely: unaware of what had taken
place.
Nolan quickly outlined the details of
the girl’s death. :
“I swear I know nothing about it,”
Manning proclaimed.
He told the officers he had met Ruth
during her lunch hour the previous after-
noon. They had talked for a few minutes
about the wedding, which was to be.a
‘very small affair.
“Then Ruth said she had something to
tell me,” Manning went on. “She told me
she was going to have a baby. I knew,
of course, that she was only recently di-
vorced. But it was still pretty much of a
shock. I guess she could see that in my
face. :
“She said that if it made that much of a
difference I could forget about it. I
begged her to be reasonable, to give me
a little time to think it over. She told me
I could think it over till Doomsday if I
wanted to for all she cared. She walked
away from me.
“IT guess I was partly responsible for
what happened later,” he said hoarsely.
“She stopped and asked me if I'd walk
her home that night. I was pretty sore,
and she asked me again when I shook my
head. That's when I turned my back on
her.” .
Nolan was puzzled. “She had just
broken her engagement to you. Do you
mean to say she then asked you to walk
her home?”
“I know it sounds funny,” Manning ad-
mitted. “But Ruth was afraid. Ever since
we decided’ to get married, she seemed to
be afraid to walk home alone. But she’d
never let me walk her all the way. Just
to the corner where she lived. Then she’d
ask me to watch her go the rest of the
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Once she said it was
because she didn’t want people to talk.
It made sense to me before. But now: ?
After she had left him, he told Nolan,
he had gotten drunk in his'room. He had
seen no one since, he declared, until Wol-
sey had rapped on his door.
“Can you prove you were in your room
between eight and ten o’clock last night?”
Nolan asked.
Manning shook his head. “No,” he ad-
mitted. “I can’t. There was no one there
but myself.”
Nolan said wearily, “Then we'll have to
hold you for a while, Jack.”
W youn Jameson had led the worried |
youth away, Wolsey pulled up a chair
and faced Nolan across the desk. “I’m
still convinced that boy is innocent, Chief.
I searched his room, and there wasn’t a
trace of blood anywhere. It’s my guess,
from the looks of his clothes, that he slept
in them after he dropped off in a stupor.
And the man who slashed and murdered
Ruth Harris couldn't have helped getting
blood on his clothes.”
“There's one thing about young Man-
ning’s story that interests me,” Nolan
said. “Both he and Miss Hughes, without
knowing each other’s story, emphasized
one point: Ruth Harris was afraid to go
home. Why?”
“Lots of girls are afraid to walk alone
in the dark,” Wolsey replied. “A pretty
blonde like Ruth Harris probably had
plenty of reason.”
Nolan frowned. “I don’t think that was
it. She wasn’t afraid until after she and
young Manning had decided to. get mar-
ried. There’s a connection there.”
He re-examined the knife the killer had
used. He studied. the telltale initials:
M. M. The last M, he reflected; could
stand for Manning. What about the first
one?
Ruth Harris had been dreadfully afraid.
Again Nolan asked himself: Why? Of
whom? It couldn't have been Manning,
the man to whom she had been engaged.
She had asked him again and again to
walk her home after she finished work.
Yet, a block from her home, she had
made a point of bidding him good night.
It could have been because she didn’t
want him to be seen. It could also have
been because she was afraid of arousing
someone’s murderous jealousy.
Who was there to see them together?
Only Mrs. Barnes and her roomer, Mr.
Wigger.
Walter Wigger!
Nolan picked up the knife and stared
at it.
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“What fools we have been!” he ex-
claimed. “It was there all the time, and
we never saw it. This knife belongs to
Walter Wigger!”
Wolsey was skeptical. “But the initials,”
he protested, “M. M.”
Nolan reached for the knife and slowly
turned it around.
Wolsey started at the initials carved in
the wood, then muttered, “W. W.”
Nolan said, “If it is Wigger’s knife—
and if we can prove it—then the loose
ends are tied together. First of all, why
was Ruth Harris afraid to go home?
Wigger!
“Second, how was.the killer, perpe-
trating the crime at an early evening hour,
able to disappear so quickly without any-
one in the area catching a glimpse of him?
Because Wigger needed only to re-enter
his room at the back of the house!
“Third, why did Wigger, a calm, steady
man, pick up the bloodstained knife? Be-
cause in his excitement he had dropped
it, and he had to make sure there would
be a logical explanation for the appear-
ance of his fingerprints on its surface!”
The chief reached for his hat and coat.
“Only one thing is missing.” he said. “The
motive.”
IFTEEN minutes later, in the rooming
house on C and Main Streets, the two
officers confronted Walter Wigger.
Only a thin line gf moisture on his fore-
head betrayed his nervousness.
Nolan took the knife from = his coat
pocket and held it in the palm of his hand.
“This is the blade’ that was used to kill
Ruth Harris,” he stated. “The only finger-
prints on it were smudged.”
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CLEMENTS
UTH HARRIS drew her coat more
R tightly about her trim figure and
rlanced upward apprehensively. It
was almost 9 o’clock in the evening and
as the 19-year-old girl hurried along the
Picher, Okla., street forked lightning
stabbed viciously across the black heavens
and thunder shook the earth.
Just as the girl passed the corner of
Main and C streets the threatened rain
came and once more the thunder rumbled
ominously. Pausing to open her umbrella,
Ruth shuddered at the chill impact of the
fall rain on her cheeks and was thankful
that only a few steps farther on was the
warm haven of her boarding house where
she lived while working downtown in a
department store. Now she caught sight
of the lights streaming from the front
windows of the house and quickened her
already fast pace.
But Ruth Harris was oblivious to her
surroundings. Just as she reached the
front gate, a muffled figure stole up be-
hind the unsuspecting girl. A muttered
oath came from the stalker and the star-
tled girl half turned before a strong hand
swept her hat to the ground and grasped
her golden blonde hair. A piercing scream
came from her lips as her head was jerked
violently and a knee was thrust roughly
into the small of her back.
Again she screamed and the attacker
cursed savagely. His right hand flashed
upward holding a long keen-bladed knife.
Only once did the weapon strike, for the
criminal knew that he need not repeat the
stroke. He released the hair of his help-
less victim and smashed his fist into her
face.
Without uttering a sound Ruth reeled,
then sank to the ground. The slasher
turned and vanislied into the storm.
Inside the house, the landlady had
heard the screams of the girl above the
patter of rain and she opened the front
door to peer anxiously into the black
night. A brilliant flash of lightning illu-
minated the yard for an instant, but it was
long enough to reveal to the woman the
crumpled figure lying beside the gate,
and a startled cry came from her.
She hesitated a moment, waiting for
another thunderbolt. When it came she
ran down the steps and across the yard.
At the gate she paused and looked down.
- A flash of lightning revealed the victim’s
N a! he 24 ( Lae
Se il 4. del 22. ¢2
© /
ape, while % day, I think. Yeah, that's when it was, when he requested attention for his fa-
a Chevvy Tuesday.” ther’s car.
-k in the Dwight Gressley had been murdered “Ts that why you also rifled the cash
now what early Tuesday morning! Baskin tried to tegister of the $28.00?” Boies scoffed.
et’s check keep his voice calm. “Can you remem- “I didn’t take that money,” replied
- Ritchie’s ber what time Tuesday he was in?” he Ritchie,
asked. : “Then what were you doing there at
1 Vehicle Yes. It was just before closing time. three a. m., in the morning?” demand-
tchie Sr., Around two-thirty a. m., I'd say.” ed county attorney, Edwin Beauchamp.
k Coupe. Ritchie shruggged but didn’t answer.
nstantine, Rasen 'S startling report resulted in “What made you return the holster?”
checkup Boies and Kimball quickly joining Boies wanted to know.
‘cibles of him at the Ritchie home on South 28th Again young Ritchie shrugged. “It There ‘san
n’s name Street.. They found the Buick stored in had Beacon Oil Company stamped on
onsidera- ; a lean-to behind the house. They had it and I knew it would be no good to
h’s home hardly begun checking the car’s interior me,” he answered,
naked to- when Boies uttered an exclamation of Later he confessed taking the money ALL 3
murder. surprise. The’ others crowded around . and even accompanied the officers to a
r, could ha him. as shallow ditch outside of town where BOO KS
ned. She Beneath a cushion on the front Seat he disposed of the cash box. 1
without was a .38 calibre revolver! Carefully The eighteen-year-old slayer was ON LY $
0 verify using a handkerchief, Boies checked the formally indicted on a charge of first] te Price of each of the
serial numbers. They tallied with those degree murder by a Maricopa Grand Soate e ae
rege at. yaa gnc gun! ae m Jury on aaa 27, 1946. He is now all and enioy sul’ further
ie was oung Ritchie was pic at t! awaiting trial. saving, making ‘one ree be-
h some- Rainbo plant and rushed to eideor pny #100." Beach oi
‘lub on ters. For more than fifteen hours of Editor's Note: The names Frank “Jig-
‘re and Constant questioning he steadfastly de- ger” Durango, Joe Weldon, Sally Wheel- eR Are confident that you w
nied his guilt, However, on the follow- er as used in this story are fictitious in te part with your copie ater
he ac- mg mcrning he calmly admitted bludge- order to protect the identity of inno- ier tay cto the price of
often.” cning Gressley to death because the at- cent people involved in @ murder in- Rise postage, We aenired. yr ted
| tendant had given him a surly answer vestigation.
‘ed in -
d. “He Pua eens . . me Getect Kiesing Here you will Here are com- gt" "=semennmameme,
a, He | "NO DAME CAN TWO-TIME ME" iscivnnn i Sumi wy Blcte marae: peewee co” oa
te: : . ue an expression © expla ing complete sem hooks checked below at o
: . (Continued from 39 of ja. Sclentifically by letters on love, ck ROA is pati ‘
Sy ( Page 39) : tion. ‘Fomaster those who know courtshig RNa nc tena Inks checked: :
she was sure he didn’t belong to the When questioned, Ray Walker admit- sedae fd You are taveti can” make a i
younger set in Picher. ted that he had talked to Ruth several] ‘13,2 art of how to woo, sholce wane
“Did you notice if he was wearing times in the store during the last week. Kissing’? ox: | Eiesemgnate: By aleatton “ H
Bloves?”” Nolan asked. - He also said that he. was the man promod Ba bahay WH) Pg. ankidet thle work H
le “No—I don’t think so—” wegey Mi and Mrs. Harris had de-| tise, ‘go Prerilde soe tee Yan x
“What did Ruth sell at her counter?” scribed as being especially interested | Only Coy Ooy—— 508. 2... ae
an lots . of things—why, she sold in their daughter. ——
8loves. Yes, gloves and socks and things. “I Joved Ruth,” he said simply. “ «
like that.” came here from Century, hoping I B 0 0 K L E T bs
could persuade her to return home. lusical The Kind Grows
s OLAN thanked the girl and left the That's what I talked to her about in ihicen mens toed peer Each one of these booklets is PO
i store after Tequesting that she re- the store. But it only made her angry. or any subject. Don't Delay —Send us your and catertstument Th one
main available in case she should be And that’s why we quarreled.”’ sidera nand PRES Bene al cane $1.08, "cosh ome
needed again. He went down the street Nolan reached in his pocket and RICHARD BROTHERS eetlbgitas oe mF celnge
: to. the morgue, wondering if the blood- brought out the bloodstained kid glove 80 WOODS BUILDING — CHICAGO 1, LLL. 72 Fitte Aron beet a neve
| Stained glove in his pocket had been in that had been worm by the killer. He
the parcel wrapped by Ruth Harris the shoved it quickly into Walker's hands,
afternoon before. watching closely the expression on his
When he entered the morgue he found face. Walker’s eyes went down to the
the middle-aged parents of Ruth Har- glove, then up to meet Nolan’s, He ap-
~ ris. The grief stricken couple were ut- peared puzzled, |
terly unable to account for the brutal Nolan suddenly asked: “What did you
murder of their daughter. They told pay for the pair of glvoes that you
him that she had been of a rather quiet bought from Ruth yesterday after-
nature, and declared that although she noon?”
‘ had entertained a few local youths in Ray Walker frowned. He blurted,
; her home, she had never seemed to care “Why—I didn’t buy any gloves from
for the opposite sex as did so many her!”
need a new pair of
shoes?” You'll create a sen-
girls of her acquaintance. However, they “You bought something.” sction at your next get-together
Stated, that at one time she had shown “Yes—I bought some socks. That’s all when you “roll” these miniature red. plastic
a mild interest in a young man in her I bought—just some socks,” dice-in-o-bottle. Roll them, bottle and all, for a
home town of Century, but. this ro- “You can produce the socks, I sup- svre-fire belly tough every time. Hurry and get
mance had ended when she deci ded to pose?” : yours, obsolutely FREE with this unusual offer!
leave home to work in Picher. : The young man gulped loudly. “No,” ; : IT’S A LAUGH RIOT
At this moment the door opened and he _ stammered. “I—oh, I know you ; bb
a tall, young man entered. Chief Nolan won't believe me, but—I went to Jop- ea : NOVEL P U LL-CHAI
was startled, for the man wore a blue lin last night, and I lost them. I think
suit, light cap and tan oxfords, and he I lost them’ on the 7 o'clock inter-
fitted exactly the description given" by urban car. Say! What are you trying
1% the salesgirl of the man who had quar- to do—insinuate that I—killed Ruth?”
reled with Ruth Harris! “I’m not insinuating anything,” No-
“Hello,” the young man said td the lan answered. “I have a murder to solve,
Birl’s parents. “I heard” what happen- and the only way I'll be able to do it
ed—" is to leave no stones unturned. I’d ques-
“Howdy, Ray,” Mr. Harris returned. tion my own mother if T thought she
Then to ‘Nolan, “This is Ray Walker, a knew anything about it. Now, I suppose
800d friend of Ruth's, from back home.” —_you can tell me where, and with whom
After an exchange of casual words, YOU spent your time while in Joplin?
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Chief Nolan asked Walker if he could And what time you returned?”’ sap Sturdy
: talk to him alone for a moment. Walk- Walker rubbed his hand across his rent, block ! on eiiegalbe yor slit Sa
; er followed him into another room. The — forehead. “I don't: think I can prove canoe Pend I ond Ash Toys. | wit pay .
, chief was thinking about the quarrel, it,” he said, “but I went to a movie, : ; ] 32.90 oh wine wortage, | moy
}: and wondering if this clean-cut young — alone, Then I came back here on the ~—_ ww en ody wittia 10 dere tor retund.
| man could be the cruel killer who was last car. It leaves Joplin at midnight.” Sth Ave. Mdse Mart ~ itmisccceny doosn'sy U1 Venctore $ ffl om
rtless enough to join the parents of Nolan asked Walker if he would mind Dept, 3109 seats, © tonserinn ee
( his victim while they grieved over the frying on the glove ‘The young man 180 ahax retvin Wt fas tall pur: ADORESS
7 awlal Cragesty, willingly slipped it on his right’ hand, New York 7, N. Y. chore price refund, ee ce me ee eee
and the officer nodded grimly when it
proved a perfect fit.
However, he was puzzled as to what
action to take, Should he arrest Walker?
Or would it be better to wait in hopes
of gathering stronger evidence? He de-
cided on the latter.
The murder knife was in his pocket.
He should be able to learn if Walker.
owned such a knife, or had ever been
seen with one like it, he decided. Too,
he wanted to check the sales records at
the store. He’d find out if Ruth Harris
had made a sale of several .pairs of
socks—and if she had sold a pair of kid
gloves on the same ticket.
“That's all,’”’ Nolan told Walker, af-
ter cautioning him not to leave the
vicinity, should further questioning
prove necessary. Nolan returned to
headquarters.
EPUTY Sheriff Wolsey was still out
checking on Ruth Harris’ ac-
quaintances, so Chief Nolan talked to
the desk sergeant. He told what had
happened at the morgue, and, added,
“Walker is our strongest suspect. I’m
wondering if he actually lost those socks
on the inter-urban car, or if he’s lying
to cover up something. He readily ad-
mits that he was in love with Miss
Harris, and that she did not return his
affections. Yet, if he is the killer, would
he have layed himself wide open to sus-
picion by admitting that incriminating
fact? It doesn’t seem logical. So I've
got a lot of checking to do, and I’d just
as well start now!”
He called the electric railway lost
property rocm. He had reasoned that
if Walker had actually lost the socks
on the inter-urban car, they would be
found by the conductor and turned in.
After a short wait, the property clerk
told him that no packages containing
socks had been turned in during the
last ‘twenty-four hours:
“That could mean something, and
again it couldn’t,” he told the desk ser-
geant. “Walker didn’t say that he lost
them on the inter-urban—he just
thought that he did. However, it’s a
strike against him!’
Nolan then went to the department
store where Ruth Harris had . worked.
He showed the bloodstdined glove to
the manager. ie
The manager said: “This may not
have come from here. We carry this ~
brand, but so do a lot of other stores
in the country. I can find out, though,
if Miss Harris sold any gloves yester-
day afterncon.” He went on to explain
that under a system used by the firm,
each sales ticket carried the “clerk’s
number, a mark..indicating whether the
sale was made in the morning or after-
noon, as well as the description and price
of the article sold.
He thumbed through a: stack of sales
slips, and in a few minutes handed two
of them to Nolan, saying; “¥es, Miss
Harris sold a pair of men’s kid gloves
on one of those tickets, and three pairs
of men’s hose on the other. These may
have been sold to the same party, since
buyers often complete a purchase, then
later decide on something else, which
calls for a new sales ticket.”
Chief Nolan studied the sales slips
for'a moment, then asked the manager
if he would send in the. salesgirl who
had heard Ruth Harris quarreling with
Ray Walker.
When the girl was before him, Nolan
told her to think hard and try to re-
member if she had seen Walker talking
to Ruth Harris more than once on the
day before. He was wondering if Walk-
er had purchased the gloves at one ~
time and the socks at another. —
The clerk bit her lip thoughtfully.
“No, I never saw the tall man but once,
56
but To remember something else, now
that I've thought about it. I guess I
was so shocked at Ruth’s murder that
I forgot it when you interviewed me
this morning. About fifteen minutes be-
fore closing time, Ruth sold a pair of
kid gloves to another man. I remember
seeing him try them on, and as I went
by he locked squarely at me with the
coldest grey eyes I've ever scen. He
looked at me—well, you know, like he
was angry at me—though I knew we
weren’t acquainted and he had nothing
to be sore at me about. I just figured
that he was a grouch and thought no
more about it.”
Nolan was careful to hide his pleasure
as he heard this. He plied the girl with
more questions. She didn’t remember
how the man was dressed, but described
him as a “heavy-built, strong-looking
man, not very tall.” ‘
When she could tell nothing more,
Nolan had her promise that if she
shculd see this stranger again she would
notify him at once.
‘Back at headquarters he was glad to
find Wolsey there, but his heart sank
at the grave expression on the deputy’s -
face. “I’ve talked to every youngster
around Century who knew or ever had
anything to do with Ruth Harris,” Wol-
sey said, “and I don’t believe that any
of them have the faintest idea who mur-
dered her, or why. She's had only three
Police carry Mrs. Otte Stillman out of Chicago morgue
hoy-friends in her life, and T found one
of them, He had a good alibi.
“Of the other two, one is about ten
years older than she was, and she went
with him only a few times, 1 understand
that she quit going with him because of
the difference in their ages. I didn’t talk
to him for he was at work in the mines.
His name is Walter Wigger, and all the
young people say he’s a good guy—say
that neither he nor the girl ever took
the friendship seriously.
“The other fellow is a young man
named Ray Walker. I couldn’t find him,
and I was told that he was here in
Picher, now.” '
“Yeah,” the chief nodded. ‘I’ve al-
ready met him. I'll tell you about it
later. Go ahead.”
“As you know,” Deputy Wolsey went
_on,” the girl wasn’t in Picher very long,
but it begins to look as if she met the
killer after coming here.”
“I dcn't know,’’ Nolan said soberly.
Then he told about Ray Walker and
about the stranger who had bought ‘the
gloves. “I believe the killer is one of
those two men. If I had more evidence,
I'd arrest Walker right this minute. But
I don’t have enough—and, anyway, I
want to find this other man.
“I'm convinced that the motive for
the murder must lie somewhere in the
girl’s background, young as she was.
We've got to dig up something more
after she had told: coroners jury how she shot husband.
about her past. We've already’ gone
through her belongings at the boarding
house; 1 think we should do the same
thing at her home in Century.”
hee going to the morgue to get
a key from Mr. Harris, the two
officers started the short trip to Cen-
tury. They were extremely dejected.
They weren't making enough progress
in the solving of the crime. They real-
ized, of course, that they had taken
only routine steps to date, but already
they could see a blank wall staring
them in the face.
At the Harris home they found the
girl’s room, according to her parent’s
instructions. It was small and tidy and
didn’t seem to offer anything that could
possibly be connected with the tragic
death of the former occupant. How-
ever, they set to work grimly, reading
every letter they found, and even
thumbing through the pages of all the
beoks in the room.
Among other articles in the room, No-
lan found a fishing license which had
been issued to Ruth Harris for that
year. A few minutes later he found a
hunting license. As he examined the two
permits he turned to Wolsey.
“J think these are the explanation
for the girl not being interested in boy
friends,” he remarked. “She was an out-
doors girl. And although such girls meet
lots of men, they usually look at them
as just another sportsmen. Let’s go.
We'll work this thing from a different
angle for a change.”
As they seated themselves in the car,
Nolan felt something hard pressing
against his thigh. He removed. the mur-
der knife from his trouser pocket. So
far he hadn’t attempted to trace it to
the store where it had been purchased,
‘but now, with the fishing and hunting
license, he realized that such a knife
might well be the property of a sports-
man. Its long blade made it impractical
for a pocket knife. ;
“T think I’ve got it!” he suddenly
beamed at Wolsey. “The killer is some-
one who has been going on. fishing trips
with her! That’s the reason her parents
and friends are in the dark regarding
possible motives and suspects. They may
not know this fellow I’m trying to
imagine. Or it may be Walker—”
“Or the heavy-set guy who bought
the gloves,” Wolsey added.
“Yeah—so let’s find out,.if we can,.
where she usually went fishing, and with
whom, for it isn’t likely that she went
alone. Probably went to some of the
regular camps where boats are for rent,
so we shouldn’t have much trouble
tracing her activities.”
Wolsey agreed to this plan, but as it
was growing late, they decided to post-
pene the investigation until the next
day.
_ Early the following morning they
found a young man whom Wolsey had
. questioned concerning the friends of
Ruth Harris. He told the two officers
that the girl had been an avid sports-
weman, and named a local tourist camp
and boat dock where she usually went
fishing. He also named several of the
town’s young people who at various
times had gone with her.
“I suppose that Ray Walker: went
with her often?” Nolan asked, He. sud-
denly brought the murder knife from
his pocket and extended it toward the .
youth. “Isn’t this the knife Walker: al-
ways carried along on these fishing
trips?”
“No, you're wrong there,” the youth
protested. “Ray never went fishing. He
didn’t like to fish or hunt. He was al-
ways reading bocks and going to shows.”
Nolan asked if he had ever seen the
knife before.
lready ’ gone
he boarding
lo the same
try.”
Tgue to get
is, the two-
‘ip to Cen-
y dejected.
3h_ progress
They real-
had taken
but already
vall staring
found the
er parent’s
d tidy and
that could
the tragic
ant. How-
ly, reading
and even
of all the
room, No-
which had
for that
e found a
:d the two
xplanation
ed in boy
as an, out-
girls meet
< at them
Let’s go.
different
1 the car,
ing
ure
So
ace it to
urchased,
| hunting
a knife
a sports-
ipractical
or rent,
trouble
ut as it
0 post-
te next
g they
ey had
nds of
officers
sports-
t camp
y went
of the
various
- went
le. sud-
' from
td the .
ker al-
fishing
youth
The ycuth studied the weapon for a
moment, then ‘said, “I don’t know. I’ve
Seen lots of knives like it. I've seen
Walter Wigger and a lot of the boys
with them, Walter is always cleaning
his fingernails with his.”
““Wigger? Who’s he?”
“That's one of the men I checked ©
on,” Deputy Wolsey volunteered. “He
works in the mines and his shift was
on duty when Miss Harris was slain,”
“Oh—" Nolan said thoughtfully.
Then, “You're Positive that you’ve nev-
er seen Ray Walker with a knife like
this?”
“Well, now I cculdn’t say for sure—
but I don’t think I have,” the youth
replied,
Thirty minutes later the two officers
were talking to the owner of a local
boating resort.
“Yes,” the man said, “Ruth came
here a lot. Usually rented a boat. There
were usually several other ycung people
with her, but if there was ever any
trouble amongst them, I never heard
about it.”
Nolan asked to see the camp register,
for he knew that all Persons who fished
te were required to sien this record.
The book showed that Ruth Harris had
visited the place many times, but in
each instance she had been accompanied
by mest of the young people whom
Wolsey had investigated and cleared of
suspicion.
The officers were ready to leave in
disgust when the camp owner suddenly
exclaimed: “Wait a minute! That book
is the old one and isn’t up to date.
I remember Ruth coming here—I think
it was her last trip—alone with a man.
I don’t know what his name is,. but
I've seen him around Century. Maybe
the new book will show,”
HEN the book was placed before
him, Nolan scanned it carefully
until he found the last. entry made by
Ruth Harris. “Walter Wigger,” he read
alcud. “Say! This Walter Wigger keeps
Popping up everywhere we go!”
“Yes,”" Wolsey nodded. “He went
with the girl a few times, and the young
fellow in town said Wigger was always
. Cleaning his fingernails with a knife like
the one we have. But he couldn’t have
killed her if he was working in the
Green Snake mine the day she was kill-
ed.”
“Did you check the mine to see if he
was working that day?” Nolan asked.
“Well—no. But everyone in town said
he was at work.”
Nolan frowned. “Yes, I suppose it’s
another wild goose chase, like all the
rest, but I can’t afford to Pass up any
leads. Let's g0 to town and call the
mine.”
In Century, Nolan called the Green
Snake mine on the telephone. His face
was grave when he got back to the car
where Wolsey was waiting,
He rasped, “The timekeeper at the
mine just told me that Wigger didn't
work day before yesterday—the day of
the crime. He also said that Wigger
was an hour late for work yesterday
morning. Now I wonder why?”
“I don't know that,” was Wolsey's
frowning answer, “but we might find out
if we looked at his room.”
The mine official had given Walter
Wigger’s address, The two officers were
soon in the miner's room at a lodging
house. Nolan opened a closet door. and
eyed a rumpled blue suit hanging there.
It looked like it had been hung up wet,
and left to dry. Nolan remembered the
rtin on the night of the crime.
He felt the cloth and it was dry.
But when he touched the padding in
the shoulders of the coat, he felt: damp-
ness,
find out when
Nolan said. “TH
else I can find.”
eputy departed and Nolan con- Harris in Picher
he reported. “He
exactly, saying
it for his right
a room where the
And a few m
blocky-built you
Street and mount
stared at him for
cinated. Then she
“That's him,”
member his eyes—”
inutes later, a short,
ig man came up the
. degree murder, before
ed the steps. The girl bes Miami, seat of Otta
. homa, The defense claimed insanity but
turned to the officers. the jury returned a verdict of guilty
Judge Smith sentenced Wig-
c ger to die in the electric chair on the
The officers were jubilant as they following February 3 and Wigger was
went to Wigger’s room. They felt that remeved to the penitentiary where the
nearing the end of the trail. lethal chair is located.
either of them could venture However, defense lawyers managed to
a guess as to what had motivated the delay the execution and Wigger was
a moment, as if fas-
she breathed. “I Te- 45 charged.
Started in su
mumbled. “What do you want?”
The two officers stepped into the things pass her by.
Then he thrust. his hand in a pocket room. “I want you for the murder of
of .the coat and started with surprise Ruth Harris!” Nolan :
of value. He had finished Salesgirl who saw
on when Wolsey returned, from Ruth. She’s
deputy was jubilant. “Wigger
A swift change
face. He suddenly
“I don’t know that,” Nolan retorted.
Bloves to Wolsey, and “But maybe you'll decide to tell us af- si
ed to a small tab in- ter I Point out a few facts to you.
he wrist of one of hem. The tag Listen: maybe you can explain why you
bore the firm name of the only men’s didn't work at the
store in Century.
down to the store and
Wigger bought them,”
Stay here and see what
carried around with
with Ruth Harris?”
came over Wigger's| self lots of tragedy
threw back his head
ly. “ ight, I did
Bie: and the aad ALONG WITH GIRL
timed me, and there -for yourself the ABC
obese why be “sia ne dene goles te Oe that to me!”
Was an hour late for work—buying the "He retin } i pn and told the | Successful strategy. P
you on fishing trips
and laughed harsh
it!” he cried. “I kill
it coming. She two-
f a
OY "4
gid gloves yester- F - —.
in Century, when
a pair from Ruth (fp PAA (oxy
ier eine he Ce wR
age about but he found Then you might also like to face the .
mine day before
you buy the gloves}... when You |
here if you'd like
to ‘see her. And if that isn’t enough—” | Women are funny
here Nolan brought
yesterday morning,” shai, Meath ste
was the first customer, nife—“‘isn’t this the
and was waiting for it to
lock. What’s more, he had
that he wanted to match
he had lost the mate to
hand!”
Nolan said softly; “1
out the murder} know whether you’:
knife you always right move or not.
Pointment, heart-bre,
faux pas! Read H(
officers that he had tried in vain to win} t© work. No more ch
work in Picher,
the crime.
returned to Miami
Smith set the date
EN Nolan krtocked on the sus- On June 29, 1928,
Wigger opened it, He
rprise when he saw the
“Why, hello,” he nocent salesgirl who h
more of life than tha
(000 — et @D) $9...
IN OCTOBER
TRU-LIFE DETECTIVE
“SHE DIED SO EASY"
NOW ON SALE
AT ALL NEWSSTANDS
After locating her in Picher he had
Nolan found Wolsey and again tried to reason with her and to
Yy excited landlord stationed by get into her good graces. Her second
a large window Overlooking the front refusal had Prompted him to commit
On January 3, 1927, Walter Wigger
was brought to trial, charged with first
went to the chair and paid with his
as asked nothing "ality
He glanced at his watch. “We’ll be the affections of. Ruth Harris, only to] for you—get the re.
te when he comes home from work. have her scorn him because he ‘was 12 bow to deal with w
ng to get the salesgirl who saw years older than she. It was then that ‘
y the gloves from Ruth he had made up his mind to murder amazing handbook.
fore she was murdered. While her. If he couldn't have her, no one
with the landlord for else was gcing to enjoy her company.
girl can see Wigger He had so warned the girl, he declared.
as he approaches the Place. If she can and that was why she had left home to
m, we have our case,”
urned an hour later with
Judge J. J. Smith
wa County, Okla-
READ FOR Your:
How Te Date a Girt How 1+
where again Judge Hew Te Interest Her B&
for execution oven + fini
r a How Te Win Her Leve Hew 4
Walter Wigger Mow Te Exeress Your 44, H
ave one
: Hew Te “Make Ua" Hew Te
; “With :
life for the brutal slaughter of the in scat Pag aw
t the unpleasant
Go
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WAME —
ADDRESS __
; a ee
WIGGER, Walter, white, elec. Okla. (ottawa
|
|
|
@ Ruth Harris’ body lies in a Miami,
Oklahoma, morgue. One sudden
knife thrust ended her life.
Des wceTVE ficss Wn OHA QINE
\ SEPTEMBER 1980
Teenaged murder victim
and (inset) the man who
brought her killer to trial,
Chief Joe Nolan.
ME oY
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io
aw
aty be
A el rst Simee, stevia
gE eg a
er Stevens rushed to his aid, after braking
their car to a screaming stop beside the
bus. .
Williams, a frisk showed, was unarmed.
His pockets contained $489 in bills and
some loose change.
At police headquarters in Poteau, Pete
freely admitted the stickups in Tulsa and
Talihina, but he professed complete ignor-
ance about Tommy Robert Cooke. Asked
how he happened to be driving the young
minister’s car, he shrugged and claimed he
had stolen it from its parking space on a
Tulsa street. ‘
For four hours he stuck stubbornly to
this story, but finally he wearied of the
struggle and admitted what the officers all
along had feared to hear: Pete said he had
kidnaped the young minister and killed
him. He left the body near Taft, in Mus-
kogee County, about 40 miles southeast of
Tulsa. .
On Tuesday morning the prisoner took
officers to the spot. They found Tommy
Cooke lying face down in tall grass. A
single shot had been fired into the back of
his head.
Williams explained how he had eluded
the police dragnet after the gas station
stickup in Tulsa. He had hidden in a cul-
vert that was totally obscured by tall
reeds; he might never have found it him-
self, he said, if he hadn’t fallen into it by
accident. He hid there until late Saturday,
when he emerged and went into Tulsa,
after dark.
He had left Millie’s place soon after she
departed for work on Sunday, he said, and
waited in front of the Tulsa public library
at 3rd Street and Cheyenne Avenue for a
likely looking car to hijack. It was 5:30
when the blue Olds, driven by Reverend
Cooke, stopped at the intersection for a red
light.
Williams pointed a gun at him and
climbed in. He made him drive south on
U.S. 64, then told him to turn off onto a
gravel road near Taft. Six miles farther on,
at the dead end of this road, he made
Cooke get out of the car. =
Asked if Tommy Cooke had tried to
preach to him, Williams said, “He didn’t
have a chance. I wouldn’t let him say any-
thing.”
The only words Cooke uttered, he said,
were to protest Williams’ plan to tie him
up with his belt and shoe strings. Without
further ado, Pete said calmly, he shot him
in the back of the head, killing him in-
stantly.
He explained Marshal Richmond’s fail-
ure to find a weapon on him, saying he had
thrown it out of the bus window en route
to Poteau. It was later recovered, a .38 Tre-
ye a Pry
if
volver of Spanish manufacture,
loaded with six shells.
At an interview in the jail, Reverend ~~
Dale Proctor, the pastor, asked Williams, = —
“Did you know Tommy Cooke was a min- ~
ister?”
“No.” Pete shrugged and lighted a ciga- ~~
rette. ae
‘ “Would it have made any difference?”
the preacher asked. ues.
Pete mulled the question briefly, exhaled.
a cloud of cigarette smoke, then said in- ~~
differently, “I don’t think so.” or
After a pause, the pastor asked, “Do you © —
believe in Christ? Has anyone ever talked “~~
to you about Christ?” —
_ “Not since I was a kid,” Pete replied.
“And do you believe that when a man
is dead he is just dead?” Reverend Proctor
asked. a
“Yeah,” said Pete Williams unemotion-
ally, “‘just dead.” .
The date was June 19, 1956. Pete’s quick
plea of guilty to the murder of Tommy
Robert Cooke won him a life sentence to
prison, and he thought he had it made. But
after a trial and conviction on a charge of
kidnaping the young preacher, he was sen-
tenced to. be executed in the state’s electric
chair.
The original execution date set by the
court was February 1, 1957, but 12 hours
before the time set for his death, Okla- =
homa’s appellate court granted a stay on ~~
defense counsel’s claim of technical errors
in the records. It was but the first of many
delays, as one appeal after another was
made in court after court.
But at long last the day of reckoning
could not be postponed any longer. On
April 4, 1960, precisely at midnight, once
again a fateful hour in the career of Ed-
ward Leon “Pete” Williams, he found him-
self strapped in the electric chair at the
big prison in McAlester. A switch was
thrown and Pete died. The law’s mercy had
finally ended.
Certainly in. the four years of repeated
delays and legal recourses it had allowed
him, the law had shown far more mercy ~
fully ~ |
if eae pratima gc hig os
than this killer had shown to his innocent :
victim, the young preacher about whom |
he callously admitted, “He didn’t have a
chance.” oo4¢
Epitor’s NOTE:
The names Millie Garsse and Frank
Colbet as used in the foregoing story ae
are not the real names of the persons ee.
concerned. These persons have been oo
given fictitious names to protect their
identities.
Execlustue!
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Admiral Place. Sheriff Craig at once called
Tulsa police headquarters to ask for a
check on Reverend Cooke. He learned im-
mediately that not 15 minutes earlier, the
minister had been reported missing by his
sister and the Reverend Dale Proctor.
And within the hour Sergeant Ray Jones
reported that he had identified prints found
on the steering wheel of the wrecked ja-
lopy driven by the gas station bandit as
those of Edward Leon “Pete” Williams.
The pieces were now falling into place
and the roles of the actors in the tragic
drama were taking form and _ substance.
Detective Chief Stege outlined it tersely,
as it appeared to him:
“After he cracked up and slipped away
from us Friday night,” he speculated, “Wil-
liams holed up here in Tulsa till Sunday.
The young minister went home from
church on Sunday afternoon, showered,
packed a bag, and early that evening he
got into his car, the blue Olds, and started
to drive back to church where he was sup-
posed to deliver a sermon that was pretty
important to him. .
“Somewhere between his home and the
church he ran into Pete Williams. Cooke’s
friends say he was always picking up
hitchhikers and preaching the gospel when
he found a sinner. Williams took the car
away from him and drove it to Talihina,
where he stuck up the general store, and
then took off again till he finally abandoned
the Olds. By that time he probably figured
it was too hot.
“The question we've got to answer—and
quick—is, what did he do with—or to—
Reverend Tommy Cooke?”
As Chief Stege, with Sergeant Bivens
and other detectives, studied Williams’ rec-
ord their fears for the minister’s safety
grew. The card showed that Williams had
served two sentences in the Federal Re-
formatory at El Reno, Oklahoma, plus a
stretch at Indiana State Prison, from which
he had been paroled three months before
after serving seven years of a 12-year-
sentence. Most of his encounters with the
law had been as a result of car thefts. Now
27, he had spent all but nine months of the
past 11 years in jail. His first arrest, for
ear theft, was at the age of 15.
From underworld sources, detectives
quickly learned the names of several Tulsa
friends of Williams, and they were rapidly
run to earth. From each one, bits and
pieces were picked up that led finally to a
girl with whom Pete had reportedly been
seen a lot. Her name was Millie Garsse. In-
formants told the investigators that she
worked as a barmaid in a tavern, on Dela-
ware Avenue. They also learned Where she
lived and went there first. She was not at
home.
In her room, however, they found plenty
of evidence that Pete Williams had made
himself at home there, and quite recently.
Flung over a chair they found the tan
windbreaker he was wearing the night he
stuck up the gas station on South Peoria.
and nearby lay a T-shirt and a pair of
trousers. A number of empty beer cans
were scattered all over the room.
Lieutenant Jack Purdie and a couple of
detectives went to the girl’s place of em-
ployment. Purdie wasted no time ‘on amer-
ities. “Where’s Pete, Millie?”
“J don’t know nothin’,” she retorted sul-
lenly.
They took her to headquarters and
started all over again. There she was a
little more talkative. “What do you want
him for?” she asked.
“He stuck up a gas station Saturday
morning,” Purdie said. “Last night he
scored for 1,000 bucks in Talihina and es-
caped in a stolen car.”
Millie pursed her lips and seemed :to be
thinking. A few years earlier, she might
her eyes hinted at a fondness for booze.
And Purdie knew this was not her first trip
to a police station. Her card, brought to
him from the files, showed that three years
before, in Tulsa, she had pleaded guilty to
vagrancy by prostitution, for which she
had been fined $25 and costs. Prior to that
she had been arrested on similar charges
in Fort Smith, Arkansas, Geneva and
Rochester, New York, and in Oklahoma
City. The FBI had once held her as a mate-
rial witness in a white slave case.
Now, as Purdie waited for her reply, she
puffed on a cigarette and seemed uncom-
fortable, but not unduly disturbed. “Pete's
no hijacker,” she said finally, as if she had
arrived at a great decision.
“He may be a lot worse than that,” Pur-
die told her. “We have reason to believe he
may have killed a man yesterday. Would
you cover up for him ona murder rap?”
Millie turned sullen again; she didn’t
know where Pete was; she didn’t know
anything about him; what were they pick-
ing on her for? What made them think she
could tell them anything about Williams?
Purdie told her they knew she had seen
him over the week end; he told her they
had found some of his clothes in her room.
Confronted with this information, Millie
capitulated. She said she’d tell them what
she knew, but she wanted it understood in
advance that she knew nothing about. any
stickups or any other criminal activity of
Pete's.
She said that Pete had met her at the
par late Saturday night. They spent the
night at a motel, and then went to her.
room Sunday morning. He was there when
she left for work at four that afternoon,
and that was the last time she had seen
him. She insisted she had never seen him
with a gun, but under persistent question-
ing, she finally admitted this was not true;
he had one with him two months ago when
they drove to California together.
Millie was locked up as a potential wit-
ness. The most important information she
CHECK SHIRT
In Canada, as in the United States,
citizens complain of taxes, "They'll take
the shirt off your back." To test it one
Montrealer, filing his 1959 tax return,
accompanied it with a check for $43.62,
drawn on a Montreal bonk—aond writ-
ten on the back of his shirt. To his
surprise, the check was accepted and
cashed.
"The law does not require that a
check be written on paper,” the Re-
ceiver-General of Canada ruled.
—Stanley Lloyd
Foes ac |e a
<n alco atl
Te ea cou
had contributed was that Pete Williams
had been in Tulsa Sunday afternoon about
the time that Reverend Tommy Robert
Cooke disappeared.
As of Monday night, June 18th, neither
the missing Cooke nor the fugitive Wil-
liams had been found, but unknown at the
time to many of the principals, the case
was rapidly approaching its climax. As
Frank Colbet, his wife and her brother left
the home of a friend in Talihina at 10:30
that evening, a tall man stepped out of the
shadows and said, “I’m Pete Williams. I
want you to drive me out of here.”
Colbet recognized him at once. He could
see no gun, but he was sure Williams had
one, probably in his waistband under the
shirt which hung down over his trousers.
“Why don’t you give yourself up, Pete?”
Colbet said calmly. ““They’ve got the whole
damn country out looking for you. They’re
bound to get you sooner or later.”
“Shut up and let’s get going,” Williams
said.
Obeying the bandit’s instructions, Colbet
drove and his wife and her brother got into
the back seat. Williams sat beside the driv-
er, half-turned in his seat so he could com-
mand a view of those in the rear. He told
Colbet to head for Wilburton, some 20
miles northwest.
As they drove along Colbet, whose cool-
ness in the situation seemed to exceed that
of his captor, reasoned quietly but force-
fully with Williams. “You’re making a big
mistake, Pete, dragging us along with you.
It’s only going to make it that much tough-
er for you to get away.”
Half a dozen times, Williams snarled at
him to shut up, but Colbet, showing not the
least trace of fear, would not be silenced.
Never raising his voice, but none the less
insistently, he repeatedly pointed out the
folly of involving them in the escape plans.
“What do you expect me to do, walk?”
Pete demanded exasperatedly at one point.
“Hell no, Pete,” Colbet answered.
“There’s no reason for that. All you got to
do when we get to Wilburton is grab a bus
for Fort Smith. That'll put you in Arkansas
in a couple of hours and once you get out
of the State of Oklahoma, you're safe,
man.”
It is a tribute to Colbet’s powers of per-
suasion that he finally convinced Williams
this was the wisest thing he could do. At
the bus station in Wilburton, the Fort
Smith bus was loading the last of its pas-
sengers, preparatory to leaving for the Ar-
kansas city. Williams leaped out of the
Colbets’ car and ran to board it. The big
bus door swung shut behind him and in a
moment the bus was rolling away from the
station.
Colbet waited till it was out of sight,
then dashed to a telephone booth and called
the state police. Seconds later the alarm
was radioed to all units along the route the
bus would take over Highway 270. A spe-
cial alert was relayed to Marshal Buel
Richmond in Poteau, 50 miles to the east,
where the bus was due to arrive at 12:27
P.M.
Sheriff Craig and Trooper Carl Stevens
heard the alarm as they cruised in a patrol
car a considerable distance away and set
off in pursuit of the bus. When the bus
reached Poteau they were close behind.
Marshal Richmond was already there,
waiting tensely as the passengers filed out
and into the lunchroom. Pete Williams was
not among those who disembarked. Pistol
in hand, the marshal boarded the bus and
surveyed the interior. He could see no one.
Cautiously he advanced down the aisle,
then suddenly stopped. Crouched near the
floor between two seats was Pete Williams.
Williams lunged at the officer in a last
desperate bid for freedom, but after a brief
struggle, he lost the battle and Marshal
Richmond had him under control and
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W ILLIaAM3, Edward, elec, Okla. (Tulsa) July 26th, 1960...
Peer:
1 their efforts, Sed by PETER
ind Bulgin mae en y HARRINGTON
i Special Investigator for: OFFICIAL DETECTIVE STORIES
fectae BONUS-LENGTH FEATURE ~~
id heard the sound of
cants Zisler and Bul a
in’t work, The detec-Iy : Res
{ that the sound of ;
- — a muted pe =.) = F -
een insi sl i
eared fade cal CASE OF THE
ited that the killer : .
lahat MURDERED
s
ee truck inte da es y
een iti
A & PARSON
“collected ana’ shui 3
and sho ‘
len he failed to dis e ® ° r e
{frowns $195, that When fast-moving police investigators finally tracked down the
cre’ e
ital, ° a e ° ° ee
\ anvbody seen the hard-case killer, he claimed he never knew his victim was a minister
er e shot vat
1 he lm] al e e
sarage? Or was he of the Gospel. But then, with callous honesty, he admitted
ed in the neighbor-
eee that even if he’d known, it wouldn't have made any difference .
try to find
tiiestions, Pe ; rie
Igin, joined by fit 9
> _€gan another
oorbells,
‘0 better luck after nM a
ng their steps. The Bey
was to shake down eu fC
’. All three of the Mey:
1 to the investiga- hii‘
n informers and in ! oad
* 3
hese men on the
a? 7
2 e@
O LINE in the revered histor-
ical documents of the United
States of America has drawn
more fire from disillusioned
cynics than the statement inscribed
by the founding fathers of the repub-
lic in the Declaration of Indepen-
dence to the effect “that all men are
created equal...”
Repeatedly in the last decade,
fiery dissenters have quoted the
clause and then added, “but no one
really makes it till they’re dead.”
That makes for interesting rhetor-
ical effect in a speech to a large body
of sympathetic listeners, but experi-
enced journalists and homicide
investigators will tell you that real-
istically, even death is no guarantee
of equality. For no one is more
keenly aware than they of the pecu-
liar irony that the amount of atten-
tion given to a murder victim is pred-
icated quite strictly on the circum-
stances of his background, social,
financial or professional status, and
the manner of his death.
The killing of a “nobody” in a bar
room brawl may not rate even a line
in the newspapers of a large city, but
let the same thing happen to a mil-
lionaire socialite or nationally known
politician and the story rates head-
lines. The execution of a minor hood-
‘rworld have been
ough. The stoolies
ued on page 82)
Officers remove body of Rev. Tommy
Cooke (inset) who often preached about
sin to hitchhikers, His last rider shot him
in the head, fled with his car and money
56
lum has a low degree of news value,
but the abduction of a_ beloved
clergyman and the discovery of his
riddled body can outrage the cit-
izenry of several states.
For proof of the latter statement,
the files of the police department of
Tulsa, Oklahoma can supply a classic
case. In retrospect, it is clear that the
tragic drama opened with a prologue
on the warm night of June 16th. The
scene was a_ gasoline station on
Tulsa’s South Peoria Avenue, a
rather sparsely settled area, dark at
midnight even on Saturday, save for
the lights atop the gasoline pumps
and a couple of bright floodlights on
the tall steel standards which illu-
minated the oil-stained concrete
pavement surrounding the gas sta-
tion.
Earlier in the evening, when traffic
was still heavy on the avenue, sev-
eral attendants had been working
and cars moved briskly in and out of
the station. When traffic tapered off,
however, all but one of the gas
jockeys took off for the night. Now
he was alone.
He was standing at the work bench
inside the service area of the station,
working on a car radio, when he
heard a car pull in. Without looking
up, his practiced ear told him it was
an .old car, noisy and full of rattles.
He put down his tools and headed
out to the old gray jalopy which had
pulled up and stopped at the pumps.
The driver was alighting from the
old car, and the attendant noted he
was a stranger, not one of their reg-
ular patrons. The driver was tall,
swarthy and rangily built, with
heavy black eyebrows, a full head of
glistening wavy black hair combed
with studied casualness over his
forehead—a male hair style popular
with the younger set.
The attendant later would recall
that he was somewhat surprised to
see a fellow this old wearing his hair
like that; he was no kid. He looked
to be at least in his middle twenties,
possibly even a few years older. He
was wearing well-bleached Levis and
a tan, zipper-front jacket over a
white t-shirt. ‘
“How many?” the station atten-
dant asked automatically as he threw |
the lever that zeroed the meter on ’
the pumps, then pulled the nozzle
out of its slot and started walking
toward the gas tank of the old jalopy.
The driver didn’t answer, and the
attendant looked up curiously before
he leaned over to unscrew the cap of
the gas tank. The driver was walking
toward him, and stopped only when
he was very close to the man holding
the gas hose. His hands were plunged
into the slash pockets of his wind-
breaker.
“Forget the gas, man,” the driver
said then, his voice soft and menac-
ing. “What I want is money.”
A motion of his right hand punctu-
ated his words and the attendant
now found himself under the muzzle
of a revolver, held very close to his
ribs. “Let’s go inside,” the dark man
continued. “Don’t put your hands up.
Just hold ’em by your sides, where
I can see ’em.”
The filling station attendant did
exactly as he was told. He had been
warned by the station owner never
to resist a holdup man, but to sur-
render money, tools, or whatever the
bandit demanded without question.
Now he walked gingerly ahead of
the gunman, a little awkwardly, for
in his eagerness to obey the man’s
demands to the letter, he held his
arms stiffly by his sides instead of
swinging them naturally.
When they got inside, the gunman
asked, “All right, cousin, the dough—
where do you keep it?”
Still standing with his arms held
rigidly at his sides, the frightened
man replied, “We—we don’t keep
much money around here at night—
nothing in the till—just what I have
on me.”
A glance at the open, empty
drawer of the cash register seemed
to satisfy the gunman that this was
the truth,
“Okay,” he said softly, “so turn
around,”
When the attendant complied with
this command, he bandit deftly went
through his pockets and removed all
the money he could find. It came to
$30 in paper currency and about $3
in coins. He took it all.
Then he prodded the attendant in
Officers search suspect snatched from bus after a 24-hour manhunt
WE
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the small of the back with: the muzzle:
of the pistol. “Get inside the John?
and lemme hear you lock that door,”
he said. “If you’re smart, man, you'll;
keep it locked tight for about five
minutes.” i
The attendant walked into the rest!
room at the corner of the station’
office, went inside, and turned the’
bolt on the door. Relief welled up in’
him as he heard the ~gunman’s’
retreating footsteps, the start of the-
jalopy’s noisy motor, and the grind-/
ing of transmission gears as it started |
away. f
That was as long as he waited. In
the next second, he had unlocked the
rest room door and was racing out-
side. It was too late to get the num-
bers of the license plate on the old
ETT a
car; he could see its flickering tail !-
lights as it sped down South Peoria
Avenue.
At almost the same moment, how-
ever, the attendant spotted a cruiser
of the Nite Patrol Service which had
just pulled onto the avenue from a
side street.
He yelled to attract the driver's
attention, then waved his arms at
the fleeing jalopy and_ shouted,?
“Stick-up!” j
The uniformed patrolman for a
private security agency got the mes-
sage. Pausing only long enough to
yell, “Call the police!”, he sped off}
a
ers
in pursuit of the old car. He began to F
gain on it at once, but as soon as the &
bandit realized he was being chased,
he fh
battereca
astonishi:
The se
With his
he had
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When
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driving t
off the «
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more sta!
Sudden
37th Stre:
the bandi'
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into a m
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But to
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In
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—
Up to the Minute
** PRISONER at the bar, do you have anything to say
before I pass sentence?” Judge Henry L. Beers asked
at the conclusion of a murder trial in Muskegon, Michigan.
Ex-convict Herman Barmore indeed. did. “You,” he told
the Judge, “are prejudiced... . Your soul is going to Hell.”
He then called the officials who had arrested him “liars”
and told both judge and jury the Devil was “with them”.
Unperturbed, Judge Beers sentenced Barmore to life in
prison for the second-degree murder by shooting of twelve-
year-old Peter Gorham near a Boy Scout camp in Michigan.
Details of the two-year investigation which led to Bar-
more’s arrest appeared in the August, 1957, issue of
In Salt Lake City, a jury
listened carefully to the evi-
dence gathered by the state
of Utah in the death of little
Gerald MaComb. The jury
then decided that this evi-
dence did not establish guilt
beyond a reasonable doubt
and brought in a verdict of
not guilty for Norman Fack-
rell, an acquaintance of the
slain boy’s mother. The story
of the two-year-long investi-
gation into this case, under
the title “Two Killings for -
Two Years”, was published
in the December, 1957, issue
of OFFICIAL DETECTIVE.
Herman Barmore
Two other killers recently received death penalties. In
Cheyenne, Wyoming, Ernest Lynn Lindsay of Harrisburg,
Pennsylvania, has been sentenced to the gas chamber for
the pistol slaying of Herbert Diestler, retired Lawndale,
California, real-estate dealer, on June 20, 1955 (“Cross-
Country Chase for a Goose Egg”, February, 1956). A split
ecision by a criminal court of appeals in Tulsa, Oklahoma,
condemned Edward Leon—Pete—Edwards to death in the
electric chair for the kidnap-murder of Tommy Robert
Cooke, Tulsa theological student, in June, 1956. Following
a legal battle which grew: out of a life sentence for the
murder in Muskogee County and a death sentence for the
kidnaping in Tulsa County, the appeals court upheld the -
death penalty. (“The Kidnaping of Reverend Cooke”,
October, 1950.) r
Death in the electric chair
faces Thomas J. Higgins, 22,
who stood mute and apa-
thetic while Judge Hyman
Barshay pronounced _ the
sentence in Kings County
Court, Brooklyn, for the April
17, 1957, hammer slaying of
nineteen-year-old
A nineteen-year-old California youth, Charles Lee Guy,
III, has been found guilty of involuntary manslaughter in
the slaying of his mother’s lover. Guy Roberts, in Santa
Monica. He faces a one-to-ten-year prison sentence. His
father, Charles Lee Guy, Jr., who defended him, has moved
for a new trial. “A Corpse for Mother’s Wedding”, in the
December, 1957, issue of OFFICIAL, related the detective
work done in this case.
Elsewhere, these second-degree-murder convic-
tions have been announced: In Brooklyn, Edward
Murphy, 36 years to life for the murder of Mrs. Anita
Lutrario (“When Old Friends Call , . - To Kill”, May,
1957). In St. Louis, Jackie Ray Lawson to'25 years
for the strangulation of Mrs. Creda M. Mallady
(“With Beauty in the Bag”, July, 1957).
Detective Al Farkas: He had
to learn everyone's birthday
“He should be here any minute. Why
don’t you sit down and make yourselves
comfortable?”
The detectives did. After awhile,
Farkas asked, “Does your husband own
@ car?”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Do you know of any friend of his
who owns a green and white Chevy?”
“No.”
From Wiggins, “Does anyone ever
call your husband Shorty?”
Mrs. Lucas smiled. “Loya’s almost
a six-footer.”
“Does he go with anyone by that
name?”
“No. Not at all.” She lifted herself
a little from her chair, as though she
heard a sound from the porch. Then
she stood up as a key turned in the
front-door lock.
SHE walked forward and kissed the
young man who entered. “Loya, these
are detectives— I’m sorry,” she apolo-
‘gized, “I’ve forgotten your names.”
Farkas introduced himself and ex-
tended his hand. As Lucas returned the
gesture the detective noticed that he
was wearing no ring.
Mrs. Lucas asked: “Loya, where’s your
ruby ring?”
Lucas smiled sheepishly and scratched
behind his ear. “I was waiting every
day for you to notice.” To the officers,
“Don’t ever try to hide anything from
your wife.”
“Where is it?” she insisted.
“I lost it about a month ago. When
I was out hunting.”
Farkas said, “Lucas, when did you
stop working at Pennsylvania Malle-
able?”
“About a month ago.”
“Were you fired or did you quit?”
“I guess you could say I was canned.”
“Who fired you?”
“Jake Witmer.”
Farkas was surprised by the free ad-
mission, certainly not the words of a
man with anything to hide. “Why?”
“Me? Why should I? I got a better
one.”
Farkas, after a long pause, said,
“Lucas, I want permission to search your
house.” 5
“What for?”
“I. just want to search it, that’s all.
If you have nothing to hide, you'll let
us. If you say no, we'll do it anyway-—
we'll get a warrant.”
Lucas shrugged helplessly. “Go
ahead, search it. I've got nothing to
worry about, I’ve told you the truth.”
The detectives decided to concentrate
Farkas took it under the light. There
he saw that one of the jacket’s patch
pockets had been almost entirely ripped
away and inside it, clearly visible, were
stains of blood!
“You might as well tell us all about
it,” Farkas said. “If you don’t the
bloodstains will, anyway. And we have
a button that our laboratory can
match.”
‘
For a moment Lucas stood with his
head hanging. Without a word, then.
he walked out of the bedroom, the
officers and his wife following. He went
into a rear room and opened a closet
there. He reached in——
“Lucas,” Farkas shouted, “put down
that rifle!”
“It ain’t loaded,” he said.. “If you un-
ne oe the back plate, you'll find the
Ting.”
At Headquarters, police say, Lucas
confessed to the crime, implicating a
robbery for several days. On Friday
Witmer would not “apologize” for
having fired him. Lucas went to get his
cousin. They returned armed with a
baseball bat and the telescope of a rifie
that was taped into a blackjack. Spring-
ing upon Witmer, they found that
Witmer—possibly anticipating the at-
tack—had picked up a hammer. They
managed to beat him down, though in
the struggle Witmer tore off Lucas’ but-
ton and pocket. Stealing his wallet,.but
overlooking his pay envelope, they had
fled. Not until Lucas reached home did
he notice the stone missing from his
tore off the remaining buttons from his
jacket.
THE mystery of why Witmer muttered
the name Shorty—it is neither Lucas’
nor Walker’s nickname—has not been
cleared up, as the foreman did not re-
member using the name when he re-
gained consciousness. Nor has the green
and white Chevrolet, supposedly seen
leaving the crime scene, been identified,
although police say it can have had
nothing to do with the case. As for
Wilbur Milne, whose wife thought he
might have lost his ring, he was found
to be wearing it.
Physicians say that Witmer will
recover fully, despite the severe beating
and loss of blood.
The names Savo, Doc, Guy Brinz,
Roscoe Wynne and Wilbur Milne are
fictitious as used in this story.
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trouble all of his life,” this man said
pravely “ver osimee dibn another died
when tee wae just oa little shaver. bore
member he ran off and hid for a couple
of days, he was that broken up over hear
dyin’ Twas after that he began to go
bad, and it seemed like there was no
stopping him. His father spent money
on him, all he could get his hands on,
trying to help him. The father’s in the
hospital now. Had an operation and
he's been kind of slow getting over it.
He shouldn’t be bothered about this.
Such news” won't help him= any.
Couldn't it just rest until you know for
sure the fellow you're after is the same
one?.... No, he’s got no other kin that
I know of except a married sister, and
I don’t even know her name.”
The officer let it pass for the moment,
Monday, June 18, passed with the
search continuing in Tulsa as well as in
the hills. Late in the afternoon, at
Bixby, a little town southeast of Tulsa,
a Highway Patrol officer swung up be-
side an oil station.
Getting out to stretch his legs, he
dropped a coin in a vending machine
and drew out a soft drink. He walked
back to his car to listen to the latest
report of the Talihina search then com-
ing in on his radio.
An evening paper lay on the car seat.
On its front page was a picture of
Tommy Cooke. The station attendant, a
youth of about seventeen, drew near to
listen and saw the picture.
“Look, Mister, that man was in here
last night!” he said excitedly, catching
up the paper for a closer look. “There
was a man with him. They bought some
gas. I remember because they were
arguing about something.”
“Are you sure it’s the same man?”
“EE SURE was! He was driving. The
other fellow seemed mad, but he
wasn't. The other one—he's taller, and
thin, with dark hair kind of loose and
wild-like. They went south out of here.
It was around six o’clock, maybe an
hour after I came on.”
This information served only to ver-
ify what they already believed. The
trooper passed it on to Lieutenant Nor-
man Holt, now heading the scores of
small groups still searching the moun-
tains near Talihina.
Night drew on and the search had to
be abandoned. Holt, with Craig and
McCroskey and others, then turned
their attention to the house Williams
had occupied during his two months of
residence in the little town. They found,
among other things, a curious assort-
ment of newspaper clippings. One was a
story on the robbery of the Malco Thea-
ter in Fort Smith, Arkansas, on May 22,
another about a theater robbery in Lit-
tle Rock. And, clipped from a Tulsa
paper dated June 15, three days before,
a brief account of an attempted holdup
of a local oil station, foiled by a mer-
chant policeman who happened to be
near. In his escape the bandit had
wrecked his car, a 1947 Pontiac bearing
an Arkansas license.
This rang a bell in the Sheriff's mind.
According to Herman Coussens, Wil-
ljams had driven. just such a Pontiac
until Thursday, June 14, when he'd left
town, not to return until the night of
the Coussens robbery, when he’d had
Cooke’s car. The Sheriff built up in his
mind a picture of a young criminal
using a small-town job as a cover for
forays into other. communities.
‘The police were still busy at the house
when the owner of a small corner gro-
cery store close by burst in upon them.
His store, closed for the night, had just
been burglarized. Someone had broken
a pane of glass in the door, reached in-
side to unlock it and then rifled the
cash register.
“It just happened,” he said. “I’d gone
on an errand. Wasn’t away more than
a half hour. The whole place was ran-
sacked.”
“It’s Williams again,” declared a man
on fringe of a crowd that had gath-
ered. [
A wave of fear swept through the on-
lookers, “That's right.” “He’s come out
of the hills.” “You men rot. to do some-
(debtor, welt Doe Witte bea core Deeed Of tat
fellow dsn't caaphito”
Marshal Ora Dill pushed through to
the storekeeper Did you ceive yan
cat when you wentoon that errand)"
“Sure I did. Why?”
“TtU's probably just as well you did. if
it was Williams he was looking for your
keys. He'd no other call to break in
with all that money of Herman's he's
carryin’, We ought to set up road blocks
around town, Lieutenant.”
Lieutenant Holt told bis men, “Block
off all roads that lead out of town and
call in some of the men who are still
out in the hills. They couldn't pet him
in the dark, anyway, and we may need
them down here.”
Tension was rising in the little town.
Mcthers called their children in and
double locked all doors. Householders
found guns long unused and had them
ready.
Meanwhile, down a darkened street,
a Talihinan named Clarence Angel was
about to get into his car when a dark
figure loomed up at his side.
“You know who I am,” Williams said,
his voice menacing. “I’ve got to get out
of here fast. I’ll give you thirty dollars
for a ride to Wilburton and if you know
what's good for you you'll take it with-
out any back talk.”
Roughly, he shoved the startled man
toward the car. “Get in there and let’s
move! I’ve had a hundred men on my
tail all day and I don't mind shooting
if I have to.”
Clarence Angel knew about the 20-
hour ‘search for this man. He knew
about the missing Tommy Cooke and
got into the car without a word. Quietly
he drove toward the edge of town,
praying that they would get there be-
fore the road blocks were formed. No
telling what a desperate man with a
gun might do if he found himself cor-
nered.
They made it, the last car through
before the block was set up.
Wilburton is akout 25 miles from
Talihina through rolling farm land at
the foot of the hills. Angel drove cau-
tiously, considering things he might do
and giving them up one by one as the
man beside him maintained a deadly
silence. ‘
He didn’t see the gun he felt was
there but he was wise enough not to
take chances.
Not until they neared Wilburton did
the unwelcome passenger speak. Then
he told Angel to drive on through the
town.
Angel thought fast. “They’ve set up
road blocks,” he said. “Why don’t you
go on by bus? The police won’t be ex-
pecting that but they are going to stop
all cars and my tires wouldn’t stand a
run if the Law took out after us.” Then
he sat very still, remembering the miss-
ing Tommy Cooke and half expecting
the man beside him to turn and put a
bullet through him.
Williams was silent. They drove into
the town, pulled up at a stoplight and
then he seemed to make up his mind.
ep get out here,” he said. “You
drive on—and don’t look around,
because I'll be watching as long as
you're in sight. Just keep moving.”
He left the car. The light changed,
and Angel moved on. ‘
A small town has little traffic at ten
o’clock at night. No passing cars in-
tervened to hide, in his rear view mir-
ror, the tall, thin figure as it crossed
the street and disappeared behind a
building.
As soon as he was out of sight Angel
Swung into an alley, left his-car and
ran back to peer around a signboard.
Obviously Williams’ talk about
-watching his car had been merely a
threat. He was walking now in the op-
posite direction and Angel was amazed
to see him go into the bus station.
A few minutes later, from a darkened
doorway, he. saw the young desperado
climb aboard an Oklahoma Transpor-
tation Company bus bound for Fort
Smith, some 50 miles to the east.
Anrel hada brother living in Wilbur
favny Shpveerebbaage Cen Vebes Peeosene Deer perbertered
what bad occurred and his brother
called the Highway Patrol Headquar-
fere “Phe tai an diby Chere pranced the
information on to Lieutenant Norman
Holt, who was directing activities at
‘Talilhina
Holt's reply was brisk. “Call Carl
Stevens at Poteau. Tell him to pret help
and meet that bus at Wister, They can
make it if they hurry, Williams may try
to ret off there. If he doesn't, take him
mnyway, Tell Stevens we're coming
right in.”
O IT happened that a police car
manned by Trooper Car] Stevens and
Buell Richmond of the Poteau police
sped out toward Wister, midway be-
tween Wilburton and Fort Smith. They
made it with a few minutes to spare
and were waiting when the big blue bus
rolled into town. But to their surprise,
it didn’t turn into the bus station. In-
stead, with inside lights dimmed for
the comfort of sleeping passengers, it
moved on through. Not until later did
they learn that the brief rest stops
made during the day are discontinued
at night.
Darting to their car, they were off
after the bus, keeping it in sight until
it reached the outskirts of Poteau, then
cutting around it to the terminal. There
they found Sheriff Craig, just in from
the hills.
They stood by quietly as the passen-
gers unloaded. Williams was the first
man off. They took him without a
struggle.
Tired, sunburned, his face and arms
scratched by thorns and underbrush,
he seemed almost relieved to have it
over. Searched in the Sheriff’s office, he
was found to have around $500, the rest
lost, he said, in his scramble through
the weeds. He was unarmed, having
thrown away the gun shortly after
abandoning the car. “I was afraid I
might hurt somebody and I didn’t want
to,” he explained.
How about Tommy Cooke? That was
the thought in every officer's mind. But
they waited. Someone went out for
sandwiches and coffee and the prisoner
was allowed to wash and remove the
woodticks he had gathered in the tim-
ber.
Then the questioning began.
Right at the start, he admitted rob-
bing Coussens, the police said later. He
denied all knowledge of Tommy Cooke.
He was seated at a table, wrists hanging
between his knees, when Lieutenant
Holt and Orville McCroskey came in
from Talihina, -
At that time, a number of officers
were still milling about. One by one
they left until only Craig and McCros-
key remained with Holt and an FBI
agent to keep them company. Over and
over they bore down on one question,
‘“‘What did you do with the preacher?”
Over and over Williams declared he
knew nothing about him...
McCroskey sat down across the table.
.The undersheriff is a quiet man, hard
as occasion demands but in the main
friendly and not unsympathetic.
“Look,” he said evenly, “we've got
evidence in a lot of crimes, Pete. That
Malco Theater job over in Fort Smith
last month, and another one in Little
Rock about the same time. Why don’t
you just come clean and tell us about
the preacher? You'd save a lot of trou-
ble by just telling us what you know
about him.”
Williams sat silent, brows knit, eyes
on the floor. Not sullen, really, just not
talking. He reached for a cigaret.
McCroskey held a light for him. The
phone in that outer office rang, and he
answered it; the-call was from Tommy
Cooke's father in Tulsa.
“T understand you've got a man there.
Has he told you what happened to
Tommy? It could be that Tommy’s tied
up somewhere, hurt, maybe, -but not
dead.” The distracted father faltered
over the word, “Keep talking to him,
Mr. McCroskey. See if he won’t tell you
what happened to my boy.”
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McCroskey hung up, lips tight = in
sympathy, and returned to the prisoner.
Tle told Williams about the call, ‘“Mhink
what that. boy's family is going
through,” he said.
Williams’ head went down, His voice
was low and shaken. “I killed him,” the
officers claim he said then. “I wanted
his car and he wouldn't give it to me.
I shot him and left him over on the
river. The Arkansas River. He gave me
some trouble and I shot him through
the head.”
Later, Sheriff Craig announced that
he admitted numerous robberies and
that he had served time in Oklahoma
and Colorado reformatories and had
been released from an Indiana prison
three months before.
The Sheriff quoted him as saying:
“About this Cooke, I made his car at a
stoplight about half-past five Sunday
afternoon. Just opened the door, got in
and had him drive me out south. I
didn’t intend to kill him. I wanted his
car. You see I’d wrecked my Pontiac a
day or so before when I tried to hold up
that oil station in Tulsa and rot run off
by the Law. DT didi'’t Know this uy was
a preacher until I saw some Bibles in
his car and he pot to talking about
religion. ‘Trying to convert me, DP puess
I got tired of it and threw the Bibles out
of the window. Then T had him turn
into a side road. It was about half-past
six. I was going to leave him some-
where, fixed so he could pét loose. I've
never hurt anyone before. But he
wouldn't let me tie him. So I shot him.”
This, he said, according to the Sheriff,
had been at a dead-end road about five
miles south of the town of Taft, in Mus-
kogee County. McCroskey notified
Sheriff Neville Kerr at Muskogee. Two
hours later Kerr called back. They had
found neither road nor body. Would it
be possible to bring the prisoner over
and have him direct the search?
This was done at daybreak Tuesday
morning. The body was found without
difficulty, shot through the back of the
head with no effort made to conceal it;
it was north of ‘Taft, not south. Return-
ing to Potenu, they made an wide swing:
through the mountains to recover the
gun.
The young people of Tommy Cooke's
pastorate at their Wednesday night
meeting in Glenwood Baptist church,
where they pathered 150 strony, prayed
for the man who had killed their assist-
ant pastor.
Informed of this, Williams had noth-
ingt to say.
He was taken to Muskogee County
where on July 25 the court ordered him
held for trial on a charge of first-degree
murder. Meanwhile Tulsa County pre-
pared charges of kidnaping ayd armed
robbery against him and LeFlore
County of armed robbery for the holdup
of the Coussens. Under Oklahoma law,
the maximum penalty for each of these
crimes can be death.
“Up to the Minute,” in a future issue
of OFFICIAL DETECTIVE STORIES
Magazine, will publish the outcome of
any action taken on these charges.
One Jealous Boy-Friend (Continued from Page 33)
State Police came Detective Captain
Robert F. Dillon, chief of the state's
detectives, and Detective Lieutenant
Abe Taylor. They quickly sent Detec-
tives Stanley C. Young and George W.
Young and other officers to talk to the
excited spectators gathered around the
bank's entrance, and to canvass the
block.
While Whalen, his wife and the bank
employes gave a more detailed account
of the bandit’s foray, the state officers
and sheriff's investigators moved among
the crowd asking questions.
Ts bandit had stashed his stocking
mask at the door of the bank before
going to the Whalen home. Did anybody
see him there? Did anybody see a
strange car park near the bank around
midnight or later?
On this, the officers drew a blank.
They found a dozen people—includ-
ing some of those who had been turned
away by the sign and had lingered in
the vicinity waiting for the bank’s
delayed opening—who had seen the
bandit drive away in Whalen’s Olds-
mobile. But they were unable to give
a better description than the officers
already had. .
“The only reason I noticed him at
all,” said one witness, “was because I
never before saw anybody else drive
away in Whalen's car.”
Said another: “I thought it strange
that the bank was opening an hour late,
but I supposed there was some reason
for it. I was watching the door, waiting
for the bank to open, when I saw this
man come out, carrying the pillowcase.”
Several had _ noticed Whalen’s
familiar Oldsmobile parked in its regu-
lar spot at an unusually early hour.
“I wondered about that,” said one.
“But the car was parked where it always
is and I remembered the vice president
was away on vacation. I just supposed
Jack had come down early to do some
extra work.”
The canvass continued, with similar
vague results.
After Sergeant Worrock had taken a
complete account of the night's unusual
activities, he asked: “Is there any way
this money can be identified? Do you
have any of the serial numbers?”
“No,” Whalen replied ruefully. “We
were so busy Saturday we barely had
time to count the money. We seldom list
serial numbers except on bills of large
denomination.”
“Were there any large bills in this
haul?” ,
“I don't remember any. Practically
all of it was in small currency—mostly
twenty-dollar bills or less.”
“Do you know if anybody talked
about the big run of business you had
Saturday?”
“I don’t think so. But anybody who
was around would have noticed it. It
was one of the busiest days I can
remember.”
“This fellow seemed to know a lot
about you and: your habits,” Sergeant
Worrock continued. “Are you sure you
don’t know him?”
“Positive. I thought about that off
and on all night. I'm sure he’s nobody
I know.”
“Did he wear the rubber gloves all
the time?” asked Lieutenant Sutton.
“Yes, he had them on when he first
came to our home and he never removed
them.”
“Then it would be useless to look for
prints,” Sutton said. ‘Do you know how
he got in your house?”
“No. I haven't been able to figure
that out,”
Detectives Stanley Young and George
Young were sent to the Whalen home
to look into this aspect.
Because the robbery had violated
Federal law, the FBI came into the case.
Leonard Blaylock, agent in charge of
the Indianapolis office, and other
agents began studying the statements
taken from the victims.
Then word came from a State Police
squad that Whalen’s automobile had
been found. It stood in the middle of
South Meridian Street and Banta Road,
less than two miles from the bank. Its
motor still was running.
“Try to find some witnesses,” Lieu-
tenant Sutton ordered. “He must have
transferred to another car there.”
The witnesses soon were found. They
said another car had come from the
west in Banta Road and stopped just
as the black Oldsmobile pulled up. A
man got out of the Oldsmobile and
walked to the front seat of the other
car. They had thought little of this at
the time and were not aware that the
man had left in the other car until the
Oldsmobile had been discovered aban-
doned.
Nozopy was sure just what kind of
car the other one was, nor had any-
body they talked to taken the license
number. Some thought it was a special
Ford, others said it was an Oldsmobile.
But on several other points the wit-
nesses agreed: The car was a new one,
probably a 1956 model; it was cream
and pink; it had driven north.
That was in the direction of Indian-
apolis. Why hadn't he driven south,
toward the boundary of Marion Coun-
ty? Did the robber and his accomplice
with the second car have a bold plan
to hide out in the city? Or did they plan
to drive through Indianapolis and es-
cape to the north, hoping that pursuit
would be diverted toward the southern
section of the county?
Captain Dillon realized that the get-
away car might thread a circuitous
route through the maze of Indianapolis
streets and head out in any direction.
He knew, too, that the witnesses could
have been mistaken about the kind of
car. He ordered the road blocks con-
tinued, with instructions to stop all
cream and pink cars trying to leave the
county. ‘
After FBI Agent-in-Charge Blaylock
had studied the reports and his agents
had questioned the victims, there
seemed no question that this was the
work of the same gang that had robbed
the Union State Bank of Carmel, a
community of 1000 fifteen miles north
of Indianapolis.
i THAT robbery, about ten o’clock on
Sunday evening, September 25, 1955,
Miss Thyrza Peters, 45, cashier of the
Union State Bank in Carmel, sat with
her sister, Miss Mary Evelyn Peters,
32, and her mother, Mrs. Eunice Pe-
ters, 69, in the living room of their re-
mote farm home near Whitestown. The
doors were unlocked.
Suddenly two men stood before them.
One was tall and slender, the other
short and stocky; both were grotesque-
looking in nylon stocking masks. Each
held a pistol leveled in the direction of
the three women.
“Just be quiet,” said the tall man,
who appeared to be the leader, “and
nobody will get hurt.”
His voice was soft and his manner
self-confident. His partner seemed
nervous and ill-at-ease, scuffing his toes
and fidgeting as he waited for the other
to do the talking.
“What do you want?” Miss Peters
demanded.
“We want money, Thyrza,” the tall
man replied.
He then directed the three women to
a bedroom and commanded them to lie
face down on the bed. Then he stood at
the door and told them that he
planned to rob the bank.
During the long hours that followed,
the stocky man stood at the dodr, Rold-
ing a gun, while the leader went
through the house, ransacking dresser
drawers and other places where articles
of value might be kept. Some time after
midnight he raided the refrigerator,
bringing lemon pie and pop to his con-
federate.
They stood at the door and feasted,
but refused to allow any of the women
to move, even to go to the bathroom.
Mrs. Peters suffered from a heart con-
dition and her daughters pleaded that
she not be harmed.
“Just do as we say and nobody will
be hurt.”
About four o'clock, after six torturous
hours, the women were told to get up.
* MOTORISTS HAD long been aware of the auto-
matic traffic signal at the intersection of Third Street
and Cheyenne Avenue in Tulsa, Oklahoma. This was
true of the dedicated 23-year-old assistant pastor when
he stopped his Oldsmobile for a red light on Sunday
afternoon, June 17th. But he didn’t realize that moments
later this same light would be more than a stop signal.
The red would mean danger and death!
The Reverend Tommy Robert Cooke mused over a ser-
mon he was to deliver in another hour at the Glenwood
Baptist Church as he waited for the light to turn green.
His contemplation was broken by a rasping voice coming
in the open window from the sidewalk side of the street.
“Keep your mouth shut,” the voice said, “and do what
I tell you and you'll be okay.”
Tommy Cooke turned his head and found himself look-
ing down the barrel of a snub-nosed handgun. It was held
by a curly-headed, harmless-looking fellow in a figure-
splotched, cheap sports shirt and it was shielded froin
gg curious passersby by its owner’s almost emaciated
y.
“I'm coming in,” the intruder said in a low tone, “and
when I do, start driving.”
The young minister sat silently behind the wheel as his
20
Capt. Harry Stege, Sheriff Neville Kerr and Sgt. Felix Raiford with corpse at spot where the minister was found.
kidnaper opened the door and dropped down on the front
seat beside him. He felt the jab of the man’s pistol in his
side and heard him say again, “Hit out for U. S. 64 and
drive south.”
Tommy Cooke said nothing as he drove toward the
limits of the city. He probably did have some thoughts on
the irony of the situation, however. Many times in the past
he had been chided by his family and his friends for his
habit of picking up hitchhikers. He had always explained
that he indulged in the risky business because it offered
him a chance to expound the gospel. He was certain that
in several instances his custom of never turning down a
man or woman plodding the highway had won converts.
Young Cooke didn’t have the slightest idea that the
character who sat beside him with the ever-ready gun was
Edward Leon “Pete” Williams, a ruthless, unreconstructed
criminal of 32, only two months out of State Prison at
Michigan City, Indiana. The ex-convict had also done time
in Texas, Missouri and Colorado, and in almost every
instance on convictions ‘of armed robbery.
The car captive didn’t say a word until they had turned
south on U. S. 64. Then he began talking Christianity to
the gunman on his right. For an hour and a half he talked
and his captor listened dourly. Finally Williams broke into
the lecture with a growl. “Turn into a service station at
Bixby. Your gas is running low. And fork over five bucks
so I can pay for it. You say anything to anybody when we
DETECTIVE CASES
A man of violence was waiting
at the corner
when a man of God
stopped for a traffic signal
by Louis Gregg
stop and you get a load of lead in your guts.”
The younger pastor obeyed orders at Bixby and the stop
was without incident. Soon they were headed down the
highway again, and Cooke picked up his informal sermon.
“Tl forget the whole thing,” he told the ex-con, “if you
put away your gun and promise to start a new kind of life.”
Williams only sneered.
Some ten miles short of the tiny Oklahoma town of Taft,
the gunman waved Cooke off U. S. 64 into a rutted, dead-
end side road. For two and a half miles they drove down
the deserted trail and then Williams said, “Pull up alongside
that clump of brush and pile out.”
Cooke stopped the Oldsmobile and stepped to the ground
on the left hand side of the car. Williams was directly
behind, goading him in the back with his pistol. They
walked straight ahead for twenty-five yards and then, with-
out a word of warning, the kidnaper raised the pistol and
shot his victim through the back of the head.
As unemotionally as a farmer handling a sack of oats,
he reached down and grabbed the body by the back of
Cooke’s gray sports jacket and snaked it into the bushes
and tall grass on the lonely banks of the Arkansas River.
The killer stood for a moment looking down at the young
pastor whose life he had taken in cold blood. Then he
climbed into the driver’s seat, drove back to U. S. 64 and
continued his journey southward. His destination was Tali-
hina, and the store of a kindly couple who had befriended
DETECTIVE CASES
May, 196k.
bandit.
The Rev. Thomas R. Cooke was surprised at an intersection.
him and given him an opportunity to earn a decent living
despite his background as a desperado.
When Williams had returned to Oklahoma after his
release from Indiana State Prison, Mr. and Mrs. Walter
Jacobson of Talihina had taken him into their thriving
general store. But a normal life bored the habitual criminal
and on Thursday, June 14th, he had jumped his job without
a word to his benefactors.
ARLY on the morning of the 16th, Williams had driven
a Pontiac into the Hudson Service Company gasoline
station on South Peoria Avenue in Tulsa. The attendant
on duty, came out to wait on him and was met by the
muzzle of a gun.
“Fork over your dough, fella,” the ex-convict ordered.
Having only $30 on the premises and knowing it wasn’t
worth the chance of a gunshot, the attendant readily obliged.
Once the bandit had driven off, the oil station attendant
dashed to the phone and described the bandit and his
getaway car to the police. A few minutes later, Night
Patrol Officer Ray DeVoe spotted the Pontiac and gave
chase. In the ensuing race, the gunman crashed his machine
at 37th Street and Yale Avenue. He was unhurt, however,
and crawled out of the wreckage and slipped away into
the darkness. Twenty squad cars and a police plane were
soon patroling the area, but were unable to turn up the
21
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were the bur-
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in a sermon
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be with them
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any longer. (South Carolina law forbids a
guilty plea to a murder charge because that
would constitute suicide. Murder carries
the death penalty . . . but an accused may
agree to the life-imprisonment sentence
that automatically goes with a guilty ver-
dict when a jury recommends mercy. . . .)
Robert Riviera, 22, one of several Tex-
ans due to be tried for wounding Tennessee
State Trooper J. W. Billbrey after they
fled the Georgetown, Tex., jail and staged
a wild crime spree in Dover, Tenn., (Six
Against The World, April Front Pace,
1957) escaped from State Prison in Ten-
nessee along with another con. Riviera and
George F. Capron scrambled over the hos-
pitar wall and made off into the country-
side. Riviera was already serving a 30-year
sentence for armed robbery; Capron was
serving five to 15 years for robbery.
Officials said the cons made their escape
between two guard towers manned by
prison officers. The two officers involved
were accused of “neglect of duty” and dis-
missed from their positions. State law en-
forcement agencies were warned that
Riviera “is dangerous and will bear watch-
ing” if and when he is found.
William Wetzel, 33, died in the gas
chamber at Parchman,. Miss., for the mur-
der of fellow convict Edgar (sonny) Mc-
Graw while serving a 30-year term for
armed robbery at Parchman. William,
whose brother Frank allegedly killed two
patrolmen during an escape from a New
York mental institution in an attempt to
free William (Thicker Than Water, March
FRONT PAGE, 1958), said when learning his
final appeal had been turned down, “Well,
I owe a lot of people letters and I will
have to stay up tonight writing them.” But
later, his air of calm began to disinte-
grate. As he was led down the death-row
corridor toward the gas chamber, he
stopped at various cells to say goodby
He lingered at one cell to say, “Buddy, I
surely thought you’d go before I did.”
When strapped into-the. chair, his face be-
gan to work. As attendants walked from
the chamber, leaving him alone with the
pellet of poison gas, William Wetzel took
on a wild look and twisted around in his
2 ein ei ta
chair, fighting the straps. “I wish I could
be out there looking in like you!” he
screamed at the 17 witnesses who were
watching him through a glass partition.
Then he subsided, and died quietly with a
psalm on his lips . . . His brother, already
convicted of the murder of one of two
slain patrolmen, W. L. Reece, was sen-
tenced to life in prison because of the
jury’s recommendation of mercy based
upon his past history of mental sickness.
However, he still faces trial for the second
patrolman’s: murder and could conceivably
follow his brother into death by execution.
Elaine Soule, pretty typist from Free-
port, L. I., faces a five-year-to-life sentence
following the.decision of a jury that she
was sane when she killed her roommate,
Catherine (Kit) Elvins in Redwood City,
Cal. (J Murdered My Roomie Because,
November Front Pace, 1957). However,
even after the verdict was in, Judge Frank
Blum said he would recommend that Miss
Soule be transferred from Corona State
Prison For Women to a state mental hos-
pital for’ extensive psychiatric treatment.
A hint of a “partial insanity” decision was
given during the trial by four psychiatrists
who said they considered Miss Soule, 20,
“mentally ill” but “legally sane.” Defense
attorney John A. Cost said that this repre-
sented “splitting hairs to come up with a
desired conclusion. . . .”
Elmer (Trigger) Burke, 39, died in Sing
Sing prison’s electric chair for the bar-
room slaying of his pal, Edward (Poochie)
Walsh, but he maintained absolute silence
about his reputed knowledge of loot in the
famous Boston Brink’s robbery (Rem-
brandt Of The Machine Gun, December
Front Pace, 1955). Three times in the
past, Burke’s life was prolonged by stays
of gxecution, but he failed to get that
fourth and all-important reprieve.
Edward Leon (Pete) Williams, sentenced
to death for the kidnaping of a young
Tulsa ministerial student in Tulsa County,
Okla., (Going My Way Brother Sin? Oc-
tober Front Pace, 1956) received a delay
in his execution date. William was sched-
uled to die in January, 1958, for kid-
naping Tommy Cooke. Earlier, he had re-
ceived a life sentence in Muskogee County
for killing the student after forcing him
to drive from Tulsa to a point near Taft,
as well as a 50-year sentence for robbery.
Mrs. Lydia Dean, beautiful Filipino wife
and mother, who was on trial for the fatal
shooting of her American husband, Ser-
geant Ronald Dean, after he demanded a
divorce in order to marry a British woman
expecting a child fathered by him (/ Killed
The Man I Love, April FRONT PAGE, 1958),
was acquitted by a Franklin, Pa., jury.
Spectators cheered as Mrs. Dean and her
mother wept for joy.
William Rose, who shared others’ wealth
with friends and business acquaintances
last year in Ellenville, N. Y., and watched
many of these “beneficiaries” draw prison
sentences and fines for their part in the
$1,400,000 swindle that wrecked Rose’s
Home National Bank (We’re Behind You,
Uncle Bill, March Front Pace, 1957),
finally reaped his reward. A New York
federal judge sentenced him to five years
in jail for misapplication of bank funds.
Joseph Di Candia of the nearby Anjopa
Paper Compuany, who invested part of
$958,000 in loans from Rose in wine,
women and song, was sentenced to three
years for his part in the deal. Mrs. Celia
Hoffman and Mrs. Ana Schandler, two
sisters who put every cent of $333,000
from Rose into their struggling hotel in
Fallsburg, N. Y., got suspended sentences
of two years each. To Rose’s stockholders.
who lost a cool $1,000,000, the judge ex-
tended his sincere sympathy.
Edward Gein, who allegedly confessed
slaying and butchering a woman store-
keeper in his hometown of Plainfield, Wis.,
another woman storekeeper earlier, and
stealing corpses from women’s graves
(Butcher Of Plainfield, March Front
PacE, 1958), has begun what will prob-
ably be a lifetime in a mental institution.
Two psychiatrists testified that Gein be-
lieved he was “ordained by God” to kill,
and that he had robbed a dozen graves to
obtain skulls and face masks to “substitute
human parts for the companionship of
human beings.” But many citizens of
Plainfield were not pleased with the de-
ision to put Gein in Central State Hos-
ital For The Criminally Insane at Wau-
pun, Wis., instead of having him tried and
punished under normal processes of the
law. Village President Harold Collins said
Gein’s former neighbors were “extremely
disappointed.” Explaining this reaction, he
said, “The people of my town feel that
the normal path of justice has been de-
toured.” He added that Plainfield residents
feared Gein would eventually be freed.
1]
Cra tay / Vg Cory / | vA on
The Cleanup Spot
George Lowell Everett Jr., 21, con-
demned rape slayer who escaped from the
Panama City, Fla., jail, was captured the
following night at Columbus, Ga., the FBI
announced. He was recognized on the street
and arrested without resistance, Everett
was convicted and sentenced to death in
May, 1955, for raping, stabbing and stran-
gling former Oklahoma beauty queen Mrs.
Lou Ellen Jones, 21, wife of an Air Force
sergeant, in their duplex home (My Con-
science Is Driving Me Nuts, May FRONT
PAGE, 1955). Everett presumably fled -to
Columbus to contact his mother and step-
father, who live there.
The trial of. seven white men accused
of beating a negro for saying “Hello, Baby”
to a white school teacher, ended. suddenly
in Bushnell, Fla. with an acquittal verdict
ordered by the judge at the request of both
the defense and prosecution attorneys
(Nightmare In Wildwood, Fla., February
FRONT PAGE, 1957). Circuit Judge Truman’.
O. Futch ruled the state had not presented
enough evidence for a conviction. He told
the six-man jury there was no alternative to
an acquittal. The judge made his decision
after the prosecutor said some of the de-
fendants had changed their stories and he
failed to get an alleged confession by one
of them admitted as evidence. The seven
had been tried on charges of taking negro
Jesse Woods from the Wildwood, Fla., jail
last October and flogging him. Woods had
denied making the remark but said he could
not identify his attackers. Acquitted were
Max Stumborg, of Wildwood; Leman
Lundy, of Belleview; Doyle Charles Polk,
of Oxford; Keith Sands, George Altman,
Robert Newsmith and Ezekial Alderman.
Seven more Americans, critically injured
in Tijuana, Lower California, Mexico,
underwent emergency treatment after being
“bailed out” of a Tijuana hospital which
allegedly gave them inadequate attention .
after a head-on crash. American Consul
General Robert F. Hale opened an investi-
gation into the case. The victims reported-
ty had received no treatment for multiple
fractures or other injuries when admitted
to a San Diego, Cal., hospital (You. Get
Taken Below The Border, December
FRONT PAGE, 1956). A spokesman for the
Mercy Hospital in San Diego said “They
got very brief medical care, if any. No
broken bones were set, there was no band-
aging, no nothing. All are on the critical
list and have special duty nurses. Specialists
from San Diego are treating the fractures.”
But a doctor from the Miguel Aleman Hos-
pital in Tijuana denied the patients had
received: improper attention. A San Diego
ambulance driver claimed that a total of
$700 was paid to hospital officials for re-
lease of the victims from the Tijuana hos- .
pital. The doctor said he had no knowledge
of such a payment and referred the question
to other authorities.
Robert Lyons was acquitted in Cincin-
nati, O., where he stood trial for the alleged
murder of Mrs. Audrey Evers Pugh,
wealthy young society matron who was
slain in her palatial Cincinnati home in
April, 1956. Lyons a water meter reader,
had read the Pugh meter on the day Mrs.
Pugh was killed (The Man Who Comes
Around, September FRONT PAGE, 1956).
After his arrest, and a confession which he
later repudiated, Lyons was dismissed
from his job “for being discourteous to the
public.” He failed to file an appeal of this
‘dismissal within the ten days required by-
law, and later withdrew from ‘the city re-
tirement system his accumulated contribu-
tions amounting to. $2,437.31. Soon after,
the city agreed to reinstate Lyons as a
Waterworks Department employe, the job
given him not to involve contact with the
public. Lyons was to become a water meter
service man at a city repair shop. He said
he was eager to get back to work.
Angelo John LaMarca, found guilty of
kidnaping and first-degree murder in the
death of infant Peter Weinberger last July
(Little Peter Is Dead, December FRONT
PAGE, 1956), was sentenced to die in the
electric chair. The execution was stayed
pending court review of, the evidence: A
jury of twelve fathers brought in the ver-
dict in Nassau County (N.Y.) Court after
deliberating six hours and 36 minutes. The
trial lasted five weeks. LaMarca, a 31-year-
old mechanic, kept his chin tucked into his
chest, never looking up as he stood to hear
the jury foreman. There was no sign of
emotion on his pale, yellowish face. But his ,
wife, Donna, also 31, fainted. His mother,
58, started towards the courtroom door and
then slid to the floor. LaMarca had pleaded
innocent by reason of insanity caused by
worry over debts incurred to pay household
items. He had left a ransom note demanding
$2000: when he snatched the child from the
Weinberger patio on Long Island. He was
arrested last August and the next day the
infant’s remains were found in a tangle of
honeysuckle and brambles a short distance
from LaMarca’
- Edward Leon (Pete) Williams, 28, has
been sentenced to life imprisonment for
the murder of Tommy Robert Cooke, Tulsa,
Okla., student minister (Going My Way,
Brother Sin? October FRONT PAGE, 1956),
following a surprise guilty plea. The judge
told Williams, “I will. never recommend
parole as long as I live.” Williams had
earlier pleaded innocent. He reversed the
plea on a. strong chance that he would
escape the trial with life imprisonment. The’
district attorney had earlier announced
intentions of seeking the death penalty for
Williams. Only six months before his death,
Cooke, a University of Tulsa student, had
decided to enter the ministry and was to
have been ordained .two weeks after his
death. Cooke was allegedly abducted and
shot to death in the head by Williams, who
was captured in Porteau, Okla., after a day-
Jong manhunt.
Elmer (Trigger) Burke has been denied
a hearing by the Supreme Court, in con-
nection with his death sentence for the
murder of Edward (Poochy) Walsh in a
New York Tavern in 1952 (Rembrandt of
the Machine Gun, December FRONT PAGE,
1955). Execution date was set for mid-
February. The two men were fighting in
the tavern on New York’s west side. Burke
claimed in his appeal that unfair newspaper
publicity denied him a fair trial. He told the
court he was tried on his alleged reputation
as a gangster rather than on the facts. The
New York Court of Appeals affirmed the
conviction July 11, 1956.
The Court of Appeals has upheld the
third-degree burglary conviction of Paul
W. Wirths Jr., 23, who admitted prowling
at the Oyster Bay, L. I., home of million-
‘aire sportsman William Woodward when
he was shot fatally by his wife in October,
1955 (Shoot First, Ask Questions Later,
February FRONT PAGE, 1956). Wirths, a
German alien, was accused of a series of
Long Island. burglaries and was sentenced
to ten to 20 years in Attica State Prison
as a second offender. The burglary charge
for which he was sentenced was not con-
nected with the Woodward incident but
Wirths allegedly admitted that he was
prowling at the estate when Mrs. Wood-
ward fired a shotgun blast at her husband.
She said she mistook Woodward, then
owner of the famous race horse, Nashua,
for a prowler.
Kenneth Schultz, 21, and David Jaku-
bowski, 21, pleaded guilty to the murder of
Glen Denny in the attempted robbery of a
Chicago tavern in September, 1956. (We
Were Dummies for Dice and Dolls, Janu-
ary FRONT PAGE, 1957). Judge Elmer N.
Holmgren, in the Cook County Criminal
Court, sentenced Jakubowski to life im-
prisonment and Schultz, who fired fatal
shots, to 99 years in prison, Jakubowski
will be eligible for parole at the end of 20
years, as against 33 years for Schultz. Two
patrons of the tavern who were wounded,
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APPROVED.
National
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‘enter. an appeal.
“Taboreky -( right) and Culombe
Joseph L. Taborsky and Arthur Culom-
be were found guilty of first-degree mur-
der in the six bullet-in-back-of-head slay-
ings that had all Connecticut in ferment
(The .Capture of Connecticut’s Kneel-
down-and- -die-dogs, June FRONT PAGE 1957).
Because of the amount of testimony in-
volved in the six ‘brutal killings, it turned
out to be the longest murder trial in Con-
necticut’s history. When the verdict was
finally brought into the Hartford court-
room, the judge immediately sentenced -
both men to death in the electric chair.
' Harry Washburn, under a 99-year sen-
‘tence for the car-bomb-murder of his for-
mer mother-in-law, Mrs. Helen Harris
Weaver (The Murder That Shook Texas,
May FRONT. PAGE, 1955), continued to pro-
test his innocence and said that he would
The 99-year sentence
capped the 41-year-old Houston contrac-
tor’s second trial. At. the first trial, he re-
ceived a. life’ sentence, but then the Court -
of Criminal Appeals ordered a new trial
and once again Washburn was convicted.
The state contended that Washburn had ac-
tually intended to kill Mrs. Weaver’s second
husband, Harry, a consulting architect, be-
cause he had prevented Mrs.. Weaver from
giving money to Washburn. (Washburn
was divorced from Mrs. Weaver’s daughter.
by a previous marriage.) Washburn then
planted the bomb in the car, but Mrs.
Weaver instead of her husband entered ‘it,
stepped on the starter and was blown to
bits in a tremendous explosion. .
Harry Winefield, 32, ocean-hopping bur-
glary suspect, was indicted on three charges
in connection with a $37,000 gem theft at
New York’s exclusive Savoy Plaza Hotel
(Bum Voyage, October FRONT PAGE, 1957).
His blonde: wife Carole Jenette, 26," had
better luck in Felony Court... . a charge
of criminally receiving stolen property was
-dismissed by Magistrate Joseph A. Mar-
tinis when Carole claimed she had not
known that a mink fur-piecé given her by
Harry was stolen property. But she didn’t
(left)
a.) vu UL!S V . LY
‘The Cleanup Spot |
received extreme penalty—death.
go scot free. She was continued held with-
out bail to await trial in Special Sessions
Court on a charge of illegal possession of
narcotics. The Winefields fled to” England
on the Dutch liner Maasdam, but British
’ officials, alerted by New York police, picked
them up on arrival at Southampton.
Nicholas .M. Kostic, 40, a steelworker
’ charged with slaying ‘his wife and a prom-
inent. Massilon, Ohio, physician (You'll
Never Lock Me Out Again, May FRONT
PAGE, 1956), pleaded guilty to two. counts
of second-degree murder. Common Pleas
Judge George N. Graham immediately sen-
tenced him to two consecutive life terms in
Ohio Penitentiary. Kostic will be eligible to
apply for parole after 20 years—he is re-
quired to serve at least ten years for the
murder of his estranged wife, Mary, 34, and
ten years for that of Dr. H. P. Hart, 72,
both cut-down by Kostic at Mary’s home .
in Massilon in a fussilade of shots.
Edward Leon (Pete) Williams, under
sentence of death for the kidnaping of
Tulsa ministerial student, Tommy Cooke
(Going My Way, Brother Sin?, October
FRONT PAGE, 1956), will not learn the re-
sults of his appeal for quite some time. The
judge’ reviewing his case, John A. Brett,
stated that the appeal poses one of the
most puzzling problems he. has seen to date.
Williams’ lawyers argued the following:
Their client had been tried for the murder
of Cooke (whom Williams shot after the
kidnaping) in the area where the killing
took place—Muskogee—and sentenced to
life imprisonment. Then. he was returned to
Tulsa where he pleaded guilty to kidnap- « 4
ing charges and was sentenced. by Judge -
Leslie Webb to death in the electric chair.
Now the crux of the defense’s appeal case
is whether Williams was sentenced to death
for the kidnaping or the murder. They argue
that it was the murder which earned Wil-
liams the death penalty; that if he’d come
up on pure kidnaping charges (with Cooke
alive), he’d have received something less
than death. But because he killed Cooke,
-
aa — ‘
he was sentenced to die. This, they claim,
constitutes double jeopardy—because Wil-
liams has already been tried and convicted
for the murder! ‘No wonder the judge said
that “the appeals ‘court is faced with an
extremely difficult task and will not be able
to reach a quick decision.”
Elmer David Bruner was convicted of
first-degree murder in Huntington, W. Va.,
without. recommendation of mercy. Since
the death penalty is mandatory in such
cases under West Virginia law, Bruner will
die for his crime unless-his lawyers are suc-
cessful in a motion made to set aside the
conviction: Bruner, a 40-year-old handy-
man who had been in and out of correction-
al institutions since he was ten, confessed
in a signed statement that he was robbing
a home when the owner, Mrs. Ruby H.
Miller surprised him. She ‘aimed a shotgun
at him, and he attacked her and beat her
so savagely that her head was “almost like
. jelly”—in the prosecution’s words—and she
4
+ Foy [46E Derecn 7146, ApvEYaER) 19572
died (The Perambulating Yard Man, Sep-
tember FRONT PAGE, 1957). Extra tension
was generated in the final minutes of. the
trial by guards who continuously patroled
the court, surveying the audience. This was
due to. telephoned threats made to the
prosecutor and his wife as well as to the
judge and his wife that they would be killed
if Bruner received the déath sentence.’ But
the anonymous caller failed to have any
effect on the workings of the -:ourt, and
Bruner now faces death by execution.
Richard Marx, 22, was found guilty of
the fatal shooting of Leonard M. Brown, 28,
during the attempted holdup of a five-and-
dime store on Kissena Boulevard in Flush-
ing, Queens, New York City. Marx, who
had also been involved in the shooting of
former Marine, Charlie Krauss, during a
holdup in Krauss’ cab (My Heart Pumped
Venom, June FRONT PAGE, 1957), was tense
and quiet as the all- male jury filed in. He
did not change expression as the foreman
delivered the verdict, guilty of murder in
the first degree with a recommendation of
WILLIAMS, Edward, wh, elec. OK (Tulsa) July 28, 1960
(TRUE POLICE CASES, October, 1382)
taba bir os 2am aboR Saka
wees
or could add little to Mrs
‘ome in from work about
‘rence hadn’t appeared to
tetective. Both Hunt and
1ey worked for different
separation from his wife
the adjoining apartment
with the Harrisons. No
meal which could have
‘; Potatoes, squash, bread
is if he was enjoying the
re I went to bed
asked me to coma Be
3s of cracked ice, which
it was when Mary Nell
vake him up. I felt his
uestioning as Perry re- 4 pe ’ ne ie
— called the officers : ‘i FONE a te
Olicitor what we Seat Hi y ; De rd voter PT ae
slogist. There'll b ss | .
e ) RPT | . ;
_ ; poe ey ; Above, police view corpse of Tommie Cooke, left, beloved young minister who had
shown many sinners the right road. Then he met the conscienceless killer, below.
Sinner meets the Saint
The preacher had strong faith in man. How was he to know a devil in disguise?
€ arrived to take Clar-
ome, where the autopsy
ogist Wendell L. Sowell
de Tepute, arrived in
‘nt immediately to the
by Houston County
ntinued on page 77]
ighbor are being held.
—— I
. t was a few minutes past midnight, Saturday, June 16,
a , 1956, when a worse-for-wear 1937 Pontiac pulled up at the
Hudson Oil Company service station on South Peoria Avenue
in Tulsa, Oklahoma. The area around the filling station was
dark and desolate, and Claudie Kirk, the attendant on duty,
walked rapidly toward the car, glad for a chance to exchange
a few words with a customer and to break the monotony of
the long night shift.
“Fill her up, Mister?” he asked cordially.
For a reply, Kirk got a .38-caliber pistol pushed close to
his face.
“Just take it easy and you won’t get hurt,” the man in the
car said. The gunman was burr-headed, squat and power-
fully built. He looked very much as if he meant business.
“Walk slowly into the office while I get out of the car,”
the bandit ordered.
Inside the office, the man took Claudie Kirk’s leather wallet
and removed $30 in bills. The cash register was empty, ex-
i cept for a few credit card slips and some small change, left
j over after the day’s receipts had been tallied and taken to
i the bank downtown.
ue “Go into the rest room, and don’t come out of there for
Yip > 10 minutes,” the gunman said. “If you come out any sooner,
Yy you may still find me around here. That wouldn’t be so
y good.” The thug waved the revolver to emphasize his mean-
ing.
Ten minutes later, after Kirk had notified the police,
several squad cars came racing to the scene. As they ques-
tioned the gas station attendant, the police officers never
guessed that this routine investigation was the beginning of
a 72-hour man hunt that would [Continued on page 52]
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[Continued from page 33]
of Charles Rath and of what he had
learned concerning the young man. Was
it possible, he asked himself, that Rath
had bought both gloves and socks from
the girl in two separate transactions?
The chief let his thoughts go back to
the time when he had arrived to find the
dead girl sprawled in the rain. Mentally
he pictured each move he had made and
as he remembered the diary he had found,
he hastened back to the undertaking par-
lor and talked again to the victim’s father.
When he left the morgue he drove to the
nearby town of Century and parked his
car in front of a little cottage. With the
pass-key he had obtained from the father,
he Iet himself into the house and soon
was standing in the bedroom which Ruth
Harris had occupied when she was at
home.
Once more his attention settled first
upon a dresser and he opened a top
drawer. ‘There was nothing to interest
him there, however, and he pulled at an-
other drawer. It was locked and he looked
at it in dismay. Then with a shrug he
abandoned the drawer and tried another.
All the others were unlocked, as was a
small trunk, but Nolan did not find any-
thing out of the ordinary. At last he fin-
ished lis. examination and once more his
gaze resicd on the locked drawer.
It did not take long to spring the flimsy
lock and as Nolan opened the drawer his
heart leaped at sight of another black
diary lying there. He recalled that. the
other diary had been started recently and
as he glanced at this one he saw that it
was first dated five years back, when Ruth
Harris had been a schoolgirl. He began
at the very first page, although he did not
expect to find much of interest. At last
he reached a date about two years pre-
vious and his eyes lighted: when he read
the words written in the girlish hand-
writing. Finally, when he read an item
which was dated five months before the
murder, his face hardened. Hastily put-
ting the book into his coat pocket he hur-
ried to his car.
This time he drove to a drug store
where he telephoned the office of the
timekeeper of a large lead mine about two
miles away. Making an entry in his note-
book at the end of the conversation, he
next stopped his automobile in front of
a rooming house on the edge of the little
town. After talking to the landlord of
this place a moment, he was shown to a
room on the second floor. The landlord
watched curiously as the officer began a
careful and systematic examination of all
the clothing in the room, but he asked
Nolan no questioiis, :
Presently the chief brought a dark suit
from the closet and inspected it with great
care. Then he pulled.a new pair of kid
gloves from a pocket of the coat and eyed
them with raised eyebrows. Suddenly he
put the gloves into his own pocket and,
warning the lodging house keeper to re-
main silent about the call, he left. Once
more the officer visited the business sec-
tion of the little town and entered the
only men’s furnishing store in town. A
grim smile was on his rugged face. when
he returned to the room in the lodging
house and sat down to wait.
Shortly after 5 o’clock the door opened
and a tall young man'stopped in surprise
when he saw the uniformed officer.
Comely Ruth Harris, left, was the
victim of the crazed slasher who
struck in front of the old house,
top, in Picher, Okla. Police Chief
Joe Nolan, above left, and Con-
stable Roy Jameson trapped the
killer of the pretty shopgirl.
“WI
“What
Nola
do yo
coolly,
Walt
whose 1
he kne:
a loss f
uninvit
Nola:
“Wigg:
arrest
The
eyes nz
trying t
denly.
Picher
killed.”
With: |
brough:
from t!
this,” h«
today f:
so shoc
temper.
him an:
if he c;
hair an’
with the
Carries.
awfully ;
for he i:
“Here
“Wealte:
he would
was goil!
Picher \
gets ove:
Once n
man. Sur
Wigger s
ligerently
right! I °
ing. She
Wolsey
when the:
Nolan ho:
ing Wigg
explained
diary a r
thought i
have writ
Charles }
as being:
lent a cri:
man had ;
Then wh.
ing entri:
fairly sur
quainted
diary had
name in t
chief did :
T:
the house
door. H
the two ;
nodded w!
were seek
man who «
from Kan
front roo:
whether h,
ing the da:
As quie:
mounted t!
Seepain c
ike rapp:
dark, no ]i
of the susp
again and
“Why, hello, Joe,” he greeted Nolan.
“What are you doing here?”
- Nolan smiled at the young man. “What
do you think, Walter?” he countered
coolly,
Walter Wigger, the young lead miner
_ whose room had been invaded by an officer
he knew well, suddenly found himself at
a loss for words. He merely stared at his
uninvited guest.
Nolan did not stand on ceremony.
“Wigger,” he snapped, “you: are under
.arrest for murdering Ruth Harris!”
The suspect glared at the chief and his
eyes narrowed to slits. “What are you
trying to do, frame me?” he shouted sud-
denly. “I didn’t even know Ruth was in
bbs id until I. heard that she had been
illed.”
Without answering the outburst, Nolan -
brought out the diary he had brought
from the dead girl’s home. “Listen to
this,” he grated. “ ‘Walter and I quarreled
today for the first time and I was never’
so shocked in my life as at his terrible
temper. He accused me of trifling with
him and said he would cut my head off
if he caught me at it. He grabbed my
hair and showed me how he would do it
with that big fisherman’s knife he always
carries. Oh, what am I going to do? I am
awfully afraid he will carry out his threats
for he is insanely jealous,’
“Here is more,” the officer said calmly,
“*Walter told me again last night that
he would cut my throat if he thought he
was going to lose me. I am going to
Picher where he won’t find me until he
gets over his crazy ideas,’”
Once more Nolan looked at the trapped
man. Surprisingly, instead of squirming,
Wigger suddenly thrust out his chin bel-
ligerently and shouted: “You're dead
right! I killed her and she had it com-
ing. She two-timed me!”
Wolsey and Jameson were astounded
when they learned of the arrest, and asked
Nolan how he had succeeded in connect-
ing Wigger with the murder. The chief
explained that he had noticed in the new
diary a reference to an older one and
thought it possible -that the girl might
have written a clue to her killer there.
Charles Rath had impressed the officer
as being much too timid to commit so vio-
lent a crime and the evidence against the
man had also been of a very weak nature.
Then when Nolan found the incriminat-
ing entries in the second diary he felt
fairly sure of his ground. He was ac-
quainted with Wigger and although the
diary had not mentioned the man’s last
name in. the most important entries, the
chief did find it a few pages back, where
the girl had first recorded her introduc-
tion to the miner. Nolan knew where
Wigger worked for he had worked with
the suspect before joining the police
force, and the call to the mine had been
merely to learn the man’s home address
and whether he was now working the day
shift or at night.
The timekeeper had volunteered the
information that the miner had been al-
most an hour late in reporting that morn-
ing and this tied in with what the chief
later learned: at the store in Century.
He had visited Wigger’s room think-
ing it probable that he would find blood-
stained clothing there. In this he had
been mistaken, for the killer had stood
behind his victim and thus escaped the
spurting blood in spite of the ghastly
wound he had inflicted. But Nolan had
found the new gloves and noticed the
name of the Century store on a little
sticker in one of them. He deduced that
Wigger had anticipated that the police
might suspect him and learn of his pur-
chase of gloves from the Harris girl and
thus had sought to prepare an alibi for
himself by showing the new gloves as
the ones purchased from her.
Nolan had felt sure that the killer in
his haste to escape had removed a glove
to pocket his knife and dropped both the
glove and the weapon. Fearing to tarry
and search for them, he had left the val-
uable clues behind. Then when the officer
learned that Wigger had bought the
gloves in Century, his tardiness for work
that morning was accounted for.
Now the salesgirl in the Picher store
came forward: and positively identified
Wigger as the man who had bought a
pair of gloves from the victim on Oct. 23,
1926, the day of her death. She said she
. had been so upset by the tragedy when
the officers had talked to her that she
= been unable to remember his visit at
alt,
On January 3, 1927, Walter Wigger
faced a jury in the district court at Miami,
county seat of Ottawa county. The trial
lasted four days and the defense was one
of insanity. But on Jan. 7 Wigger was
found guilty and on Jan. 10 Judge J. J.
Smith told the killer that he must dic in
the electric chair at the Oklahoma state
penitentiary at McAlester.
Guards led Wigger to.the chair at 7
o’clock on the morning of June 22, 1928.
He cursed them until the current was ap-
plied. A few minutes passed, and then
Walter Wigger had paid in full for his
ghastly crime.
(To protect. the identity of an innocent mun the
name Charles Rath as used in this story is
fictitions.—Ed.)
Triple Death and the Giant Gunman
[Continued from page 48]
the house and an old man opened the
door. He was plainly surprised to see
the two policemen, but to thei? relief he
nodded when Pike described the man they
were seeking. “That must be the young
man who came here day before yesterday
from Kansas City,” he said. “He has the
front room upstairs but I don’t know
whether he is in or not, for I work dur-
ing the day and my wife is not at home.”
As quietly as possible the patrolmen
mounted the creaking stairs and took up
positions on either side of the door. Then
Pike rapped sharply. Although it was
dark, no light showed beneath the door
of the suspect’s room and after knocking
again and receiving, no answer, Pike
grasped the knob. The door was not
locked and he flung it open suddenly.
No noise came from the room. ‘Whe
shades were closely drawn. The men
held their breath to listen for the sound
of breathing. Pike drew his revolver as
he stepped through the doorway.
Walking to a dresser, Webb pulled out
the drawers and found them empty. A
clothes closet was bare and there was no
sign that anyone was staying there. \ith
dismay, the men realized that the wily
criminal had anticipated their tracing him
and had fled. .
Pike’s jaw set in determined lines and
he called to the landlord who had re-
mained downstairs. He questioned the
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81
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TUME WME
examining the keen-edged 4-inch blade.
In spite of the fact that it had been
exposed to the pouring rain there was
blood on the blade where it joined the
back of the handle.
Nolan searched the ground about the
chat pile for another five minutes. When
he discovered nothing else, he retumn-
ed to Wolsey and showed the deputy
what he had found. .
6 HE killer threw them .away, or
dropped them as he ran,” Chief
Nolan said. “I doubt that the. knire
will lead us to him, for there’s probably
not less than a hundred like this in the
town; but the glove is a different story.
In the first place, it’s new. We've a
chance to find where it was bought. Too,
this is a mining town—and miners just
don’t wear kid gloves! So you see—"
He was interrupted by the arrival of |
Coroner Green with the ambulance.
Green examined the body of the pitiful
victim. He announced, “She died al-
most instantly. There was probably no
attempt at a criminal attack, though
I can’t be sure until after the autopsy.
I'll let you know what I find.”
When the corpse had been removed,
Nolan and Wolsey went inside the
boarding house. “I want to examine the
girl's personal effects,” Nolan said.
“In spite of what the landlady says,”
Wolsey commented, when they were’
alone in the girl’s room, “the most
reasonable theory is that a jealous lover
killed her. No robbery motive. No sex
motive. So what? Even if the landlady
says she had few boy-friends, she was
young and good looking, and it isn’t
likely that she*didn't have an admirer
who was desperately in love with her.
That’s the angle we should work from.”
“Yeah,” Nolan agreed. “Or some
crack-pot killed her when she wouldn’t
= RUTH HARRIS FLED FROM THE ATTEN
‘TIONS OF AN UNWELCOME SUITOR, ONLY.
0 HAVE DEATH CATCH UP. WITH HER.
A SHORT STEP AWAY FROM SA
TO
have anything to do with him, That
happens many times.”
The two officers began with the dress-
er and spent more than an hour in the
girl's room. Wolsey unearthed a little
packet of letters tied with a blue rib-
ben, but none of them were from men.
At last the officers gave up, convinced
that the room held no clue that would
aid them in the solution of the crime.
They left the house after cautioning
the landlady not to permit ‘anyone else
to enter the room
Back at headquarters Chey met more
disappointment. ‘The patrolmen on the
force had not apprehended any) suspi
cious characters on the streets of Picher.
Nolan told Wolsey that they had better
wail for daylight before combining, the
investigation,
We neat morning Chiel Nolin told
Wolsey the first. part of his’ plan.
“EN talk te the girl's parents, for
we
me
i
aa i ‘
SIP a ele Seu?
THE ATTEN-
Fi a ‘ J
ene
ae)
they’re sure to be at the morgue this
morning. ‘Too, I'll question the employes
at the store,where the girl worked. Then
I'm going to canvas the town and try
to: find where that kid glove was
boyght.””
Wolsey nodded as Nolan went on.
“You check up on the people Ruth
Harris associated with, here and in Cen
tury. Make a list of them. Double-
cheek an any male acquaintances, for
she was bound to have had some. We
may strike a lead to Gne who was nuts
about her, but who she didn't care about
in turn.”
When Wolsey was on his way, Nolan
went to the department store where
Miss Harris had worked. The manager
quickly arranged: tor him to interview
the various clerks.
The fist person to enter the office
was an elderly man, He knew nothing
about the affairs of the dead girl, other
than the fact that she was employed
there. Next a girl entered and the offi-
cer was soon convinced that she would
be of no help to him. Two more young
women were questioned by the patient
pcliceman, but neither could throw any
light on the case, other than the state-
ments that Ruth Harris had been well-
liked in the store, that she talked little
about her personal affairs, and so far
as they knew, she had no boy-friends
since coming to Picher to work.
With cnly one salesgirl left to ques-
tion, Nolan feared that his efforts were
going to bring him nothing. He asked
the girl whether she knew of anyone
who might be guilty of the guilling.
His heart quickened when he noticed
her hesitate
“No, L don't know anyone—" she said
in a low voice, Then, “Unless—well,
there was a young inan who kept hang
ing around Ruth’s counter last week.”
OKLAHOMA
LAW ump
“Yes. Go on,” Nolan said.
“Well, twice I heard them arguin
about something. But when I got clos
they would quit talking until I passe
by. Ruth looked upset, and the ma
seemed to be pleading with her abo
something.”
“You know him?”
“No.”
“Was he ‘in the store yesterday?’
“Ves, 1 saw him at her counter agi
yesterday afternoon. He had just boug!
something from her and she had
wrapped, so T don't know what it wi
But I do know that they had been qua
reling again, He went out of the stor
fast, like he was angry.”
The clerk went on to describe t!
man as having been about twenty-tiy
rather tall and wearing a blue suit, lig
cap and tans exfords She added) th
(Continued on page 55)
|
ee nena
WIGGER,
4 6.1.6
(3
chad an extra pai
Beane ae could not explain.
fo)
BY G. H. PIPES
RETTY 18-year-old Ruth
Harris was thinking about
everything in the world but
death, this evening of October 20,
as she hurried along the dark
street in the outskirts of Picher,
Oklahoma. She tightly clutched
her folded umbrella and qhicken-
ed her steps as she glanced nerv-
ously at the approaching storm
clouds. A vivid streak of light-
ning made her cringe and a clap
of thunder shook the earth be-
neath her feet. If only she could
reach her boarding house before
the storm broke.
A sigh of relief escaped her lips
as she reached the gate to her
lodging on C Street. She had nev-
er seen the light shine through the
dingy little boarding house win-
dows with such warmth and wel-
come. It was good to be home!
Her slim hand went out to open
the gate. Then a dark figure ap-
peared behind her. She screamed
into the face of the storm winds -
as a strong hand seized her long
hair, jerking her head violently
backward. A knee jammed rough-
ly into the small of her back. She
started to scream again, but the
sound died as her assailant lifted
a knife and brought it down swift-
ly to be buried in her white
throat.
Thunder drowned the gurgling
sound which came after the knife
was withdrawn and _ brought
lengthwise across her neck, sever-
ing the windpipe and penetrating
almost to the spinal column.. She
fell in a pitiful little heap before
the unopened gate, the first drops
38
of rain trying bravely. to wash
away the crimson flood.
Then the killer moved away un-
der the cloak of darkness, and the
storm broke with all its fury.
HIEF of Police Jcseph Nolan had
been listening to the downpour of
rain and was teady to call it a day
when the telephone rang. At first he
cculdn’t make head or tail of what the
woman at the other end of the line was
trying to say. First she would cry, then
she ‘would identify herself as the land-
lady of a boarding house; then there
was. something abcut a girl named Ruth
with her throat, cut.
At last Nolan managed to calm the
woman enough so that he understood
where her place was and he hastily
promised to come there at once.
Chief of Police Joseph Nolan
arrested the girl's killer.
“What is it?’? Deputy Sheriff Milton
Wolsey asked, as Nolan grabbed for
his raincoat.
“Some trouble at a boarding house at
the edge of town. Girl with her throat
cut. Let’s go.”
When the police car stcpped in front
of the house on C Street, the terrorized
landlady ran to meet the two officers.
She pointed. hysterically at the form of
the girl lying on the ground. Nolan turn-
ed his flashlight in pitiful sight.
Ruth Harris was ‘lying on her back
and both officers shuddered for the light
revealed that her head had been almost
severed from her slender body.
Chief Nolan called the landlady away
from the gathering ¢rowd. He learned
little from her, except that she had
heard a scream. When she had looked
from her front porch, a flash of light-
ning had revealed the dying girl. She
had not seen the attacker.
“Her name was Ruth Harris,” the
landlady went on. “She was a nice lit-
tle girl, and I don’t know why on earth
anyone wculd want to do this horrible
thing to her. She just came to stay with
me abcut six months ago.’
- The landlady went on to say that
the girl’s parents lived in the nearby
town of Century, and that Ruth had
come to Picher to work in a downtown
department store, which she named.
“Ruth was just getting home from work
when this happened,” the landlady add-
ed,
Chief Nolan returned to the body.
Deputy Wolsey had picked up a large
purse from the ground. The officers
opened it and found the usual array of
women’s cosmetics, along with twenty-
five dollars in currency and eighty-six
cents in small change.
“Robbery wasn’t the motive.’ Nolan
grcwled, playing his light over the
grcund. “See what else you can find
and I'll call the coroner.”
He went to the telephone inside the
bcarding house and called Coroner Or-
ville Green who operated a funeral par-
lcr in Picher. Then he called headquar- °
ters and instructed the désk sergeant
to crder out every available officer to
duty.
“Pick up every man on the streets
who can’t give a good account of him-
self during the last hour or two!” Nolan
snapped. He felt that it was entirely
possible that a lunatic had committec
the crime and was now wandering the
streets .in search of more prey.
Outside again, Deputy Wolsey inform-
ed him that he had questioned most of
the girl’s neighbors. Because of the ap-
proaching storm, they had all been in-
side their homes. They had seen noth- -
ing. Nor did they know anything of
Ruth Harris’ perscnal affairs. The land-
lady had told Nolan that the girl had
CAN THO -
few boy-friends and was seldom gone
from the boarding house except to work
in the department store.
The chief left Wolsey with the body
and walked into the narrow street, play-
ing his light over the ground. He won-
dered if the killer had walked down
the street with the girl, or if he had
been hidden nearby ,knowing that she
would return’ from work at this hour.
Picher is a lead and zinc mining town.
Around the dozens of mines and moun-
tains of ‘‘chat” the town has grown.
This neighborhocd was no different than
the rest of the town. There were mines
nearby and piles of chat scattered every-
where.
The-storm was passing as Chicf No-
lan cressed the street to the huge chat
pile on the far side. This would be the
logical place for the killer to have hidden
before the attack, he decided.
He held the flashlight’ before him and
as he neared chat pile he stooped and
picked up something from the ground.
It was a man’s new unlined kid glove,
wet and soggy from the rain, yet the
side that had lain next to the ground
was unmistakably bloody.
With a grunt of satisfacticn, Nolan
danced his light still deeper into the
weeds at the base of the pile and was
again rewarded. This time his find was
an open jack-knife with a long blade.
“This is it!” he muttered to himself,
The murder knife and blood-stained glove were found
near the body. They were vital clues in the case.
‘| Be:
| Tough, tedious, foot-slogging police work suddenly began to pay off when alert investigators
A ; 1 }
m fet il *
geal :
T; i {
Peet
aa
3 ial ! i
ti
FR
Ling
EEE
Shetty,
ey ses BR
aS ah
eee
deste spcieds sek a diet Scene
i
ae
eon
Sa a a a as ae Seo
Nabbed for questioning, Williams lunged at cop, tried to break away—and was quickly handcuffed
38
tracked down a girl friend of the fugitive and traced his steps near the murder scene Z
: gleaming finish attested to the loving care the young
minister gave it.
- If there was one virtue the young minister had about
which there was absolutely no question, it was his punc-
tuality. As long as the Reverend Arnold had known the
young man, he had never known him to be late for
any appointment.
But it happened for the very first.time that same
evening. Incredible as it seemed, Tommy Robert Cooke
was late for his own sermon.
The thought of blaming the assistant pastor never
entered the mind of his superior. Reverend Arnold was
certain Tommy must have been delayed by some un-
avoidable circumstance. He took the pulpit himself and
preached a sermon, but when the young minister had
failed to appear, or even to telephone, by the time the
evening services were concluded, Reverend Arnold could
not suppress his concern,
This concern became genuine alarm when he was un-
able to reach him by phone. He kept calling, he could
hear the ringing on the wire, but no one answered.
Finally, a little before 9 p.m., the telephone was an-
swered by Tommy Cooke’s sister, with whom he made
his home. When Reverend Arnold told her he had been
trying to reach someone there for more than an hour
and a half, she explained that she had just returned
froma visit with friends in Atoka. :
Tommy was not at home, she said, and she didn’t
know where he was. However, she was sure he had
been there, because she’d noticed that the shower cur-
tain was wet and she could tell he had packed a suit-
case. His car was not in the garage.
Reverend Arnold, noting the concern in the woman’s
voice, tried to minimize his own fears in an effort to
reassure her. He was only partially successful, be-
cause the fact that her brother had not appeared to ;
deliver the sermon on which he had worked hard for
4 week was enough to convince her something very dras-
tic must have occurred. Nothing less, she knew, could
have kept Tommy away from the church when he was
scheduled to preach.
Reverend Arnold suggested that they both try call-
ing friends and acquaintances of Tommy; he might well
have contacted one of them if an emergency had arisen.
The pastor and Tommy’s sister were on the telephone
for the next several hours. They called his close friends
first, then extended their calls even to people they
knew only as casual acquaintances of his. And when
his friends learned that Tommy was missing and there
was concern for his whereabouts, they promptly joined
in the telephone search. It did not help. All through the
night they kept calling, but they found no trace of
Tommy Cooke. No one had seen him since the Sunday
morning service. No one had heard from him. No one
d any idea where he might be.
n the meantime, as these activities were proceeding
in the Tulsa area, another act in the tragic drama was
unfolding in LeFlore County, more than 100 miles to
the southeast. By coincidence, or possibly by design,
8 event also began around midnight. In Talihina, a
small town of about 1,000 population situated in the
foothills of Winding Stair Mountain, Mr. and Mrs. Jeb
arcus were awakened from a sound sleep by someone
Pounding at their door.
leepily pulling on a robe, Mr. Marcus went to the
Cor and opened it. The light from the inside hall fell
on the young man who stood outside and Marcus rec-
ognized him. He asked the young man what on earth
he wanted at this hour of the night.
I need dough, and I need it now,” the man said
rusquely,
Somewhat surprised at the other man’s tone and
manner, Mr. Marcus said amiably, “Well, I guess I can
you have a few dollars, Pete. I don’t keep much in the
use, though.”
Then let’s go where you keep it!” Pete snapped.
ny illusion that he had come to make a small loan
h ide him over some minor emergency was dispelled
> When Pete now produced a pistol from under the sport
that hung loosely over a pair of slacks. He poked
the gun into Marcus’ middle and ordered the man and
his wife to dress.
When they had done so, he forced them at gunpoint
to go to the general store they operated. There, still
under the menacing pistol, Marcus produced about
. $1,000, which he handed over to the holdup man, who
stuffed it into his pockets.
“You know you'll get caught, Pete,” Mr. Marcus said
then, a note of hurt rather than resentment in his tone.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Pete said with a shrug. His
eyes avoided the older man’s gaze, and he was obvi-
ously uncomfortable. Finally he blurted, “You know,
Mr. Marcus, I’m sorry I had to do this to you and the
missus. You two been pretty nice to me.”
And then he was gone.
A few minutes later Mr. Marcus telephoned the po-
lice and reported that he had been held up. Talihina
Police Chief Ed Liggett drove to the store only a few
minutes later, and his first question was, “Any idea
who it was, Jeb?”
Mr. Marcus shook his head sadly. “It was Pete Wil-
liams,” he said. “You know him—the young fellow who
was working here till last Thursday.”
Chief Liggett immediately called the sheriff’s office
and reported the holdup, giving the name and descrip-
tion of the bandit. The sheriff’s dispatcher at once
broadcast a bulletin to all cars on patrol.
Like everyone else in the small town of Talihina, |
Chief Liggett knew all about Pete Williams. Jeb Mar-
cus, despite dire predictions that it was a foolish thing
to do, had hired Williams some six weeks earlier. At
the same time, everyone had (Continued on page 74)
When clergyman asked Williams: “Do you
believe that when a man is dead he is just
dead?”, he snapped, “Yeah—just dead!”
39
Wenham necaRNCG
et
x
a
"
i
:
petites:
Soh
we
eee ee Cok
ge PIS, teem omnia Seine
Case of the © ere
Trusting Preacher
(Continued from page 39)
hg Mr. Marcus a good deal of credit
or giving a chance to Williams, who
was known to be an ex-convict with a
long criminal record. But there was
almost universal agreement that it was
a foolhardy thing to do, and that Mar-
cus would live to regret it.
Mr. Marcus now was deeply hurt by
the fact that Williams had proved his
faith was unjustified. He minded that
much more than the loss of $1,000.
The unusual activity at the general
store at that late hour had aroused
nearby residents and a small crowd
quickly congregated at the scene. The
chief questione everyone there, but no
one had seen anything, no one could
offer any helpful lead. The chief’s im-
mediate concern, of course. was
whether Williams had escaped by car,
and if so, to learn its make and de-
scription. Unfortunately, it appeared
that the ex-con had come ont gone
without being seen by anyone except
his victims. They had not seen a car;
Williams had forced them to walk the
short distance between their home and
the general store.
But at this S gy a Chief Liggett got
an unexpected break. The unusual
commotion at the general store drew to
the scene a man who had just driven
into town. When he heard what had
happened, he went up to Liggett and
told him he had just seen Williams
while driving home from Whitesboro.
“He was heading east on Route 69,”
the informant said. “He was driving
a blue Oldsmobile sedan and going like
a bat out of hell.”
Chiet Liggett quickly contacted the
Sheriff’s office and reported the new
information, which was then broadcast
to all cars on patrol. Roadblocks were
set up hastily and a dragnet was
thrown over the county, but the night
passed without any sighting of Williams
and the blue Olds he was reported to
be driving.
When no report had come in by a
couple hours before daylight, Chief
Liggett suggested to Sheriff Jack Craig
what seemed like the only logical ex-
planation for Williams vanishing into
thin air.
“He must have ditched the car and
headed into the woods. There are all
kinds of places along there where a
guy could hole up and stay out of sight.”
The sheriff had been thinking pretty
much the same thing. At daylight he
had posses ready to begin a search of
the woods and hill country.
Chief Liggett’s theory was confirmed
when at nine o’clock on Monday morn-
ing, a posse found the blue Oldsmo-
bile where the fugitive had abandoned
it, in some woods near Muse, a small
hamlet less than 20 miles southeast of
Talihina. All the search parties were
now rushed into this area and, aug-
mented by several braces of blood-
hounds, began an intensive search of
the forests and foothills.
When the posses had departed on
their assigned search missions, Sheriff
Craig and Chief Liggett carefully
examined the abandoned blue Olds.
They quickly determined that the
sedan was registered to Reverend
74 Tommy Robert Cooke, who lived at an
address in Tulsa. The sheriff immedi-
ately telephoned Tulsa police head-
quarters and requested a check on the
Reverend Cooke.
He was told that the young minister
had been reported missing, less than
15 minutes before, by his sister and
the Reverend Leslie Arnold, his pastor.
Fast on the heels of this develop-
ment came another. Sergeant Ray
Jones, of the technical squad of the
Tulsa Police Department, now reported
that he had identified erprints
found on the steering wheel of the
wrecked jalopy driven by the gas sta-
tion bandit. ey belonged to Edward
Leon “Pete” Williams.
The scattered pieces of the tragic
drama were now falling into place, and
the roles of the actors were taking on
form and substance. Detective Chief
Stege, after reviewing the known in-
formation with some of his detectives,
eee it tersely as it appeared to
im.
“After he cracked up and slipped
away from _us the other night,” he
theorized, “Williams holed up here in
Tulsa till Sunday. The young minister
went home from church on Sunday
afternoon. He showered, packed a bag,
and early that evening he got into his
car, the blue Olds, and started to drive
back to church, where he was supposed
to deliver a sermon that was pretty
important to him.
“Somewhere between his home and
the church, he ran into Pete Williams.
Cooke’s friends say he was always
Picking up hitchhikers and preaching
the gospel when he found a sinner.
Williams took the car away from him
and drove it to Talihina, where he
stuck up his friend who runs the gen-
eral store, and then he took off again
until he finally abandoned the Olds.
By that time he probably figured it was
too hot.
“The question we’ve got to answer—
and quick—is, what did he do with
—or to—Reverend Tommy Cooke?”
Chief Stege’s fears for the missing
minister found little reassurance in a
study of Pete Williams’ record. It
showed that Williams had served two
sentences in the Federal Reformatory
at El Reno, Oklahoma, plus a stretch
at Indiana State Prison. He had been
paroled from the latter institution only
three months ago, after serving seven
years of a 12-year sentence. Most of
his encounters with the law had been
as the result of car thefts. Now 27
years old, he had spent all but nine ~
months of the past 11 years in prison.
His first arrest, for car theft, was at the
age of 15.
From underworld sources, Chief
Stege’s investigators quickly learned
the names of several Tulsa friends of
the fugitive. Bits and pieces of infor-
mation thus obtained were put together
and finally led them to a girl, Millie
Garsse, who reportedly had been very
friendly with Williams. She was said
to work as a barmaid in a tavern on
Delaware Avenue.
Police looked for her first at a lodg-
ing house where she had a room. She
was out, but in her room they found
abundant evidence that Pete Williams
had made himself at home there, and
quite recently. They found his wind-
breaker, T-shirt, and blue jeans, the
ones he was — when he held up
the gas station. sO, a number of
empty beer cans.
Lieutenant Jack Purdie and a couple
of detectives went to the tavern where
Millie worked and asked her about
Pete. They found her surly and un-
cooperative.
To all questions, she retorted sy} Y
ly, “I don’t know nothin’.” s
They took her to thé police Statin
where a check of the records disci, i‘.
that Millie was no stranger to {
environment. Obviously a once-pre
girl, she was now running to fat, ;
a puffiness under the eyes that betrayg
frequent encounters with the bottis
Three years before she had Pleade
guilty in a Tulsa court to vagrancy by
. Prostitution, and her card showed simp
Jar arrests in Fort Smith, Arkansg
Oklahoma City, and Rochester ag
Geneva, New York. The FBI had ong
held her as a material witness ing
white slave case. ;
Only when confronted with the em!
dence that police knew Pete William
had spent time recently in her rom
and told that in addition to two holt}
ups, he might be involved in a mu
der rap, did Millie agree to talk. ’
She said that Pete had met her ¢
the bar late Saturday night. They spex ~
the night at a motel and then went #_
her room Sunday morning. He we’
there when she left for work at foe.
that afternoon, and that was the le_
time she had seen him. j
Millie insisted she had never see
Pete with a gun, but under persistes ©
questioning, she admitted this was’
lie; he had a pistol with him when the
drove to California two months befor
She was booked as a material witness
The most important information se ¢
had contributed was that Pete William —
had been in Tulsa on Sunday afternos —
at the time Cooke disappeared. j
As of Monday night, June 18th, neither
the missing minister nor the fugitive
had been located, but the case Wey
nonetheless rapidly approaching &
climax. : ;
Accompanied by his wife and he~
brother, Fred Campion had been visit ©
ing that evening at the home of a frient
in Talihina. It was 10:30 p.m. whe
they said goodnight to their hosts am
walked toward Campion’s car.
All three were startled when a tal -
man suddenly stepped out of the i
shadows and said, “I’m Pete Williams é
I want you to drive me out of here
Campion recognized him at once. He |
could see no gun, but he was mn
Williams had one, probably in he”
waistband in the shirt that hung dow® —
over his trousers. in'ce
“Why don’t you give yourse
Pete?” Campion said calmly. “They
got the whole damn country out look
ing for you. They’re bound to get yo
sooner or later.”
Williams snapped, “Shut up and lef
get going!”
Temporarily abandoning further &*
tempts to reason with the fugitive
Campion did as he was told. His
and brother got into the back se
and Williams sat beside the d
half-turned so he could keep his ev ,
on those in back. He ordered Ca
to head for Wilburton, some 2
to the northwest. the
But Campion, whose coolness in
tense situation seemed to exceed ¢
of his captor, had not given up.
ing till Williams had calmed —
slightly a little while after they sta
driving, Campion tried a couple 0
versational gambits on general
Williams seemed responsive.
carefully at first, Campion begaf
reason with Pete, quietly but fore®
fully.
“You're making a big mistake, pes)
dragging us along with you. It's
going to make it that much tougher
a
ein
et away.” :
Half tg vite times, Williams told him
to shut up and mind his own business,
but Campion noticed that he was less
emphatic each time. Showing no trace
of fear, but acting rather as if he had
Williams’ interest at heart, Campion
persistently pointed out reason after
reason why it was silly to involve them
in his escape plans. ‘ .
At one point, Williams interrupted
in exasperation. “What the hell do you
e t me to do?” he demanded.
“Walk?”
“Hell no, Peter,” Campion responded.
“There’s no reason for that. All you got
to do when we get to Wilburton is grab
a bus for Fort Smith. That'll put you
in Arkansas in a couple of hours, and
ence you get out of the State of Okla-
homa, you’re got it made, man.”
The proof of Campion’s powers of
persuasion lies in the amazing fact that
he finally convinced Pete Williams this
was the wisest thing he could possibly
do.
When they reached the bus station
in Wilburton, the Fort Smith bus was
loading the last of its passengers, Wil-
liams leaped out of the Campions’ car
and ran to board it. The big bus door
swung shut and a moment later, the
bus was rolling away from the station.
Campion, his wife and his brother-
in-law, watching from their car, did
not draw a breath till it was out of
sight. Then Campion leaped out and
ran to a telephone booth, from which
he called the state police to report
what had happened. .
Seconds later, the alarm was being
radioed to all units on patrol along the
route the bus would take over High-
way 270. A special bulletin was sent
to Marshal Buel Richmond in Poteau,
$0 miles to the northeast, where the
bus was due to arrive at 12:27 am.
Cruising a considerable distance
away, Sheriff Craig and Trooper Carl
tevens also heard the alarm and set
out in pursuit of the big bus. When it
vy Poteau they were close be-
nd,
Marshal Richmond was already
there, waiting tensely as the passengers
out of the bus and into the lunch-
room. Pete Williams, he noted, was not
among the passengers who disem-
barked, Waiting until the bus appeared
to be empty, Marshal Richmond, pistol
hand, quietly boarded the bus and
just inside the door, surveying
the interior. He could see no one.
ow he advanced cautiously down
€ long aisle, stopping after each cou-
ple of steps and listening. Halfway
wn the length of the bus’s interior,
suddenly heard a slight sound. One
more careful step took him to a point
where he could see a man crouched
¢ to the floor between two of the
h-backed seats. _
t was the fugitive, Pete Williams.
fore the marshal could order him
Stand up and surrender, however,
Williams made a last desperate bid for
dom and lunged at the officer.
The struggle was fierce, but brief,
nd Marshal Richmond had the prison-
er under control and handcuffed when
eriff Craig and Trooper Stevens
rushed to his aid moments later after
braking their car to a screaming halt
ide the bus.
Under the guns of the three officers
te Williams was frisked. He was un-
zimed, but in his pockets they found
4489 in bills, and some loose change.
The three officers took him to the
_ Poteau Police headquarters and began
tioning him. Williams spoke free-
ly, almost too freely, his interrogators
suspected. He candidly admitted the
stickups in Tulsa and Talihina, but he
rofessed complete ignorance about the
everend Tommy Cooke. :
“I never heard of the guy,” he in-
sisted after the minister’s name had
been mentioned several times. “Whatta
a want from me?” :
“4 “We can’t believe that, Pete,” Sheriff
Craig retorted evenly. “How’d you
come to be driving his car, the blue
Olds you abandoned in the woods near
Muse?” .
Williams shrugged, and claimed he
had swiped it from its parking space
on a street in Tulsa. Four hours of
persistent questioning failed to shake
him from this story, but finally he
seemed to weary of the cat and mouse
game. Then he began to talk, and his
words confirmed the worst fears of
he officers.
2 Pete Williams now admitted that he
had kidnaped the young preacher and
killed him. He had left Cooke’s body
near the hamlet of Taft, in Muskogee
County, about 40 miles southeast of
Tulsa.
Williams agreed to show them where
he had left the body, and on Tuesday
morning, he led officers to the spot.
They found the young minister lying
face down in an area overgrown with
11 weeds and scrub trees. One shot
ot been fired into the back of his
head. oe
Questioning of Williams now elicited
the explanation of how he had eluded
the drdgnet after the filling station
stickup in Tulsa. He disclosed that he
had hidden in a culvert that was totally
obscured by tall reeds. He said he had
found it by a lucky accident: he fell
into it. He hid there until late Satur-
day, when he emerged after dark, and
went into Tulsa to Millie Garsse’s place.
He left her rooming house soon after
she departed for work on Sunday, he
said, and waited in front of the Tulsa
Public Library at 3rd _ Street and
Cheyenne Avenue for a likely looking
car to hijack. It was 5:30 p.m. when
the blue Olds, driven by Reverend
Cooke, halted at the intersection for a
red light. There was no other car in
sight.
Williams ran out, opened the front
door on the passenger side, the climbed
in, pointing a gun at the young minis-
ter. He forced him to drive south on
U.S. 64, then told him to turn off onto
a gravel road near Taft. At the dead
end of this road, six miles farther on,
he ordered Cooke to get out of the car.
He said that Cooke at no time appeared
to be afraid, that he seemed very trust-
ing, as though he “expected wevery-
thing would turn out all right.
A detective asked Williams if Tommy
Cooke had tried to preach to him.
“He didn’t have a_ chance, the
swarthy a “I wouldn’t
let him say anything.”
The pox 4 words Cooke uttered, he
said, were to protest Williams’ plan to
tie him_up with his belt and shoe
strings. Without further ado, Pete said
calmly, he shot him in the back of the
head, killing him instantly.
Explaining why no weapon had been
found on him when he was captured by
Marshal Richmond, Williams said he
had thrown the pistol out the bus win-
dow enroute to Poteau. It was later
recovered, and proved to be a .38 re-
volver of Spanish manufacture. It was
fully loaded with six live bullets in the
cylinder. ; .
At a jail confrontation with Tommy
Cooke’s pastor, the Reverend Arnold
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As police continued the grim manhunt for a gun-slinging stickup man, residents in the area were
warned that an armed criminal was loose—one who would probably rob again . . . even kill
Det. Capt. Stege (above) proved good prophet when he
predicted fugitive stickup-artist would use gun again
15th. The scene was a filling station on Tulsa’s South
Peoria Avenue, a rather sparsely settled area, dark at
midnight save for the lights atop the gasoline pumps
and a couple of bright floodlights on tall steel standards
which illuminated the oil-stained concrete pavement
surrounding the gas station.
Earlier in the evening, when traffic was still heavy
on the avenue, several attendants had been working
busily, and cars moved briskly in and out of the sta-
tion. When traffic tapered off, however, all but one of
the gas jockeys took off for the night. Now he was alone.
He was standing at the work bench inside the sta-
tion working on a car radio when he heard a car pull
in. Without looking up, his practiced ear told him it
was an old car, noisy and full of rattles. He put down
his tools and headed out to the dilapidated gray jalopy
which had pulled up and stopped at the pumps.
The driver was getting out, and the attendant noted
he was a stranger, not one of the regular customers.
The driver was tall, rangy and swarthy, with heavy
black eyebrows, a full head of glistening black wavy
hair combed with studied casualness over his forehead
—a male hair style popular with the rock and roll set.
The attendant later would recall that he was somewhat
surprised to see a fellow this old wearing his hair like
that; he was no kid; he looked to be at least in his
middle 20s, possibly even a few years older. He was
wearing well-bleached Levis and a tan zipper-front
jacket over a white T-shirt.
“How many?” the station attendant asked automati-
cally as he threw the lever that zeroed the meter on the
pumps, then pulled the hose nozzle out of its slot and
started walking toward the gas tank of the old jalopy.
The driver didn’t answer, and the attendant looked
up curiously before he leaned over to unscrew the cap
of the gas tank. The driver was walking toward him
and stopped only when he was very close to the man
holding the gas hose. His hands were plunged into the
slash pockets of his windbreaker. ¢
“Forget the gas, man,” the driver said then, soft
menace in his tone. “What I want is money.”
A motion of his right hand punctuated his words and
the attendant now found himself under the muzzle of
a revolver, held very close to his ribs. :
“Let’s go inside,” the dark man continued. “Don't
put your hands up. Just hold ’em by your sides, where
I can see ’em.” F
The filling station attendant did exactly as he was
told. He had been warned by the station owner never
to resist a holdup man, but to surrender without ques-
tion money, tools, or whatever the bandit demanded.
Now he walked gingerly ahead of the gunman, a little
awkwardly, for in his eagerness to obey the man’s de-
mands to the letter, he held his arms stiffly by his sides
instead of swinging them naturally.
When they got inside, the gunman asked, “All right,
cousin, the dough—where do you keep it?”
Still standing with his arms held rigidly at his sides,
the frightened man replied, “We—we don’t keep much
money around here at night—nothing in the till. Just
what I have on me.”
A glance at the open, empty drawer of the cash
register seemed to satisfy the gunman that this was
the truth. “Okay,” he said softly, “so turn around.”
When the attendant complied with this command, the
bandit deftly went through his pockets and removed
all the money he could find. It came to $30 in bills, and
about $3 in change. He took it all.
Then he prodded the attendant in the small of the
back with the muzzle of the pistol. “Get inside the john
and lemme hear you lock that door,” he said. “If you re
smart, man, you'll keep it locked for about five minutes.
The attendant walked into the rest room at the cor-
ner of the station office, went inside, and turned the
bolt on the door. Relief welled up in him as he heard
the gunman’s retreating footsteps, the start of the je
lopy’s noisy motor, and the grinding of transmission
gears as it started away.
That was as long as he waited. In the next second,
he had unlocked the rest room door and was racing
outside. It was too late to get the license number of the
old car; all he could see was the flickering tail lights a8 :
it sped down South Peoria Avenue.
. At almost the same moment, however, the attendant =
spotted a cruiser of the Nite Patrol Service which
just pulled onto the avenue from a side street.
He yelied to attract the driver’s attention, thes
waved his arms at the fleeing jalopy and shouted,
“Stick-up!”
The uniformed patrolman for a private security
agency got the message. Pausing only long enough to *
yell, “Call the police!”, he sped off in pursuit of
old car. He began to gain on it at once, but as soon a8”
the bandit realized he was being chased, he floored his
accelerator and the battered heap shot ahead with 38
astonishing burst of speed.
The security officer matched it. With his newer, ee f
powerful car, he had no trouble equalling the spe to
the fleeing auto, but he never got an opportunity os
draw abreast or pass it, due to the breakneck s )
reckless driving of the man he was pursuing. Mile
mile, the chase roared on, reaching speeds of more than
asd
|
|
'
80 miles an hour at times.
When he saw that his pursuer must surely catch him
on a stretch of straightaway, the fleeing gunman re-
sorted to careening turns into side streets. Tires
screeching, taking desperate chances, he pulled every
driving trick in the book to shake off the car that stuck
doggedly to his tail. He didn’t succeed. The patrol car
had too much power, and a lot more stability than the
old jalopy.
Suddenly, as the two cars neared 37th Street, now
only 80 yards apart, the bandit lost control. His speed-
ing pile of junk veered drunkenly from side to side,
then careened into a broadside skid that sent it hur-
tling into a massive old tree just off the roadway.
“That’s the end of him!” the pursuing patrolman ex-
claimed aloud as he brought his car to a stop.
But to his astonishment, the driver’s door of the
wrecked car popped open and a tall jacketed figure, -
seemingly all arms and legs, scrambled out and landed
in a heap on the ground.
In the next instant, as screaming sirens heralded the
approach of half a dozen police cars, the man had
picked himself up and scampered off, running like a
sared rabbit into the woods that bordered the highway.
Seconds later, he was swallowed up by the trees.
The private patrolman waited for the arrival of the
city police. “He’s gone into the woods,” he told them,
gesturing, “right through there.”
As one officer got on his radio and reported to head-
quarters, others plunged into the woods after the fugi-
tive, guns and flashlights in hand. From the cruiser
radios could be heard the crackling voice of the dis-
patcher directing other units to the scene. Minutes
later, the Oklahoma Highway Patrol, which had picked
up the message, joined the manhunt. Police emergency
units sped to the area and turned powerful flood lights
toward the woods. The entire region was surrounded
and sealed off as a line of searchers methodically
combed through the dense woods.
A uniformed sergeant who had assisted in deploying
police forces reported by radio, “We've got the
perimeters of the woods sealed off and thirty-seven men
- — in there after him. We ought to get him pretty
quick.”
The sergeant was wrong. The searchers in the woods
teached the far perimeter without finding a trace of
the swarthy fugitive. They started back, advancing
Sheriff Kerr (left) and Det. Sgt. Raiford played key
roles in coordinated police search for slay suspect
more slowly, examining every foot of ground, and
again came up emptyhanded. With the arrival of dawn
on Saturday morning, June 16, 1956, the search was
intensified. A helicopter was called in to hover over
the wooded area, in constant voice communication with
ground searchers, but all the police efforts came to
naught.
By some miracle, the fleeing gunman had eluded his
pursuers and made good his escape.
In the meantime, detectives had concentrated their
efforts on the wrecked jalopy. Even without its driver,
it was always possible they might find a clue to the
man’s identity in or on the car.
Detective Sergeants Felix Raiford and Bob Bivens
took down the numbers of its Arkansas license plates
and requested headquarters to check them against the
hot car reports. They were advised soon afterward that
ene ci oR
cd
REASONS, AAT
ior aah nee oar cae TENG
36
cold premonition that the missing young preacher would not be found—alive, that ir
Suspect (in figured shirt)
unless the theft was so recent that it had not yet been
reported, the car was not stolen.
; “I’m not surprised,” Sergeant Bivens commented.
‘If a guy was going to steal a car, he’d have to be a
nut to swipe a junk like this.”
Sergeant Raiford nodded agreement, then added,
“Maybe we’ll do better when we can get a make from
the Arkansas Motor Vehicle Bureau.”
But this check would have to be delayed several hours.
The detectives ordered the wreck towed to headquarters,
where it was turned over to Sergeant Ray Jones of
the Technical Squad. He turned his experts loose on it
and they went to work immediately, trying to lift a
readable set of fingerprints from the old heap.
Meanwhile, Sergeants Bivens and Raiford headed
for the gas station where the chase had begun and in-
terrogated the holdup victim. They found him to be an
unusually observant young man who, despite the fact
that he had been scared—and didn’t care who knew it
—had noted a number of details which promised to be
helpful in the police search for the bandit.
“Can you tell us what the gunman looked like?”
Bivens asked.
“I sure can,” the young man said. “The guy was tall,
a little better’n six feet. Rangy, wiry build. Thick eye-
brows and deepset dark eyes, sorta narrow eyes, I guess
you’d call ’em. Angular face, kinda long. He had a lotta
hair, very thick and shiny, combed like a rock ’n’ roller
—you know, over his forehead. He had a very long up-
per lip, and a very full lower lip. That’s all I can re-
member,”
“How about his clothes?
Sergeant Raiford asked.
“Oh yeah. Blue jeans, pretty well-bleached. And a
What was he wearing?”
Babi ~ ree i 4
was captured by heavily armed officers
When probers learned that the fleeing desperado had robbed a store of $1,000, they felt;
: ifs
’yilee td ifs a :
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3 xi t
after daring jailbreak and dramatic manhunt
tan windbreaker, with a zipper front. Lightweight, like
a golfer’s jacket. And he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Just
a white T-shirt.”
“That’s pretty good,” Sergeant Raiford complimented
the youth. “Ought to be helpful.”
His partner was already on the radio reporting the
detailed description for rebroadcast to all units and thé
searchers,
_ Dawn had not yet broken, and though at this time
it was believed the fugitive was still bottled up in the
woods, stakeouts were quickly assigned to main
surveillance at railroad stations, the airport and bus
, terminals. News of the search was released to news
papers and radio and television stations, and while it
was too late to make the early morning newspapers,
broadcast media issued frequent bulletins on the man
hunt, and repeated police warnings to motorists not t
pick up any hitchhikers. The bulletins also reques
that anyone noticing suspicious persons on the h
ways or anywhere in the area should report them at
once to the police.
The intensified daylight search of the wooded area
had yielded no better results than the earlier searches
in the dark. It continued throughout the early mort
ing hours, but officials by this time were all but con.
vinced that the wanted man had somehow made
his escape. They assigned detective teams now to cat
vass all hotels and rooming houses in the metropolitan
area.
Sergeants Bivens and Raiford arrived at headquat
ters about eight o’clock and were handed a report whi
had just come in from Arkansas. Bivens read it thr
and chuckled.
“They must have had to disturb a lot of people's
Kev BM Bob
sleet
sleep to get all this so fast,” he said.
“Is it any help?” asked Detective Chief Harry Stege,
who came out of his office at that moment.
“Not much,” Bivens replied. “The car was bought
for cash last week at a second-hand lot in Fort Smith.
Apparently by our boy who pulled the job here last
aight. The yak gg fits, right down to the T-shirt
and the windbreaker, tan, zippered.”
“What about the name he used?” Chief Stege asked.
“Is it a phony?”
“Probably. He gave the dealer the name of Harold
Devons. - Paid cash—fifty bucks for the heap—and
drove off.”
“What about his address?”
“I was coming to that,” said Sergeant Bivens. “Fort
Smith police say the address he gave is legit, but no-
body there ever heard of a Harold Devons, nor anyone
fitting the description.”
After a moment’s thought, Chief Stege said, “If he
ave a legitimate address, he was either lucky, or he
lows the town. My guess is he knows the town. And
if he’s from Arkansas, he’s going to try to get back
there. He’ll use that gun to do it, too, if he has to,
and I think he’s going to have to.
“He only got thirty-three bucks in that stickup last
night, and he sure won’t be able to go far on that. He’s -
got to make another hit.”
The detective chief’s words were prophetic, but it
would be some time before it was learned exactly how
prophetic.
As police continued the manhunt throughout the day,
Tulsa’s quarter of a million people, as well as the many
more thousands in surrounding communities, were
warned by broadcasts that an armed and dangerous
criminal was on the loose. The public’s cooperation was
tequested and citizens repeatedly were urged to con-
tact the police at the least sign of anything or any-
one acting in a suspicious manner. But the day passed
with nothing more than the expected rash of unfounded
Pete Williams, here with county attorney Page (right), said he never heard of sla
reports, some genuine, others from cranks, which in-
evitably result from such alarms.
Sunday morning dawned bright, sunny and warm.
In the residential areas of the city, many property own-
- ers rose early and busied themselves puttering around
their lawns, gardens, and backyard barbecue areas.
Some stayed abed, sleeping off the effects of their Satur-
day night revelry.
Still others arose, donned their best clothes, and set
pre home to attend services at the church of their
choice.
At the Glenwood Baptist Church on South 54th: Ave-
nue, parishioners were inspired by a stirring sermon
delivered by their pastor, the Reverend Leslie Arnold.
Standing on the steps of the church when services were
over, he exchanged greetings with many of his flock
who stopped to congratulate him on the fine sermon.
After the last of the congregation had departed, he
went inside and chatted briefly with his youthful as-
. sistant pastor, Tommy Robert Cooke, who also com-
plimented him on his moving sermon.
The pastor was extremely fond of his young assistant.
Although only 23, Tommy Cooke had already exhibited
all the signs of a dedicated man of God.
“Thank you, Tommy,” the pastor said. “I’m looking
forward to your sermon at this evening’s services. Are
you all ready for our trip tomorrow?”
Reverend Arnold was referring to their plans to leave
the next day for Oklahoma Baptist University at Shaw-
nee, where both would attend a special brief course.
He knew that Tommy was anticipating it with special
enthusiasm, for this would be his final instruction be-
fore his ordination as a minister just two weeks hence.
“Tm going home to pack right now,” the young as-
sistant said. “I want to get everything ready now, so
I won’t have it on my mind this evening.”
After a little more discussion about their forthcom-
ing trip, Tommy said goodbye and walked out to his
car in the church parking lot, a blue Oldsmobile, whose
in man, growled, “Whatta ya want from me?”
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counsel's claim of technical error in the |.» switch was thrown, and Pete Williams’
records, saved Williams from the chair. It
was the first of a long series of delays as
one appeal after another was fought
through court after court.
But at long last the day of reckoning
could not be postponed any longer. Pete
Williams’ last appeal had been made and
rejected. On April 4, 1960, precisely at
midnight—once again a fateful hour in
the ill-starred career of Edward Leon
“Pete” Williams, the tall, swarthy
murderer found himself strapped into the
electric chair at the state prison. The
desperate gamble to thwart justice was
itself thwarted. ea,
In more than four years of repeated
delays and the manyjlegal recourses it had
allowed the killer, the law had shown in-
finitely more mercy than this murderer
- had shown to his innocent victim, the
_ trusting young preacher about whom.
Pete Williams had callously admitted:
“He didn’t have a chance,”
In a way, those unfeeling words are, in
and of themselves, a starkly graphic ser-
mon to those overly solicitous souls who
oa mane seme 5
parently considering these more impor-
tant than the rights and privileges of inno-
cent, law-abiding citizens. oo
EDITOR’S NOTE:
Reverend Leslie Arnold, Jeb Mar-
cus, Millie Garese and Fred Campion
arc not the realnames of the persons so
named in the foregoing story. Fic-
titious names have been used because
there is no reason for public interest in
the identities of these persons.
Halloween Rapists’
-* Trick-Or-Treat Murder
&
Ps
{
1
(Continued from page 35)
as he said it, but in his heart he was
frightened and concemed. It was then
half-past nine. He was sure that if Karen
had actually gone to her cousin’s home, -
the Wecklunds would have seen to it that
‘the child had gotten home long before
this. ~
As he feared, Karen was not there.
Roused from sleep, little Jackie said that
he had left Karen near his house just
before he came in after their rounds of
trick-or-treating. That would have been
about 7:30, his parents said. The place
Jackie said he left the little girl was no
more than 100 yards from her own home,
and she was walking in that direction
when he last saw her, clutching her bag
of “loot,” the boy added when he ‘was
questioned further.
His relatives joined Karen’s father in a
« hasty canvass of the homes of neighbors
up and down the street. No one had seen
Karen since she had come to their doors
. early in the evening, wearing a kewpie
doll mask and a purple coat.
A little more than an hour later,
Karen’s father reported the child missing,
and, at 11:15 p.m., the town’s fire siren
shattered the nocturnal stillness of the
small community, summoning members
of the Conemaugh Volunteer Fire Com-
pany to join policeina search for the pret-
ty tot who had vanished.
As word of the child’s disappearance
spread, Boy Scouts and local citizens
poured out of their homes to swell the
ranks of the search party to more than 150
persons. Starting point for the search was
the short stretch between Karen’s home
and that of her cousin. From this area,
men fanned out with lanterns and
searchlights, checking back yards,
behind trees and shrubs, under porches
and cellar bulkhead doors. They missed
‘ no secluded spot or niche where a small
‘child might conceivably be hidden.
Fifteen minutes before midnight, they
found Karen's costume hat. It lay on the
concrete apron in front of a private gar-
age in Coulter Alley. The spot was less
than 100 yards from the child’s home.
68
Police immediately questioned the
family who owned the garage, but they
were mystified by the hat’s presence
there. None of the family members had
seen or heard anything unusual that even-
ing, either near the house or by the gar-
age.
Although he did not tell this to Karen’s
father, Police Chief George Fetsko
already had strong reason to fear that the °
worst might have befallen little Karen
Mauk. At 7:30 that evening, which was
just about the time that Karen was
presumed to have disappeared, a
teenager had been attacked on First
Street, only a few blocks from.the Mauk »
home. The victim, was a 14-year-old girl,
who reported that a tall, husky, shabbily
dressed man witha scar on his cheek had
leaped on her as she was walking home.
The girl screamed at the top of her
lungs and fought her assailant furiously.
She finally managed to escape his grasp.
Chief Fetsko believed that he might have
been frightened away when the girl’s
shrill outcry brought nearby residents to
their doors. When her parents reported
the incident, the chief's men sped to the
area and searched it thoroughly, but they
could find no trace of the attacker.
; Nw Chief Fetsko wondered if the
man might not have chanced upon Karen
a few blocks away as he was fleeing, seiz-
ed her and carried her away. With this in
mind, the chief spoke to George Peyton,
veteran. president of the volunteer fire
company.
“Get some of your boys to scout
around the outskirts of town,” Fetsko
said. “If he’s got the kid ina car, they may
still be out on some lonely back road.”
The volunteers selected for the assign-
ment swiftly piled into their own cars and
headed for the outer perimeter of the
town. A few minutes after midnight, one
of these cars, manned by two of the
fireman volunteers, drove slowly up a
narrow road which climbed steeply to the
rear service gate of St. Petka’s Cemetery
at the top of the hill two miles west of
Conemaugh.
From the windswept crest, the men
could look down upon the lights of the
town. The spot was a popular lovers lane
for local young people, but the twin
beams from the car's headlights showed
the spot to be deserted at the moment.
“No one here tonight,” one of the men
said. ~
Nodding silent agreement, the driver
shifted into reverse and started to back up
to turn around. The car’s headlights
described a circular sweep as he
maneuvered the vehicle, when suddenly
his companion cried out. : “
“There! Over there! In the grass!”
The driver pulled the car closer,
stopped, and the two men got out. There
was no mistake. There was no need to
look further for the pretty little six-year-
old with the curly hair.
Karen Mauk lay in the brown field
grass just off the dirt lane. Her tiny body
was stripped. Her kewpie doll mask and
her clothing were strewn beside the
pathetic little body. Her trick-or-treat
bag of goodies also lay nearby, part of its
contents spilled out. An apple, a few
cookies and a few pieces of cellophane-
wrapped candy were scattered within in-
ches of her curls.
One of the firemen drove back down
the hill to report the discovery of the
’ child’s body. The other stood vigil over
the dead girl with a flashlight, but he shut
it off after a few moments because he
couldn’t bear to look at her.
Chief Fetsko ordered the narrow lane
cordoned off some 200 yards distant from
the body before he approached with a
few men. Deputy Coroner Richard P.
_Wilkinson conducted an on-scene ex-
amination of the slain tot. He said she had
not been raped. She had died of suffoca-
tion.
voice grim.
“No, it wasn’t strangulation,” the cor-
oner replied. “I’d say something like a’
blanket or a coat was wrapped around :
her face so tightly she was smothered.”
The autopsy which was performed:
later supported this preliminary observa-
tion. Coroner Joseph Govekar said signs
about the child’s mouth and other marks
about her body indicated she had been
roughly handled by her killer. And
although the child had not been raped,
the post mortem report said indications
has been found that she was sexually
molested.
Chief Fetsko’s first move was to
bleat so loudly about the rights and vi
privileges of criminals and killers, ap-
/
“Strangled?” asked Chief Fetsko, his
4s broadcast an alert for the big, shabbily
en Pennsylvania State Police Sergeant
-| James A. Blair rushed to Conemaugh
li
dressed, scarfaced man who had at-
/ tacked the 14-year-old girl earlier that
night. The chief was keenly aware that
the available information about that man
was extremely sketchy, but he was the
only immediate suspect he had.
, With five troopers to lend their assistance
> to the local police. So did Cambria Coun-
ty Detective Chief John W. Reed, who
came with several of his top investigators.
Examination of the body of little
Karen left no doubt that she had been
taken alive to the hilltop and slain there.
_ This was established by the fact that
several blades of grass were still clutched
in her tiny fingers. More than one of the
veteran officers at the scene had to fight
back tears at this evidence that the little
wisp of a girl had tried to fight off her at-
tacker. 12
yoke Blair was encouraged by the
discovery of one solid clue at the murder
_ scene, a clue which conceivably could
clinch the case against the murderer and
_ send him to the electric chair when the
|. time came. This clue wasa clear set of tire.
tracks left in the bare earth, which was
still moist after recent heavy rains. The
_ tracks were clearly distinguishable from
. the tracks left by the car of the firemen
who had found the body.
What's more, no other tracks had been
left in the road since the rains; hence there
was no doubt in the minds of detectives
that these were made by the murderer’s
automobile.
Corporal David A. Drenning of the
state police carefully made plaster casts
| of the tire prints and was able to lift ex-
cellent impressions. Sergeant Blair set up
field headquarters for the probe in the
Conemaugh Firemen’s Club. This was
where he held his first meeting with Chief
Fetsko, Detective Chief Reed, Coroner
Govekar and District Attorney Fred Fees
| to map plans for the investigation they
vowed would bring Karen Mauk’s killer
* to justice.
As a result of this first conference, a
‘network of roadblocks was thrown up on
the few highways leading out of the area
across the mountains. Police swarmed
through the railroad yards rounding up
itinerants, who were hauled off to jail and
grilled. Sex offender files were culled and
all men with records also were picked up |
. for investigation. Police Chief Charles R.
Griffith took’ similar measures in
Johnstown, acouple of miles to the south.
Detective Chief Reed went to Con-
emaugh High School on Friday moming
and questioned the 14-year-old girl who
had escaped the clutches of the scarfaced
man who attacked her the night before
around the time Karen Mauk had dis-
appeared.
“He passed me several times,” the
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“p.m. More than five hours later, at one
“a.m., the jury of seven women and five
men sent a note to the judge asking for the
complete testimony of one witness. The
judge told the bailiff to send them home
for the night, with instructions to return at
10:30 a.m. to try to reach a verdict.
A court reporter read the transcript,
consisting of 130 pages, of the testimony
the jury previously had asked for. Then
they retired and deliberated until 5:35
p-m., when they reached a verdict. Mrs.
Huff was found guilty as charged.
Under the Florida two-part trial
system, the jury also had to recommenda
sentence. Life was recommended. The
judge ordered Mrs. McArthur to post an
additional bond of $50,000 pending
sentencing. It was posted the next day.
May 9th was scheduled as the date for im-
posing the penalty after a pre-sentence in-
vestigation. f
On that day, Judge Alderman
accepted the recommendation of the jury
and sentence the former Mrs. McArthur
to life imprisonment. She was taken in
custody by Sheriff Collier.
However, her attorneys immediately
filed notice of appeal and the same $100,-
000 was posted as an appeal bond. In less
than 30 minutes the former Mrs.
McArthur was free again.
Prosecutor Stone protested her
release. “She has not served any time in
custody because she was presumed inno-
cent, but that presumption of innocence
left her total and left her forever.”
Prosecutor Stone said that the former
Mrs. McArthur had made public
“statements that she had not gotten a fair
‘trial. “To allow her to continue to do so
would be to make a mockery of this
| court.”
| “I€ she is in prison six months before
‘the appellate decision is returned and if
\the conviction is overturned, there is no ~
i way the state attorney or the court can
| give her back that time,” Judge Alderman
said.
+ On June 6th, the Florida Attorney
‘General’s office asked that the former
Mrs. McArthur’s bond be revoked. The
| motion was written by Assistant Attorney
| General Basil Diamond, who said her
“special favored treatment creates a dis-
; parity in the administration of justice
<favoring her merely because of the abun-
. | dance of her financial resources.
“It is well known that the former Mrs.
McArthur is now a woman of substantial
resources with the obvious ability to
- arrange flight from the jurisdiction of the
|court if she is unsuccessful in her
appellate efforts.
\ “The likelihood of fleeing has become
\real and apparent since she is now facing
a life sentence with a minimum of 25
| years incarceration.” Under Florida law,
parole cannot be considered in less than
25 years for an individual convicted of a
| first degree offense.
| The motion concluded by asking that
oral arguments be heard by the appeals
)62 .
ki
x‘
court. The request was granted and both
State Attomey Stone and Assistant At-
tommey General Diamond argued before
the court.
Stone said it would not surprise him if
one day the former Mrs. McArthur was
found in Costa Rica. Diamond said that if
a convicted murderer is to be freed on
bail pending appeal, the defendant's
assets should be tied up to preclude flight.
The following day, June 17th, the
Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals in West
Palm Beach ruled that the defendant
may remain free on $100,000 bail, but
gave no reason for its decision. ss
Nor did the court give any indication
as to when it will make a ruling on the
appeal.
However, there is one omen:
Prosecutor Stone, a veteran State At-
tomey, had never lost a murder case, as
this was written. oo4
EDITOR'S NOTE:
George Griffin, Ralph Benson, and
Grace Bensonare not the realnames of
the persons so named in the foregoing
story. Fictitious names have been used
because there is no reason for public
interest in the identities of these per-
sons.
Bullet in the Head for ~
The Young Minister .
(Continued from page 41)
course. He knew that Tommy was an-
ticipating it with special enthusiasm, for
this would be his last instruction before
his final ordination as a fully qualified
minister just two weeks hence.
“I’m going home to pack right now,”
the young assistant said. “I want to get
everything ready now, so I won't have it
on my mind this evening.”
After a little more discussion about
their. forthcoming trip, Tommy said
goodbye and walked out to his car in the
church parking lot, a blue Oldsmobile.
The vehicle’s gleaming finish attested to
the loving care its owner gave it.
If there was one virtue possessed by
the young minister about which there was
absolutely no question, it was his pun-
tuality. As long as the Reverend Arnold
had known the young man, he had never
known him to be late for any appoint-
ment.
But it happened for the very first time
that same evening. Incredible as it seem-
ed, Tommy Robert Cooke was late for his
own sermon.
The thought of blaming the assisant
pastor never entered the mind of his
superior. Reverend Arnold was certain
Tommy must have been delayed by some
unavoidable circumstance. He took the
pulpit himself and preached a substitute
sermon, but when the young minister had
failed to appear, or even to telephone, by
the time the evening services were con- Es
cluded, Reverend Arnold could not sup-
press his concem any longer.
This concern turned to genuine alarm
when he was unable to reach Tommy
Cooke by telephone. He kept calling, he
could hear the ringing on the wire, but no
one picked up the ringing telephone to
answer.
Finally, a little before 9 o'clock that
evening, the telephone finally _was
answered by a woman relative of Tom- ~
my Cooke's with whom he made his
home.
When the Reverend Amold told her
he had been trying to reach someone
there for more thanan hour and a half, she
explained that she had just returned from
a visit with friends out of town.
Tommy was not at home, she said,
and she didn’t know where he was.
However, she was sure he had been there,
because she had noticed that the shower
curtain was wet and she could tell he had
packed a suitcase. His car was not in the
garage.
Reverend Arnold, now noting the
concern in the woman's voice, tried to
minimize his own fears in an effort to
reassure her. He was only partially
successful, because the fact that Tommy
had not appeared to deliver the sermon
on which he had worked so hard for a
week was enough to convince her that
something very drastic must have oc-
curred. Nothing less, she was sure, could
have kept Tommy away from the church
~ when he was scheduled to preach.
Reverend Arnold suggested that they
both try calling friends and acquain-
tances of Tommy; he might well have
contacted one of them if any emergency
had arisen.
The pastor and Tommy’s kinswoman
were on the telephone for the next several
hours. They called his close friends first,
then extended their calls even to people
they knew only as casual acquaintances.
And when his friends learned that the
Reverend Cooke was missing and there
was concern for his whereabouts, they
promptly joined in the telephone search.
It did not help. All through the night
they kept calling, but they found no trace
of Tommy Cooke. No one had seen him
since the service on Sunday moming. No
one had heard from the young
clergyman. No one had any idea where
he might be.
In the meantime, as these activities
were proceeding in the Tulsa area,
another act in the tragic drama was un-
folding in Le Flore County, more than
100 miles to the southeast of Tulsa. By
coincidence, or possibly by design, this
event also began around midnight.
In Talihina, a small town of about
1,000 population situated in the foothills
, of Winding Stair Mountain, Mr. and Mrs.
Jeb Marcus were awakened froma sound
sleep by someone pounding at their door.
Sleepily pulling ona robe, Mr. Marcus
went to the door and opened it. The light
ot
3
who stood outside and Mr. Marcus
recognized him. He asked the visitor
what on earth he wanted at this hour of
» the night.
“I need dough, and I need it now,” the
young man said brusquely.
Somewhat surprised by the other
~- man’s tone and manner, Mr Marcus said
= teed
iy ae
Aet
amiably, “Well, I guess I can let you have
a few dollars, Pete. I don’t keep much in
the house, though.”
“Then let’s go where you keep it!”
Pete snapped.
Any illusion that he had come to make
a small Joan to tide him over some minor
emergency was dispelled when Pete now
produced a pistol from under the sport
shirt that hung loosely over a pair of
slacks. He poked the gun into Mr. Marcus’
middle and ordered the man and his wife
to dress. ‘ee
When they had done so, he forced
them at gunpoint to go to the general
store they operated. There, still under the
menacing pistol, Marcus produced about
$1,000, which he handed over to the
holdup man, who stuffed it into his
pockets.
“You know you'll get caught, Pete,”
Mr. Marcus said then, a note of hurt rather
than resentment in his tone.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Pete said witha
shrug. Hisyeyes avoided the older man’s
gaze, andshe was obviously uncomfor-
table. Finally he blurted, “You know, Mr.
Marcus, I’m sorry I had to do this to you
and the missus. You two been pretty good
| to me.”
A few minutes later, Mr. Marcus
telephoned the police and reported that
he had been held up. Talihina Police
Chief Ed Liggett drove to the store only a
few minutes later, and his first question
was: “Any idea who it was, Jeb?”
Mr. Marcus nodded his head sadly. “It
was Pete Williams,” he said. “You know
him—the young fellow who was working
here till last Thursday.”
Chief Liggett immediately called the
sheriff’s office and reported the holdup,
giving the name and description of the
bandit. The sheriff's dispatcher at once
broadcast a bulletin to all cars on patrol.
Like everyone else in the small town
_ of Talihina, Chief Liggett knew all about
Pete Williams. Jeb Marcus, despite dire
predictions that it was a foolhardy thing
to do, had hired Williams some six weeks
earlier. At the same time, everyone had
given Mr. Marcus a good deal of credit
for giving a chance to Williams, who was
known to be an ex-convict with a long
criminal record. But there was almost un-
iversal agrement that it was a foolish thing
for the store owner to do, and that Marcus
would live to regret it.
Mr. Marcus as now deeply hurt by the
fact that Williams had proved his faith un-
justified. He minded that much more
~ from the inside hall fell on the young man
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The unusual activity at the general
store at that late hour had aroused nearby.
residents and a small crowd quickly con-
gregated at the scene. The chief question-
ed everyone there, but no one had seen
anything, no one could offer any helpful
lead. The chief's immediate concern, of
\ course, was whether Williams had es- if
caped by car, and if so, to leam its make .-
and description.
Unfortunately, it appeared that he
had come and gone without being seen
by anyone except his victims. The latter
had not seen any car; Williams had forced
them to walk the short distance between
_,their home and the general store.
But at this point, Chief Liggett got an
unexpected break. The unusual commo-
tion at the general store drew to the scene
a man who had just driven into town.
When he heard what had happened, he
went up to Chief Liggett and said he had
just seen Pete Williams while he was driv-
ing home from Whitesboro. 7
“He was heading east on Route 69,
the informant said. “He was driving a
blue Oldsmobile sedan and going like a
bat out of hell.” :
Chief Liggett quickly. contacted the
sheriff's office and reported the new in-
formation, which was then broadcast to
all cars on patrol. Roadblocks were set up
hastily and a dragnet was thrown over the
county, but the night passed without any
sighting of Williams and the blue
Oldsmobile he was reported to be driv-
ing. .
© When he was still unreported a couple
of hours before daylight, Chief Liggett.
suggested to Sheriff Jack Craig what
seemed like the only logical explanation
«for Williams vanishing into thin air.
“He must have ditched the car and
headed into the woods. There are all
kinds of places along there where a guy
could hole up and stay out of sight.”
The sheriff had been thinking pretty
much the same thing. At daylight he had
posses ready to begin a search of the
woods and hill country.
Chief Liggett’s theory was confirmed °
when at nine o'clock on Monday mor-
ning, possemen found the blue
Oldsmobile where the fugitive had aban-
doned it, in some woods near Muse, a
small hamlet less than 20 miles southeast
of Talihina. All the search parties were
now rushed into this area, and,
augmented by several braces of
bloodhounds, began an intensive search
of the forests and foothills.
When the posses had departed on
their assigned search missions, Sheriff
Craig and Chief Liggett carefully ex-
amined the blue Olds. They ‘quickly
determined that the sedan was registered
to the Reverend Tommy Robert Cooke,
who lived at an address in Tulsa. The
sheriff immediately telephoned Tulsa
police headquarters and requested a
- check on the Reverend Cooke.
He was told that the young clergyman
had been reported missing—no more
than 15 minutes before—by a relative and
the Reverend Leslie Arnold, his pastor.
Fast on the heels of this development -’
came another. Sergeant Ray Jones, of the
Technical Squad of the Tulsa Police
Department, now reported that he had
identified fingerprints found on the steer- |
ing wheel of the wrecked jaloppy driven ,
by the gas station bandit.
I hey belonged to an ex-convict nam-
ed Edward Leon “Pete” Williams!
The scattered pieces of the tragic :
drama were now falling into place, and >
the roles of the actors were taking on
form and substance. Detective Chief
Stege, after reviewing the known infor-,
mation with a group of his detectives,
tersely outlined it as it appeared to him.
“After he cracked up the head and
slipped away from us the other night,” he
theorized, “Williams holed up here in~
Tulsa till Sunday. The young minister
went home from church on Sunday after-
noon. He showered, packed a bag, and‘
early that evening he got into his car, the
blue Olds, and started to drive back to
church, where he was supposed to deliver
a-sermon that was pretty important to »
him.
“Somewhere between his home and
MASTER DETECTIVE
“Now for the last time...step to the rear of the bus!”
» | theft, was at the age of 15.
“the church, he ran into Pete Williams.
, Cooke’s friends say he was always pick-
ing up hitchhikers and preaching the
gospel when he found a sinner. Williams
took the car away from him and drove it
to Talihina, where he stuck up his friend
who runs the general store, and then he
took off again until he finally abandoned
the Olds. By that time he probably
. figured it was too hot.
“The question we've got to answer—
and quick—is, what did he do with—or
to—Reverend Tommy Cooke?”
Chief Stege’s fears for the missing
minister found little reassurance in a
study of Pete Williams’ criminal record. It
showed that Williams had served two
sentenced in the Federal Reformatory at
El Reno, Oklahoma, plus a stretch at the
_ Indiana State Prison at Michigan City. He
had been paroled from the latter institu-
tion only three months ago, after serving
seven years of a12-year sentence. Most of
his encounters with the law had been as
the result of car thefts. Now 27, he had
spent all but nirie months of the past 11
/ years in prison. His first arrest, for car
ae From underworld sources, Chief
« Stege’s investigators quickly learned the
\ names of several of the fugitive’s Tulsa
friends. Bits and pieces of information
thus obtained were put together and
finally led them to a girl, Millie Garese,
who reportedly had been very friendly
with Williams. She was said to work as a
barmaid in a tavern on Delaware Avenue.
Police looked for her first at a lodging
| house where she hada room. She was out,
but in her room they found abundant
‘| evidence that Pete Williams had made
himself at home there, and quite recently.
J They found his windbreaker, t-shirt and
blue jeans, the ones he was wearing when
he held up the gas station. Also, anumber
“| of empty beer cans.
Lieutenant Jack Purdie and a couple
_ {of detectives went to the tavern where
Millie worked and asked her about Pete.
They found her surly and uncooperative.
To all questions, she retorted sullenly, “I
don’t know nothin’.”
They took her to the police station,
{where a check of the records indicated
that Millie was no stranger to this environ-
ment. Obviously a once-pretty girl, she
.| Was now running to fat, with a puffiness
junder the eyes that betrayed frequent
and protracted encounters with the bot-
itle. Three years beforé she had pleaded
“\guilty in a Tulsa court to vagrancy by
. {| prostitution, and her card showed similar
‘jarrests in Fort Smith, Arkansas,
Oklahoma City, and Rochester and
| Geneva, in New York State. The FBI had
--40nce held her as a material witness in a
white slave case.
; Only when confronted by the
evidence that police knew Pete Williams
had spent time recently in her room, and
“}told that in addition to two holdups, he
*,
(might be involved in a murder rap, did
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She said that Pete had met her at the
bar very late Saturday night. They spent
the night at a motel and then went to her
room Sunday morning. He was there
when she left for work at four that after-
noon, and that was the last time she had
seen him.
Millie insisted she had never seen Pete *
with a gun, but under persistent question-
ing, she admitted this was a lie; he had a
pistol .with him when they drove to
California two months before. She was
booked as a material witness. The most
important information she had con-
tributed was that Pete Williams had been
in Tulsa on Sunday afternoon at about the
time the Reverend Tommy Cooke had
disappeared.
As of Monday night, June 18th,
neither the missing minister nor the
fugitive had been located, but the case
was nonetheless rapidly approaching its
climax. F
=
} Wace by his wife and her
brother, Fred Campion had been visiting
that evening at the home of a friend in
- Talihina. It was 10:30 p.m. when they said
goodnight to their hosts and walked
toward Campion’s car.
All three were startled when a tall man
suddenly stepped out of the shadows and
said, “I'm Pete Williams. I want you to
drive me out of here.”
Campion recognized him at once. He
see no gun, but he was sure
Williams had one, probably in the waist-
band of his shirt that hung down over his
- trousers.
“Why don’t you give yourself up,
Pete?” Campion said calmly. “They’ve
got the whole damn country out looking .
for you. They’re bound to get you, sooner
or later.”
Williams snapped angrily, “Shut up
Temporarily abandoning further
attempts to reason with the fugitive,
Campion did as he was told. He drove,
his wife and her brother got into the back
seat, and Williams sat beside the driver,
half-turned so he could keep his eye on
those in back. He ordered Campion to
head for Wilburton, some 20 miles to the
northwest.
But Campion, whose coolness in the
tense situation seemed to exceed that of
his captor, had not given up. Waiting till
Williams had calmed down slightly a little
while after they started driving, Campion
tried a couple of conversational gambits
on general topics. Williams seemed
responsive. Then, carefully at first, Cam-
pion began to reason with Pete, quietly
but forcefully.
“You're making a big mistake, Pete,”
he said, “dragging us along with you. It’s
only going to make it that much tougher
for you to get away.”
Half a dozen times, Williams told him
to shut up and mind his own business, but
Campion noticed that he_ was _ less
* emphatic each time. Showing no trace of
fear, but. acting rather. as if he had
Williams’ interest at heart, Campion per-
sistently pointed out reason after reason
why it was silly to involve them in his esr
cape plans. ,
At one point, Williams 'interrupted in
exasperation, “What the hell do you ex-
pect me to do?” he demanded. “Walk?”
“Hell, no, Pete,” Campion responded.
“There's no reason for that. All you got to _
do when we get to Wilburton is grab a bus
for Fort Smith. That'll put you in Arkan-
sas in a couple of hours, and once you get
out of the State of Oklahoma, you've got
it made, man.”
The proof of Campion’s powers of
persuasion lies in the amazing facf that he
finally convinced Pete Williams that this
was the wisest thing he could possibly do.
When they reached the bys station in
Wilburton, the Fort Smith bus was
loading the last of its passengers. Williams *
leaped out of the Campions’ car and ran
to board it. The big bus door swung shut
and a moment later, the bus was rolling
away from the station. ;
Campion, his wife and his brother-in-
law, watching from their car, did not _
draw a full breath until it was out of sight.
Then Campion leaped out and ran to a
telephone booth, from which he called
the state police to report what had
happened.
Seconds later, the alarm was being
radioed to all units on patrol along the
route the bus would take over Highway
270. A special bulletin was sent to Marshal
Buel Richmond in Poteau, 50 miles to the
northeast, where the bus was due to
arrive at 12:27 a.m.
Cruising a considerable distance
away, Sheriff Craig and Trooper Carl
Stevens also heard the alarm and set out in
pursuit of the big bus. When it reached
Poteau they were close behind.
Marshal Richmond was already there,
waiting tensely as the passengers filed out
of the bus and into the lunchroom. Pete
Williams, he noted, was not among the
passengers who disembarked. Waiting
until the bus appeared to be empty,
Marshal Richmond, pistol in hand, quiet-
ly boarded the bus and stood just inside
the door, surveying the interior. He could ©
see no one.
Now he advanced cautiously down
the long aisle, stopping after each couple
_ of steps and listening. Halfway down the
length of the bus’ interior, he suddenly
heard a slight sound. One more careful
step took him to a point where he could
see a man crouched close to the floor
between two of the high-backed seats.
It was the fugitive, Pete Williams.
Before the marshal could order him to
stand up and_ surrender, however,
Williams made a last desperate bid for
freedom and lunged at the officer.
The struggle was fierce, but brief, and
Marshal Richmond had the prisoner un-
der control and handcuffed when Sheriff
Craig and Trooper Stevens rushed to his
aid moments later after braking their car>
to a screaming halt beside the bus. a
Under the guns of the three officers, *
. Pete Williams was frisked. He was un-<*
armed, but in his pockets they found $489. -
in bills, and some loose change.
The three officers took him to the
Poteau’ police headquarters and began:
questioning him. Williams spoke freely,
almost too freely, his ~ interrogators “Y
suspected. He candidly adinitted the
stickups in Tulsa and Talihina, but he»
professed complete ignorance about the 5
death of Reverend Tommy Cogke.
“I never heard of the guy,” he insisted
after the minister's name had been men-
tioned several times. “Whatta ya want
from me?” ; :
“We can't believe that, Pete,” Sheriff
Craig retorted evenly. “How'd you come
to be driving his car, the blue Olds you ©
abandoned in the woods near Muse?”... +:
Williams shrugged and claimed he-*
had swiped it from its parking space ona
street in Tulsa. Four hours of persistent -”
questioning failed to shake the man from >
this story, but finally he seemed to weary *
of the cat and mouse game. He began to.”
talk, and his words confirmed the worst «. °
fears of the officers. é
Pete Williarns admitted now that he
had kidnaped the young preacher and
killed him. He had left Cooke’s body near-,
the hamlet of Taft, in Muskogee County, »
about 40 miles southeast of Tulsa.
Williams agreed to show them where
he had left the body, and on Tuesday ©
morning, he led officers to the spot. They_
found the young minister lying face down *
in an area overgrown with tall weeds and
scrub trees. One shot had been fired into. =
the back of his head.
uestioning of Williams now elicited «
the explanation of how he had eluded the
dragnet after the filling station stickup in
Tulsa. He disclosed that he had hidden in.
a culvert that was totally obscured by tall
reeds. He said he had found it by a lucky
accident—he fell into it. He hid there until
late the next day, when he emerged after | 5a)
dark, and went into Tulsa to Millie Gar- > *
ese’s place.
He left her rooming house soon afters”
she departed for work on Sunday he said,->
and waited in front of the ‘Tulsa Publics
Library at 3rd Street and Cheyenne
Avenue for a likely looking car to hijack.“
It was 5:30 p.m. when the blue Olds,
driven by Reverend Cooke, halted at the
intersection for a red light. There was no =)
other car in sight. ag
Williams ran out, opened the front
door on the passenger side, and climbed.
in, pointing a gun at the young minister.
* He forced Cooke to drive south on U.S. ol
64, then told him to turn off onto a gravel > 7
road near Taft. At the dead end of this ©
road, six miles farther on, he ordered “
’ Cooke to get out of the car. He said that
; Cooke at no time appeared to be afraid,
that he seemed very trusting, as though =
- eleventh-hour _ stay,
~ Oklahoma Appellate Court on defense
“he expected everythin:
all right.”
A detective asked Williams if Tommy
Cooke had tried to preach to him.
“He didn’t have a chance,” the
“ swarthy suspect replied. “I wouldn't let
him say anything.”
The only words Cooke uttered, he
said, were to protest Williams’ announced
plan to tie him up with his belt and shoe
strings. Without further ado, Pete said
calmly, he shot him in the back of the
head, killing him instantly.
* Explaining why no weapon had been
found on him when he was captured by
Marshal Richmond, Williams said he had
thrown the pistol out the bus window
enroute to Poteau. It was later recovered,
and proved to be a .38 caliber revolver of
Spanish manufacture. It was fully loaded,
with six live bullets in the cylinder.
At a jail confrontation, Tommy
Cooke’s pastor, the Reverend Arnold,
asked Williams if he had known Tommy
Cooke was a minister.
Williams shrugged, glanced upward
= he was lighting a cigarette, and said,
0.
“Would it have made any
difference?” the clergyman asked sadly.
Williams seemed to ponde- the ques-
tion. He exhaled a cloud ot cigarette
smoke, sqhinted thoughtfully, and finally
said, “I don’t think so.”
“Do you believe in Christ?” the pastor
asked. “Has anyone ever talked to you
about Christ?”
“Not since I was a kid,” Pete replied.
“Do you believe that when a man is
dead he is just dead?” the Reverend Ar-
nold asked.
“Yah,” Williams said without emotion.
“Just dead.”
A mere three days had elapsed since
Williams had set in motion the chain of
events which would lead to the murder of
the young minister. Wise in the ways of
the underworld, Pete Williams took a
long gamble and pleaded guilty to the
murder of Reverend Cooke, figuring that
a guilty plea would win hima sentence to
life imprisonment instead of the death
sentence.
He won that gamble and gleefully
boasted to cellmates that he had beat the
g would turn out
~rap. But the State of Oklahoma was not
through with Pete Williams. Authorities
now proceeded to try him on charges of
kidnaping and two counts of armed
robbery. Both offenses, at the time, were
capital crimes in Oklahoma, but Williams
seemed certain that having beat the death
sentence for murder, her would not now
_ be sentenced to die even if convicted for
the lesser crimes of kidnaping and armed
robbery.
He was wrong. Found guilty on all
counts, he was sentenced to die in the
electric chair in the big state penitentiary
at McAlester. The first execution date set
by the courts was February 1, 1957, but an
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in behind the bus on the highway. It was full
of police officers.
At Poteau, all of the passengers were di-
rected out of the bus, to change buses. The
officers watched each face. Pete was not there.
As soon as the last passenger was gone, Po-
teau night watchman Buel Richmond climbed
into the bus. Sheriff Jack Craig and Trooper
Carl Stevens followed. They found Pete hid-
ing between two seats. He fought them, and
while he shoved at them, trying to get away,
they snapped handcuffs on his wrists. He was
unarmed. He had $489 in his pockets.
They took him to the sheriff’s office and led
him inside. A few minutes later, one of the
officers told newsmen, “He admits robbing
Coussens’ store. He says he tossed the gun out
of the bus window near Wilburton. He says
he doesn’t know anything about the Tulsa
preacher, and he can’t explain his possession
of the car.”
Twenty mirtutes later, the officers announced
that Pete had confessed killing Tommy Cooke
near Taft. He said he jumped into Tommy’s
car at a traffic light in Tulsa, pointed his gun
at the driver and made him head south. The
LeFlore County officers telephoned Tulsa of-
ficers with a description of the murder scene
that Pete had given them. It was along the
Arkansas River, near Taft, just as Tulsa De-
tective Chief Stege had anticipated.
Before daylight, Stege, Sergeant Felix Rai-
ford, and Troopers Bob Ducker and Don
Wiens, all from Tulsa, began to search for the
body. They followed: back roads to the river,
and waded through tall Johnson grass. They
contacted Sheriff Craig in Poteau again.
“We can’t find the body. Can we come and
get Pete so he can point out the spot for us?”
Craig hesitated. He had to talk with his
county attorney, Joe K. Page. The LeFlore
officials conferred and decided they would
bring Pete to Muskogee. A Tulsa patrol car
was dispatched to meet them halfway. At the
meeting place, County Attorney Joe Page re-
fused to let Pete change to the Tulsa car.
The Tulsa officers radioed back to Muskogee
that there was some foulup. The LeFlore
officers insisted on driving Pete all the way’ to
the murder scene.
It was about 7 a.m. when the two police
cars turned off the highway three miles east
of Taft. Other patrol cars fell in behind as
Pete directed from the back seat. His driver,
Trooper Stevens, shared the front seat with
the county attorney, and the county attorney
was holding a shotgun braced between his
knees.
Six miles north, the road came to a dead
end over the Arkansas River. Johnson grass
and brush were head high. The Tulsa officers
waited for Pete to lead them to the body, but
the LeFlore county attorney refused to let
Pete out of their car. The suspect had to point
—
a,
POLICE
CALL BOX
“I suppose you guys will try to make a federal case out of this.”
and direct the search from the back seat
window.
The Tulsa and Muskogee officers stumbled
through the tall grass. It was Stege who came
on the body first. All that could be seen of
the body in the grass was an elbow and part
of a shirt. Most of Tommy Cooke was covered
with weeds. Reverend Proctor, who had ac-
companied the officers so he could identify
the body, wiped his eyes and murmured a
prayer.
Harry Stege turned Tommy’s head. The 38
was fired at close range, and the bullet went
in the temple. Reverend Proctor, reporters
and officers crowded around the LeFlore car.
County Attorney Page let everybody talk with
Pete, but insisted, “He came in this car and
he’s going back in it.”
Trooper Stevens said he couldn’t let Pete
get out, either, not to look at the body or to
go to the Muskogee county courthouse for
questioning, or to do anything. He said he
was under strict orders, and that an agree-
ment had been signed before they left Po-
teau. Pete was to stay in the car.
He was handcuffed and shackled. His lips,
naturally large, were swollen and out of
shape. Scratches were on his cheek and over
his eye. Both eyes had blue-green lines under
them.
They would be black before morning.
Reverend Proctor and others who talked
with Pete that day said Pete told them he
never believed in God or prayer. One person
insisted Pete said he killed Tommy because
the preacher was trying to preach to him, and
that he (Pete) threw Tommy’s bibles out of
the car. But, officially, Pete’s story was differ-
ent. He told police that Tommy tried to talk
during the drive from Tulsa, but every time
he opened his mouth, Pete jabbed him with
the gun, so the young minister never got to
say a word. Pete said he killed Tommy be-
cause he was too drunk to realize what he
was doing. He only intended to tie up Tom-
my, but Tommy objected and said, “I don’t
want to stay out here all night.” That’s when
Pete said he shot him.
“JT didn’t even know he was a preacher,”
Pete said. He watched the officers carrying
Tommy’s body out of the underbrush.
“He’s dead,” Pete said. “Just like I’ll be in
another six months.”
HE LeFlore officers drove Pete back to
Poteau that morning. Pete was charged
with the robbery of the Coussens’ general
store in that county, and County Attorney
Page announced that nobody else in or out of
Oklahoma could have him: for trial until
LeFlore County got through trying him on
the holdup. “Until he’s tried here, he’s ours.”
Attorney Louis Smith, prosecutor of Mus-
kogee County, where the murder happened,
tried to get the suspected killer back to his
county. “The charge of armed robbery is a
serious offense. But the taking of people’s
money hardly compares with the taking of a
life. I think he should be tried here first, then
turned over to other counties with lesser
charges—if they still want him, then... .”
His assistant Bill Jones, said, “We have an
airtight murder case. After the ballistics re-
port, we'll have no trouble getting a con-
viction.” .
Trooper Carl Stevens understood the stand
taken by Page. “Folks down here in LeFlore
County are mighty mad about the robbery of
the Coussens. He got those people out of bed
and robbed them. We spent two nights and
a day lookir
—bad.”
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before h
a peculia
thing ot
proudly,
years of
tail-lights
‘er and si-
The officer
left, long
2 two ve-
’ turn. To
ichi waters
below the
heel while
eat, micro-
dispatcher.
road, and
The patrol
the back
left to pull
stop. Pete
1e car and
car lunged
it the edge
» fast, but
1 fled into
ar. Papers
that this
istant pas-
is a chief
aS a repu-
» so accu-
yunded to
or obtain-
(Tulsa’s
rmined to
$50 from
us Friday
from the
iad aban-
of prints,
on (Pete)
16, 1944,
years old.
45, short-
in Tulsa.
12, 1945;
no, Okla.,
sentence.
. Mo. Es-
June 23,
led. Ar-
ised. Con-
‘ity, Ind.,
rch, 1956.
| evidence
were still
ty officers
iased and
iption of
They said
and Dep-
Tommy
to report
astor and
g terrible
described
he pieces
First, he had to be sure the car abandoned
in the LeFlore County woods was Tommy’s.
He arranged for the preacher’s father to see
the car. The identification was positive.
But what had happened to Tommy? There
was no blood in or on the car, no sign of a
struggle.
How did Pete Williams get the car? Stege
studied a map and all the reports before him,
guessing and fitting them together in different
patterns.
The general alarm for Pete had officers
checking motels, bars, and highway intersec-
tions. The police knew Pete, and they knew
where to look for loose strings of his life.
After a two-day search, they turned up a
motel registration and a woman’s name.
They moved in on the bar where Judy
worked.
“Say goodbye to your boss,” they told her.
“We've got to talk to you about Pete Wil-
liams. When that’s over, you'll get a floater
out of town. We know your vag record.”
She shrugged. She’d had floaters before.
The police just take you five or ten miles out
of town and let you hitch a ride from there.
No jail. No charges. But you can never go
back.
That’s your part of the bargain. The
floater didn’t worry Judy, but she told them
over and over that she was never mixed up
in any robberies or murder.
“I went to work at four Sunday afternoon,
and that’s the last time I saw Pete. I went
around with him because he was nice to me
and bought me things. I asked no questions
about his business and he told me nothing.”
Her vagrancy and prostitution arrests
ranged as far as New York, and the police
held her in jail waiting for Pete’s capture or
for a hold-order from some other state that
might have a charge against her.
Stege began to put the puzzle together. Pete
was disgusted, half drunk, and in need of a
car.
He would be at loose ends after Judy went
to work at four. Somewhere, somehow, im-
possible as it seemed, Pete Williams and the
devout young preacher had made contact be-
tween 5:30 and 6:30 on a quiet Sunday after-
noon in broad daylight in the city of Tulsa,
Okla.
Obviously, Pete had been headed for Tali-
hina, and he wouldn’t have harmed the young
minister in the city, and probably not before
dark anywhere. So they drove southeast. It
would take an hour or longer to get as far as
Muskogee. That would be about 7 P.M. But,
Stege figured, Pete would want to get rid of
the young preacher before he got to Mus-
kogee. 1. It was getting dark enough. 2. The
Arkansas River that parallels the highway
only as far as Muskogee is one of the best
places for dumping a body. It’s deserted and
has heavy underbrush. 3. The minister might
be trying to convert him, and Pete wouldn’t
put up with that. 4. The minister might have
escaped or left a message in the town of
Muskogee.
On Monday afternoon, while Stege was still
puzzling over the badly fitting jigsaw, a young
boy with a fishing pole. walked through the
woods between Whitesboro and Muse, near
the spot where the Olds had been abandoned.
At an old unused oil pump station, he came
to a clearing, and as he started across it he
saw a man, a tall, skinny dark man. When the
boy got back to town, he told the police, and
the search party moved to surround that part
of the woods. A Poteau deputy said, “Williams
knows these parts, and he can probably slip
out of our trap if we don’t catch him by
dark.”
In Tulsa that afternoon Pete was charged
with armed robbery, and because of his race
for Arkansas, he was charged with unlawful
flight. Now the FBI was after him.
Sheriff Jack Craig, a posse from his Poteau
headquarters, Oklahoma highway, patrolmen,
and officers from Mena, Ark., using one blood-
hound, roamed the area the rest of the day.
Dark came, and Pete was still at large. i
At 8 pM. in Tulsa, Harry Stege met with
Tommy’s brothers and sister and the Reverend
Proctor.
He had to tell them how the case was
working out, and he didn’t want to do it.
He listened to their hopes, their theories, and
then Reverend Proctor saw how hard it was
for Stege to meet their eyes. The minister
stopped the others from talking.
“Mr. Stege,” he said, “do you think our boy
is dead?”
Stege looked up at them. “Yes,” he said.
“T hope I’m wrong.”
There was little to go on in the search for
Tommy or his body, but with county officers,
Stege made plans for a search along the high-
way, beginning with his hunch about Taft,
and then moving along the entire 175 miles.
While these plans were in the making, a tall,
dark shadow slipped wearily along the main
street of tiny Talihina.
It moved past the Coussens’ big general
store, and came to Standridge grocery. Here
it blended into other ‘shadows. There was a
sound like glass breaking, then soft moving
sounds followed by the clinking of coins. In
a few minutes, the shadow was back on the
street. Headlights fell full on him, and he
“hailed the driver to stop.
Mr. and. Mrs. Clarence Angel were in the
car with her brother. Pete Williams had’ his
right hand in his pocket as he slipped into the
car seat.
“The police are looking for me,” he said.
“I’m desperate, and I’ve got a gun. You're all
taking a trip to Wilburton tonight.”
(THE Angels didn’t argue. Their car turned
west and then north, slowly covering the
first few miles back toward Tulsa. It’s 31
miles from Talihina to Wilburton, and the
three hostages and the=fugitive rode most of
it in silence. Pete didn’t want them to talk.
“When we get to Wilburton, turn back east
and take me to Fort Smith,” Pete ordered
them.
Mr. Angel answered calmly. “Why, boy, you
don’t want to head across the line on 270 in
a car, What if they have a roadblock up?
Theyill stop me and every other car. The
thing for you to do is get on a bus. Nobody
would think about you being a bus passenger.
They always let the buses go right through.
There’s a Fort Smith bus leaving about mid-
night, and I believe we can make it.”
At Wilburton, Angel drove Pete to the bus
station. Pete saw the bus, marked Fort Smith.
He figured if Angel was telling the truth about
the bus, he must be telling the truth about
not stopping them in roadblocks. He bought
a ticket and boarded the vehicle. The Angels
hurried to find the Wilburton town marshal.
It’s a little over 40 miles from Wilburton
to Poteau, the LeFlore County seat. The bus
was delivering Pete right to the sheriff’s town.
He’d never make it those extra miles to Fort:
Smith, if he stayed on the bus. Fifteen miles
from Poteau, an ordinary-appearing car fell
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CITY STATE. 1
Cen cee cca te le ee ad oe ee a eet te ee py
73
WILLIAMS, Edward L. white,
Edward Leon (Pete) Williams, waiting
trial for the murder of Reverend Tommy
Cooke (Going My Way, Brother Sin?,
October FRONT PAGE, 1956), made an early
and unsuccessful bid for freedom from the
county jail in] Muskogee, Okla., before
the jurors could get around to his case. He
and another inmate broke out of jail and
fled in a jailer’s car, bearing campaign
stickers for the sheriff's re-election. Nine
hours later, Williams’ pal was caught, but
Williams, ranging the countryside with a
45 pistol remained at large. A short time
afterwards, however, Williams was over-
powered by four ‘Tulsa policemen at a stock
pond not far from the spot where Reverend
Cooke was murdered. ‘“‘He knows he’s facing
the electric chair,” one officer said. “That’s
why he did it.” Williams was returned to
Muskogee and placed under restricted con-
finement.
whose
Bartender William E. Boswell,
cross country flight to escape arrest for
questioning in the May 21 murder of Phil-
adelphia heiress and socialite Mrs. Anne
Harris Van Ryne (Strangled Heiress and
elec. OK® (Tulsa) July 28, 1960
SS —
Bringing in Pete Williams: an election-year feather in a sheriff’s cap.
the Secret Call, September FRONT PAGE,
1956), ended in Middlebury, Vt., where
Boswell tried to seek sanctuary with a rel-
ative, has pleaded innocent to a grand jury
indictment in Carson City, Nev., where the
murder occurred. Boswell, sunken eyed and
gray faced, entered his plea in District
Judge Frank Gregory's court. The erstwhile
bartender, who when arrested was driving
one of the dead woman’s three cars, and
carrying her wallet and _ identification
papers, has repeatedly denied any part in
the death of Mrs. Van Ryne, whose body
was found stuffed in a closet in Boswell’s
Nevada apartment. Judge Gregory set
trial for November 26 after Boswell’s at-
torney told him his schedule would not
permit him to devote full time to the
case until mid-October.
Joseph Lynch, who, along with Robert
May and Dorothy Long, was indicted on
charges of conspiracy to commit murder
in a bizarre and abortive attempt on the
lives of Dorothy’s mother and stepfather.
Mr. and Mrs. Leland Thurlow (Little Miss
Muffed It, August FRONT PAGE, 1956), has
switched his plea to guilty. The 18-year-old
Long Island youth had previously pleaded
not guilty to the charge that he was im-
plicated in the murder-for-money plot
which, according to police, had been a
three-pronged approach that had included
shooting, poisoning and, if nothing else
worked, running over the couple with an
automobile. Miss Long is being held in Ber-
gen County, N. J., jail without bail after
pleading not guilty. May is being held in
New York where he first must face action
in the death of Joseph Lomuscio. It was
Lomuscio’s death that first alerted police to
the alleged plot against the Thurlows. Ac-
cording to May, Lomuscio heard of the
murder-for-money plot and tried to muscle
in. During the argument that followed,
Lomuscio was shot and killed. Robert May,
who fought extradition from his cell in the
New York City prison, lost his fight and
has been removed to the Hackensack, N. J..
jail where he is awaiting court action
against him.
The Cleanup Spot
Leonard Hankins, who spent 19 years of
his life in a Minnesota prison for a crime
he did not commit—the murders of two
policemen in a 1932 Minneapolis bank
robbery—(.l Lifer Goes Home, April FRONT
PAGE, 1952), was hospitalized recently after
being beaten and robbed at his motel near
Dawson Springs, Ky. Hankins was released
from the Minnesota prison in 1951 after
his sister, Mrs. Archie Lowery, had carried
on a 19-year legal battle to prove his in-
nocence. The Minnesota legislature later
voted him a monthly pension for the rest
of his life. Hankins’s recent injuries were
not believed to be serious.
Al Teitelbaum, Hollywood furrier who
was charged with rigging a robbery in his
elegant shop in order to collect insurance
(That’s a Lot of Mink Stole, June FRONT
PAGE, 1956), has been found guilty on two
felony counts, one of conspiriug cu stage a
fake robbery at his store and the other
of presenting a false claim for insurance
in the amount of $348.000. A number of
Hollywood celebrities. including Joan
Crawford and Mario Lanza, appeared as
character witnesses in Teitelbaum’s defense,
but the big, friendly furrier, who had
helped see Lanza through some difficult
periods financially. was declared guilty.
John Calvin Tipton, big burly 20-year-
old dishonorably discharged soldier who
confessed to the murder of Oleta Camille
Johnson, the pretty wife of an airman sta-
tioned in Costa Mesa, Cal. (The Moon
Mad Sex Killer, August FRONT PAGE, 1956),
has been sentenced to die in California’s
lethal gas chamber. Mrs. Johnson's body
was discovered by her husband when he re-
turned from duty to the little house they
had rented. She had been stabbed in the
chest with a kitchen knife and sexually at-
tacked. Tipton, who lived next door, didn't
become a suspect for several weeks after
the murder, when a routine check of his
fingerprints showed they matched those
found in the murder room. He later con-
goers.
man,
shooti:
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person:
Har:
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belong
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pleaded
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trict Ji
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and we:
the dis
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Agreem
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re seen of
and part
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> had ac-
1 identify
rmured a
1. The 38
ullet went
reporters
Flore car.
talk with
s car and
: let Pete
ody or to
house for
e said he
an agree-
left Po-
His lips,
1 out of
and over
nes under
ning.
ho talked
them he
ne person
v because
him, and
les out of
vas differ-
ad to talk
very time
him with
er got to
mmy be-
what he
up Tom-
“T don’t
at’s when
preacher,”
carrying
h.
I'll be in
back to
3 charged
3’ general
Attorney
or out of
rial until
: him on
e’s ours.”
of Mus-
1appened,
ck to his
bery is a
people’s
king of a
irst, then
th lesser
have an
istics re-
a con-
he stand
LeF lore
»bbery of
it of bed
ghts and
a day looking for him. We want to keep him
—bad.”
On Wednesday, June 20, Pete was charged
with murder in Muskogee County, and with
armed robbery of a filling station and the
kidnaping of Tommy Cooke in Tulsa County.
The same day, he pleaded innocent to the
Coussens robbery at his arraignment in Po-
teau.
While the, discussion went on over which
county should get custody of Williams, Rev-
erend Proctor asked the people who crowded
into the church for Tommy’s funeral not to
hate the killer.
“Tommy’s family shares the granite-like
faith in God that marked his own life. They
feel no bitterness toward Pete Williams. Yet,
I have received dozens of phone calls from
people who hate him. They never knew Tom-
my. They don’t know Pete, but they hate
him. Let’s not hate him, Jesus says he who
hates his brother is a murderer.”
He read the fourteenth chapter, twenty-
third verse from St. Luke: “Go out into the
highways and hedges and compel them to
come in, that my house may be filled.”
Reverend Proctor bowed his head. “Tommy
was always picking up hitchhikers. He went
out into the highways more than any young
man I ever knew. He was humble. When
Christ crowned him in heaven, I’m sure Tom-
my said, ‘Not me, Lord. I didn’t do nuffin’.”
Proctor couldn’t continue. He bowed his
head and mumbled brokenly about taking care
of the loose ends, and “Let’s do them.”
Mourners rose to file past the bier.
On Monday, June 25, in his cell in Poteau,
Pete told a Tulsa reporter that his murder
confession was beaten out of him. He repu-
diated the admission.
A few hours later, County Attorney Joe
Page surrendered Pete to Muskogee County.
Page gave no reason for his sudden decision
to permit Prosecutor Smith to have the pris-
oner to try for murder. Smith asked Pete
about the confession, and Pete reverted back,
to admitting his guilt. Smith said he would
ask for the death penalty.
Now Pete said he’d plead guilty, but Prose-
cutor Smith said, “He’s said several things,
and then changed his mind. I will be surprised
if he does plead guilty.”
Pete denied telling Reverend Proctor and
others that he was an atheist. “I don’t re-
member much about that conversation,, but I
never told him that.”
The next day, Pete was arraigned in city
court. Judge Archibald Bonds asked for a
plea, and Pete refused to answer. The judge
pleaded innocent for him, set July 9 as the
date for his preliminary hearing on the mur-
der charge, and appointed two attorneys to
defend him. ‘
Officers said Pete had been reluctant. to
leave Poteau to face the murder charge in
Muskogee. ‘This is one of the best jails I’ve
ever been in,” Pete said. “I’ve done a lot of
rotten things in my life, but I want to live
even though I have to rot the rest of my life
in a stinking prison cell... . But I guess I’m
as good as strapped in the electric chair right
now.”
Mr. Atom in Person
continued from page 59
success, with almost 200 hungry Texas tycoons
arriving to enjoy Dr. Hohenau’s firewater and
beefsteak. Everybody was feeling pretty mel-
low by the time coffee was served and the
professor rose to address the gathering, raising
his hand to silence the warm applause. (Actu-
ally, none of the guests had ever heard of
Hohenau before, despite his worldwide fame,
but they reasoned that this was their own
fault because they were too busy making
money to keep posted on the march of science.
Some of them wondered about that beefy fel-
low who stood directly behind the inventor,
eyeing everybody with a wary and suspicious *
gaze.)
The professor, despite his German accent and
a tendency to get his words somewhat tangled,
was a whiz of a speaker. He mentioned the sad
inclination of humanity to scoff at new and
startling inventions. People had laughed at the
automobile and sneered at the airplane, but
these products had succeeded in the face of
public scorn and now formed the basis of vast
industries.
“There was a time,” Dr. Hohenau went on,
smiling faintly, “when ignorant persons laughed
when I said I could make water burn. No
more do they laugh, gentlemens, because I do
it. I will do it in this room, before your eyes.”
With a flourish, he removed a veil of shim-
mering silver cloth that covered the invention
before him. The guests gazed with interest at
a peculiar contraption that looked like some-
thing out of science fiction. This, he said
proudly, was the supreme culmination of his
years of scientific toil. Called the Hydro-
Energizer, it was composed of three units—a
decomposing chamber, an electrical control
mechanism, and a frequency breaker—and it
did something mankind had never been able to
accomplish before.
It burned water.
It achieved this momentous feat, he ex-
plained, because he had found the way to
smash the oxygen atom in water and make it
produce hydrogen gas. While he did not claim
to produce atomic energy as it is known today,
he had moved several gigantic strides in that
direction and indeed was traveling at a dizzy
atomic pace for 1927.
“Now,” he announced improv, “the
demonstration.”
you could have heard a pin drop as he
pressed a switch on his Hydro-Energizer.
Then he reached over and grabbed a pitcher
from which several guests had drunk and
which indubitably contained plain Texas wa-
ter.
He poured about a quarter-pint into a
funnel opening at the top of his invention.
“It will take exactly 24 seconds,” he said,
“for the Hydro-Energizer to transform the
water into volatile gas.”
There was a special clock mounted behind
him, equipped with a large sweep hand that
ticked off the seconds. When it reached 20,
the professor lit his gold cigar lighter and
held it over the burner surmounting the
Hydro-Energizer.
At precisely 24 seconds the burner burst
into flame.
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