California, multiple executions, 1938-1995, Undated

94

It was an incredibly rapid move—so swift
and silent that watchful tower guards did
not know until later what had taken
place beneath their posts.

Davis, who had been followed first by
Stevens, made a leap for the door and
slammed it viciously in the face of the
gaping convicts outside. Simultaneously
the other desperadoes went into action, as
though each move in this drama of mad-
ness had been carefully rehearsed and
timed.

Eudy, crossing the room with two strides,
swung his fist and brought it up like a
hammer against Trusty Harrison’s mouth,
sending the prisoner reeling and crashing
through a glass partition at his back, Ku-
charski lunged at Trusty Chidester with a
gleaming knife and was about to slash the
latter’s throat when Cannon _ interfered.

“Lay off him, Benny!” he ordered. “He
won’t talk. Let him go.”

Kucharski released his grip reluctantly
and Chidester, backing away in_ horror,
made a dive for the back door leading to
the interior of the prison and escaped.
Harrison, rubbing his torn lips, ducked a
terrific swing of Davis’ steel jack handle
and staggered out the same door, leaving
Larkin and Ryan alone with the murder-
ous seven,

Hudy, now white and shaking with kill
lust, pressed the tip of his long knife
against Warden Larkin’s throat.

“Warden.” he snarled viciously, “your
time has come!”

Cr RYAN, ignoring what he
thought were real guns aimed at his
head, could contain his rage no longer. He
grabbed his ponderous leaded cane, jumped
to his feet, and began swinging it like a
pendulum of doom.

“PIL take care of you——!” he roared.
“No con is going to tell me what to do!”

Warden Larkin. who saw death staring
from the twitching faces of the rats, heard
Captain Ryan’s bellow of fury with frozen
veins.

“Por God’s sake, Ryan,” he begged,
“don’t fight now. You haven’t got a
chance here. They’ll kill you .. .”

“No, they won't. DP’Jl——”

Captain Ryan said no more, for at that
moment five razor-like blades flashed in as
many murderous hands, cutting his flesh
to raw strips and splashing his towering
figure with blood. Then, even as he
grunted with the excruciating stab of the
knives, the jack handle thudded against
his skull and he went down like a broken
pedestal.

“That’s what happens to smart guys,”
Stevens muttered. “Now, Warden, we’re
gonna take care of you if you don’t do
what we say. Phone the guard in the
tower above us. Tell him to throw down
his guns. And tell the other guards to
open the gates. We're going out—now!”

Larkin, feeling the prick of Davis’ knife

Guard H. B. Trader (left), who killed

Stevens, demonstrates on Guard A. J.

Strong how the rioters grabbed War-
den Larkin

True Detective Mysteries

against his throat, looked up with a faint
smile.

“Boys, I’m telling you it’s no use. You're
committing suicide. You can’t get away
with it. Listen ...as God is my judge,
I’m telling you the truth. I told those
guards that if any prisoner ever used me
for a hostage, to shoot and kill-—even if
they kill me.”

ro ie glared at Larkin with flaring nos-
trils.

Larkin, shrugging in resignation, reached
for the desk telephone which, unnoticed
by the convicts, was already off the hook.
The Warden, with extraordinary presence
of mind, had slipped the receiver off just
as the prisoners surged into the office and
al that moment his secretary, Jack Whe-
lan, was listening in with throbbing ears,
in the near-by Administration Building.

“Hello...” Larkin said calmly, “give me
Joe Brady in the guard tower.” He paused
a moment, then continued, with Whelan
straining to catch every word. “Hello...
Joe. This is Warden Larkin. The boys
want you to lower your guns. Yes...
they’re going out. Sure, it’s okay.”

Whelan, realizing that an appalling catas-
trophe was in the making, whispered a
hurried word into the phone to let Lar-

Warden Court Smith of San Quentin
Prison, who took charge at Folsom
following the riot

kin know that he understood, hung up and
ran out to summon help. Meanwhile,
Trusty Harrison, who had broken away
from the office momentaily expecting the
burn of bullets in his back, was running
around the yard toward Guard Tower 13,
where H. B. Trader, one of the prison’s
best marksmen, was on duty with his high-
powered rifle.

“Hey, some cons have the Warden
locked in the Captain’s office,” he cried.
“They've got rods . . . look out!”

“Don’t worry, I will!” Trader snapped.
“Notify the others.”

Harrison nodded, hurried out and
sprinted to two other towers overlooking
the yard, where he told his breath-taking
story to Guards R. T. Howard and A. J.
Strong. And then, like a screech from
hell’s own mouth, the great penitentiary
pulsated with the piercing crescendo of the
escape siren, and armed men came run-
ning into the yard from half a dozen
points.

Two hundred. convicts, milling around
the opposite end of the yard, were filling
the sultry morning air with a swelling dis-
cord of sound—booing, whistling, scream-
ing, suddenly infected with the fever of
danger and riot and pentup emotion. Fol-
som Prison tottered on the threshold of
carnage and wholesale death at that blood-
freezing moment, but Whelan had _pre-
pared for that crisis.

The phalanx of guards, sweeping the
jeering prisoners with their riot guns,
barked out sharp orders.

Opening fire from the towers, guards

sprayed rioting convicts with lead as

the outbreak reached a bloody climax
in the yard (above)

“Back in your cells! Get back! C’mon,
move fast!”

The convicts hesitated, staring sullenly
at the ring of guns and _ then, yielding,
backed away and walked inside the cell-
house where steel doors closed behind
them 2 moment-later. The guards next
turned their attention to the little office
where the seven rioters were ready for
their final dash. J. J. Solberg, running
around the rear of the building, was about
to crash through the door when he was
spotted by Davis.

“Damn you, Solberg!” the gangster
cursed. “If you come in here we'll kill
you, and the Warden, too!”

Larkin, desperately anxious to avoid
more bloodshed, called out to the guard.

“You can’t do anything in here, Solberg.
Stay away, you'll only get yourself killed.
Do your stuff outside!”

Solberg nodded to himself, backed away
and headed for the yard. Just as he left,
Guard Harry Martin, leading a squad of
men in the yard, hurled himself blindly
through the office door and aimed his
cane at the nearest gray-coated figure in
reach. Warden Larkin, blanching at Mar-
tin’s sudden appearance, shouted at him to
stay away, but the warning came too late,
The knives flashed again and Martin,
clawing at the yawning gash in his abdo-
men, erumpled up and died without a
word.

AVIS and Stevens looked down at the
reddening floor with defiance.

“We'll give you the same dose, Warden,
if you try a double-cross!” Davis snarled.
“Take off your coat and vest, and make it
snappy.”

Larkin, resigned to the inevitable,
obeyed the order_and handed the clothes
to the gangster. Davis slipped on the coat
and then stepped around behind the War-
den, deftly slipping a thin wire noose
around his neck. He drew it taut until
Larkin’s face purpled and_ his throat
fought for air, and then prodded the War-
den’s neck with a knife.

“Now—get up and march!”

Clarence Larkin stood up and turned ac-
cusing eyes on each of the seven white-
faced men until their own gaze wavered
and broke and they knew at the last that
he was master of them all—whether he
lived or died. He asked no mercy, he
wanted none from these human rats whose
destiny he had once held in his hand.

“All right,” he said slowly. “I’m ready.
But I’m going to tell you one more thing.
boys. If you go out of this prison today
—it will be over my dead body!”

And with that valedictory of flaming
5 aol Clarence Larkin went forth to

ie.

It is almost indescribable, the holocaust
that followed. The convicts, surrounding
Larkin, came out into the yard confident
that their hostage would be a passport to
the gates, that the Warden’s inexorable

orders regard
a bluff. |
wouldn’t play
For instead «
men and guns, "
engulfed by a s
swinging vicio
first. blow felled
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against his Jaw
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that his turn ws
in his twisted }
bestial surging °
turned him int:
urge to kill 1
knife, turned !
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air and struck

LYDE STE
ego had ¢:
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He started rum:
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and his knees
but stark fear «
Escape... '
Guard Trade«
the bandit’s cri)
He raised the +
until Clyde St
took solid shay
Then, and on
Clyde Stevens
know what it
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arski.
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was stretched
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three men
life only by
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Thus enc:
vears to tii
Folsom ho!
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Warden Li)
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the state cu
gan a heart-
it was a
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gas—replaci
three score
ens and |
crimes.

8 True Detective Mysteries

4 corpse in the prison morgue and went out the gates in a
coffin, only to be captured in flight.

They tell of Martin Coulson, who labored for a year to
make a gun from wood, a piece of pipe, match heads and a
watch-spring. He wasn’t sure it would work until, trapped
in the telephone exchange room when he threatened a guard,
his courage snapped and he placed the strange weapon against

his head. There wasn’t much noise when the trigger jerked.

—but Coulson went out of Folsom feet first.

Carl Reese, watching a motion picture depicting the thrills
of deep sea diving, left the Folsom Auditorium one night
with an idea. He stole a basketball bladder, pried the pistons
from a cornet and used canvas, rubber tubing, and thick
pieces of glass to manufacture a diving suit. He slipped into
the prison canal one night with lead weights on his feet and
the crude diving dress over his prison gray, and started
pumping for air. But he forgot that the bladder’ wasn’t big
enough for the pressure of the water—and they fished him
out the next morning, dead.

Tt IE hooks tell of Carl Otto, who stole the prison work en-

gine and drove it like a madman through the iron gates .
of George Sterling, known as “The Demon,” who spent three
hundred back-breaking nights digging a tunnel under his
cell with a spoon—an inch at a time. It must have been a
bitter, brain-numbing moment when they saw him emptying
dirt from his shirt pocket in the yard—and found the tunnel
under his bunk.

They still remember Zollie Clements, who painted out the
white stripes of his convict garb with shoe blacking, stole a
guard’s cap—and tried to walk out the gate; George Davis,
who wrapped mail order catalogues around his body, plunged
into the river, and laughed when guard bullets failed to
penetrate the wet.paper. There was only one little oversight
—he didn’t wrap them around his head, and the water ran
crimson where a slug ripped open his brain.

Folsom—and ESCAPE.

It stirs their sullen, poisoned minds—this thought. It
brings incredible efforts, such as these and a hundred others.
And sometimes the hellish brew overflows and splashes the
walls and vard with red, and the Folsom hills echo to the
whine of shells and the cries of raging men.

Ten years ago, on a Thanksgiving Day, six men caused the
most appalling prison carnage in the annals of the lusty West
—armed only with one smuggled gun, knives, pipes and clubs.
Before that memorable two-day riot was quelled with the
help of the state militia, twelve convicts and guards were
dead, twenty-seven others were wounded, and the squat
prison was like a dynamited shack. And later, when the
law cracked down, five of the plotters paid for their folly
on the rope.

Folsom—and_ into its bubbling cauldron Clyde Stevens

(Below) Fred Barnes, serving thirty PB
years for robbery, was wounded in ‘ates
the attempted break at Folsom

(Above) Facing seventy
years for robbery, Albert
Kessell took a chance on
escape—and lost. He was
wounded in the fighting

had come with hate and defeat shrinking his black heart.

He had been there only a few months, still defiant, still
snarling, when a new warden was installed—Captain Clarence
Larkin. There was no man in California more familiar with
Folsom’s powder keg than this 250-pound, six foot six inch
giant—a hard-boiled, fearless veteran who tempered swift
justice with an understanding of the men.

Captain Larkin had begun his career behind the frowning
stone walls long years before, rose to the powerful post. of
Captain of the Yard, and was named Warden to replace
Court Smith, transferred to San Quentin when Warden
Holohan left there for a well-earned rest. :

On the day that Clarence Larkin was sworn in, he sum-
moned his guards and said:

“There are just two orders that ’m going to give. First,
if there is ever any trouble, I do not want any of you to
surrender your guns, even if I phone or tell you to. Second, if
I am kidnaped by prisoners trying to escape—shoot to kill!”

“Warden, you mean—?”

Larkin nodded grimly.

“Yes—I mean even if I’m in the line of fire. If I’m hit,
that’s too bad. Remember now—that’s my order.”

It took only one day for the new Warden’s ominous orders
to flow along the grapevine to every teeming cell, and there
was not one man in the pulsing, restless city of gray who
doubted Clarence Larkin’s word. Not one—except, perhaps,
Clyde Stevens. He heard, he sneered, he did not believe, and
fate went on shuffling the cards for a ghastly deal.

Two years passed.

Clyde Stevens sulked and fumed with impatience, search-
ing the barren, warped shelves of his mind for some solution
to the problem of escape. He had considered swimming the
turbulent river, but the chances were a hundred to one in
that deadly, sucking current. He had cast wary eyes on the
machine gun nests which dotted the walls like cheese boxes,
and knew that those muzzles never drooped. He had turned
over a dozen reckless ideas and found fault with each.

If there were no guns—

Stevens was forced to a wry smile with the thought.

“Oh, well,” he shrugged, “one of these days...”

It was about this time that Stevens met Benny Kucharski,
a human rodent who had been sent up from Los Angeles for
staging a series of robberies, and Ed Davis, one of the few
eastern gangsters at Folsom. Davis crashed the big time
under the ruthless tutelage of “Pretty Boy” Floyd, was sus-
pected of having had a hand in the infamous Kansas City
Station massacre. He took part in the disastrous Memorial
Day riot at the Kansas State Prison in 1933, and was, in
fact, the only member of the escaping convicts who was not
killed or captured in the subsequent manhunt that spread
over three states. Fleeing to California, Davis perpetrated
half a dozen kidnapings, robberies, and other crimes, and

(Below) Doing five years to life
for robbery, Benny Kucharski died
in the Black Sunday escape ‘plot

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ee_rlee

Robert L. Cannon (above)
and Wesley Eudy (right),
serving twenty-five years
each for burglary and rob-
bery, respectively, were
in on the escape plans

Stamped with a cryptic
“Died” and bearing the
additional notation,
“Killed in attempted es-
cape at 11:45 am., Sep-
tember 19th, 1937,” these
record cards (right) mark
the official finish of Clyde
Stevens and Kucharski

was finally trapped and sent to Folsom. He was a “hard
guy’’—steeped in crime, and a fit companion for the Mad
Dog from San Francisco.

Talking in the yard one day, the three men brought up
the subject uppermost in their minds. ,

“One of these nights the screws are going to wake up and
find I’ve gone away on a trip,” Stevens said rashly.

“Oh yeah?” Davis retorted between his teeth. “I suppose
ya got it all figured out?”

Stevens shook his head.

“No—not yet. First I’ve gotta find a way of getting a
rod in here.”

“A rod?” Davis snorted. “What do you want that for—
with all the bulls up on the walls ready to spray you with
slugs. Listen, when we broke outa the Kansas pen we didn’t
need a rod.”

“No?” Kucharski cut in scornfully.

“No! We tied a wire around Warden Prather’s neck,
led him right out in the yard and forced him into a car. It
was easy after that. They didn’t have the guts to shoot
with Prather between us.”

Kucharski’s wizened face darkened.

“You can’t get away with that here. You know what
Larkin said. Told the bulls to shoot anyway. I’m telling
you, he’d rather get bumped off than lose a single con.”

- “Aw, nuts!”* Stevens snapped. “They all get the chills
when they’re right up against the squeeze. lLarkin’s only
bluffing.”

N passing days the three convicts spent hours wrangling

over the problem of finding a loophole in Folsom’s net of
steel and stone. Stevens, stubbornly upholding the need for
guns, described in detail how he bought four automatics in a
San Francisco pawnshop, hid them in the cowling of a San
Quentin prison car, and then told his pal, Straight, where to
find them in the machine at the prison garage.

“Sure, and what happened?” Davis said sarcastically.
“Your pal Rudy got away, huh?”

“No, he didn’t,” Stevens said with narrowed eyes and
clenched fists. “Rudy never did have any nerve... he
should have knocked off the parole board, one at a time,
until they quit following him in the car.”

The Heroic Story of Warden Larkin—He Gave His Life to Smash Folsom’s Bloody Break

Kucharski- blanched, for murder was a_ thought
that froze his veins.

“Listen, you guys,” he said. “If I have to pack
a rod, count me out.” :

“Cold feet, huh?” Davis taunted.

“No—I just don’t wanna go out in a hearse, that’s
all. Think it over. I'll see you later.”

The next day, after a sleepless night, Kucharski
approached Stevens and Davis in a penitent mood, urged
them to forget what he had said, and pledged assistance and
cooperation in any plan suggested. And then, after they had
voiced approval, the slim, nervous convict revealed his own
secret—the motive for escape that was gnawing and burning
in his mind. It was a story of robbery, three years before
in the distant town of Springfield, Illinois, a job that Benny
had planned and carried out alone.

He had walked into a downtown jewelry store one day
just after sundown, when the skies were sheathed in dusk and
the streets were alive with men and women shop .and office
workers hurrying home. Benny found the proprietor alone,
as he had expected, whipped out a gun and quickly scooped
up a tray full of precious stones he had been spotting for
weeks. ~

The whole process took only a few minutes and Benny,
briskly stepping out of the store, lost himself in the crowds.
That same night he boarded a train for Chicago, remained
there a few days, and then headed for Los Angeles.

“And that’s where you got hooked,” Davis interrupted.

“Wait a minute, Ed,” Stevens frowned. “Go ahead,
Benny .. . what’s the rest of it?”

Kucharski hesitated, searching his companions’ faces for
reassuranee.

“Well, that’s all, except... .”

“Exeept that you hid the sparklers, huh?” Stevens said,
finishing the sentence.

Kucharski smiled lamely.

“Yeah, that’s it. I got ’em hid in Los Angeles. But I’m
letting you guys in on it. I'll split the stuff with you—it’s
worth twenty-eight grand with any fence.”

“Whereabouts in L. A. did you put ’em?” Davis asked,
trying to mask his sudden greed.

“Time enough for that later. I’ll show you—if we make it.”

“Okay, Benny. We'll make it.”

The spring months sped quickly, and summer embraced
Folsom with its stifling heat until even the hillside grass
was like the brown baked crust of a mud pie. Stevens and
Davis, now determined to break loose at the earliest. oppor-
tunity, had enlisted four more prisoners in their villainous
company. All of them were human outcasts df sinister
history, men who had spent (Continued on page 93)

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antique walls and towers; where Hercules
once built a temple, and where tombs
date back to 1138.

The Assise, or Criminal Court, is an old
church but slightly transformed. |The
President, Consigliere. or Vice-President
and the five Assessori who serve as jurors
(the jury system having been abolished)
sit in elevated seats, where the high altar
once was. The choir-loft serves for spec-
tators. The stained glass dome is cov-
ered by a canopy but the vari-colored
glass catches and holds the sun-rays which
filter through and fill the scene with fan-
tastic, rainbow hues. In fact a trial held
there is an impressive and unique spec-
tacle.

Crowds struggled for entrance. Public
opinion was inflamed. The evidence was
all circumstantial, but no doubt of guilt
appeared to exist in the popular mind.

The mystery of the assassin’s entrance
into Murder Cottage seemed at last un-
veiled. The husband must have pleaded
for a reconciliation, whispering loving
words through the crevice of the locked
door, while his accomplice-brother lurked
in the shadows... .

The tragic accused, always protesting
innocence, were closed in the gabbia, or

The Heroic Story of Warden

long years of their lives in stir and would
kill with no rousing of conscience.

First to join was Kessell, Stevens’ part-
ner in crime, who was doing a minimum
of seventy years. The others, no less in-
famous, were Fred Barnes, a notorious
killer; Wesley Eudy, thin-lipped Navy de-
serter, kidnaper, and robber; and Robert
Cannon, a baby-faced burglar from Los
Angeles.

Gathering in the great vard where they
could talk, the seven rats began to make
plans. Eudy, whose resentment against
punishment had grown like a poisonous
plant into fuming hatred for Warden Lar-
kin, made no secret of his personal plans.

“Listen.” he said to Stevens, “if you guys
are gonna grab the Warden, lemme handle
that job myself. I’ve been aching to get
him for a long time.”

AVIS, eying Budy’s | slight figure,
grinned derisively. :
“What are you gonna do? Beat him

9”

Eudy edged closer to the group after
glancing warily around the crowded yard.

“No——” he whispered. “Take a loo x.”

He slipped his right hand beneath his
coarse prison shirt and drew out a ten-
inch dagger whose murderous blade glinted
in the bright sun. Stevens gasped in
amazement.

“Teeazo, Wes,” he breathed, “that’s about
four inches Jonger than mine.”

“Oh... you got a knife, too?”

“Sure.”

“Me, too,” Kessell broke in, “T've got
one I made. from a spit.”

Barnes, whose eyes had been darting
around the yard while the others talked,
suddenly nudged Stevens.

“Break it up!” he hissed. “There’s
guard comin’ this way.”

“Okay,” the bandit nodded as the con-
spirators began to separate nonchalantly.
“Same time tomorrow.”

Labor Day came and went, with the
seven plotters taking advantage of the
holiday to work out their hellish scheme
in detail. They were growing impatient,
and Davis, coolest of the lot, had trouble
holding them in check, even with the re-
minder that a mistake might bring swift
punishment and possible death.

They had definitely voted to kidnap

True Detective Mysteries

iron cage. They were defended by an
eminent Avvocato of the Roman Forum.
A desperate battle based on_the fragility
of circumstantial evidence. The footprints
of Augusto might be a terrible coinci-
dence; the shoes of Giuseppe could not be
identified “beyond a reasonable doubt” be-
cause they were warped and water-soaked.

And above all, thundered the defense,
the tremendous aunt Daria Menghini could
not be believed... .

Because in 1926, in that very courtroom,
she had been tricd for the murder of her
husband, uncle of the two accused!

The weird little woman with the unfor-
gettable eyes had been accused, with her
son, of doing away with her husband,
burning his body in a furnace and inter-
ring his charred bones in the yard.

Neighbors had smelled the burning flesh ;
to one who asked her what she was bury-
ing, she had replied: “A DOG.”

Her defense had been that her husband
had left her, gone away and never re-
turned. She was acquitted by a doubtful
jury. But her husband had never since
been heard of. And during her trial she
had tried to implicate her nephew Giu-
seppe in the murder of his uncle! She had
not succeeded but the feud of the fami-

(Continued from page 9)

Warden Larkin, using his huge body as a
shield and a pass to freedom. Stevens and
Davis, arguing hour after hour had_per-
suaded the others that this plan offered
the least possible risk. They proposed to
use Larkin’s car in a dash through the
gates, drop the Warden en route, and
switch automobiles somewhere on the
famed Mother Lode Highway into the
mountains.

Stevens promised to make arrangements
for the second getaway car through friends
on the outside, adding that he had already
picked a spot for a hideout near Fresno,
in the heart of California’s lush raisin val-
ley two hundred miles to the south. Each
of the seven men was now carrying a con-
cealed knife, while Davis had augmented
his weapon with a jack handle and a coil
of wire.

Barnes and Eddy had also added to their
armament,

Working in the somber dark of the
night, when Folsom’s branded men slept,
they fashioned diabolically clever imitation
automatics from wood blocks, carving and
whittling until their eyes and fingers ached.
The fake guns were amazingly real, with

“And remember, Butchy, this is the
window you'll deposit this dough in
tomorrow.”

93

lies for this fact, had since endured.

“Strange,” thundered the defense, “that
this aunt, this Nemesis who tried to impli-
cate her hated nephew in his uncle’s mur-
der, had been the one to find the bloody
shoes, to provide the one link that bound
him to the murder of Angela Torretta!
Failing to have him condemned the first
time she has tried again! Her vendetta
against Giuseppe!”

A. possible miscarriage — of justice?
Shadows of doubt ereeping in?

Until the State played its trump card!
A nail, tardily found enmeshed in the
victim’s tangled hair had been pronounced
by experts to be the one missing from the
greased shoe of Augusto Giosue.

Implacable destiny! In kicking his
dying wife the nail had become detached,
thus sealing the murdering husband’s fate!

The Giosué brothers were found “guilty
as charged” and sent to the Isola di Pro-
cida, grim old fortress for “lifers” off the
coast of Naples.

They have never confessed.

But the humble contadini, gathered
about cheery fires on long winter evenings,
still find pride in recounting how brave
Marshal DePedys helped solve the mys-
tery of Murder Cottage.

Larkin

bits of metal and pipe adding a convinc-
ing touch. Truly, disaster was_brewing,
and Folsom was like a monster Pandora’s
box, with Clyde Stevens’ fingers itching to
rip off the lid and unleash the human
fiends within.

So we come to Black Sunday—Septem-
ber 19th, 1937.

Following a custom established months
before, Warden Larkin left his office a lit-
tle before noon and walked over to the
headquarters of Captain of the Yard Wil-
liam J. Ryan—a small, glass-partitioned
cubicle which faces the vast enclosure
where the prisoners are herded during
leisure hours. It was in this tiny office
that’ Larkin held court on Sundays. will-
ingly listening to any prisoner who had a
“beef’—whether it was a complaint about
food, work, cellmates, privileges, or any-
thing else in the regular prison routine.
Larkin invariably made notes on each con-
vict’s case, investigated the following diy,
and made decisions which were rarely dis-
puted.

On this fateful morning Captain Ryan
was in his office with two trustics, Richard
Harrison and Vernon Chidester.

“Morning, Warden,” Captain Ryan
said. ‘“We’re all sect.”

“EJELLO, Captain. Many in the line
this morning?”

Captain Ryan looked out into_the yard.

“No, only a dozen or so. I see Ed
Davis right up in front there with Clyde
Stevens.”

Warden Larkin’s expression changed.

“Davis and Stevens, eh?” he repeated.
“Wonder what they want?”

“T don’t know, Warden. I’ve seen them
talking together a lot lately, but they
haven’t been in trouble.”

“All right. Let’s get started.”

Ryan opened the door, signaled to the
waiting line of gray-clad men, and they
began shuffling forward toward the office,
chatting and smoking. It took only a
few minutes to dispose of the first two
cases, and then, strangely tense and tight-
lipped, Ed Davis stepped up for his turn.
At that moment, gliding across the yard
like cats, five other men suddenly con-
verged on the office and made Davis the
apex of a human wedge which jammed
through the small door.

a

*

(DUNCAN, Elizabeth, BALDONADO, Augustine & MOYA, Luis-Continued)

"She once madamed a San Francisco 'massage parlor,.' She was,
at one time or another, involved in abortion, forgery, check-kiting,
and theft. She married something between 11 and ‘20 men, tried to
con other men for make-believe pregnancies, but Elizabeth Duncan,
54, was xxrk on trial for murder in a Ventura, Calife, courthouse
last week because she was a mother - with a vengeancee

"Witness after witness took the stand to tell how she had con-
spired to have her daughter-in-law killed to reclaim the affections
of her son Frank, an owl-eyed 30-year-old lawyer who held hands wk th
her in public, talked with a lisp, was known around the courthouse
as ‘wicked wascal wabbit!. Most explicit of all the witnesses were
two Santa Barbara ex-convicts, who testified that mother Duncan
offered them $6,000 to kill Frank's pregnant wife. They lured her
into a rented automobile, beat her into unconsciousness with a
pistol, strangled her, then dumped her body into a ditchef For all
this, they complained, mother Duncan paid them only $300.

"After 29 days of trail and testimony (sensation seekers paid
up to $10 to more favored folk to get seats in the tiny courtroom) ,
a jury of eight women and four men wound up disbelieving Elizabeth
Duncan's protestation of innocencee The jury recommended death in
San Quentin's gas chamber, left it for Judge Charles F. Blackstone
to daeide if she should be sent instead to a mental hospital,

“Whereever she went, she could take along one consolation.
Testifying in her behalf last week, Frank Duncan said sadly: ‘If I
had a choice for a mother, much as I have been humiliated and hurt,
I would still choose the same mother,!*

TIME MAGAZINE, March 30, 1959 Page 16.

MIDDLE-AGED Mrs. Elizabeth Duncan, an
outwardly respectable divorcée, devoted
mother of a successful grown-up son,
went shopping in the downtown area of
Santa Barbara, California. Like so many
other women among the 59,000 people
of this opulent Pacific coast city, careful
spender Mrs. Duncan was keeping alert
eyes open for a bargain. But her quest,
that December day in 1958, was not for
a new chic hat, a becoming housecoat or
a memorable evening gown. She was out
to buy the services of a killer who would
‘“eliminate’’—as she delicately put it—
her newly-acquired daughter-in-law.

Many women like to have the com-
pany of a friend on a shopping spree and
Mrs. Duncan was no exception. With
her as she bustled along Santa Bar-
bara’s State Street was her close friend
and confidante, Mrs. Emma Short. To
the casual passer by they appeared to be
no more than two rather nice, mature
citizens, Mrs. Duncan nearly sixty, her
friend Emma in her seventies.

But their animated, low-voiced chat
was about purchased death. Mrs. Short
fully shared her friend’s secret and for a
homely old pensioner she was remark-
ably complacent about it. Her only re-
action, as she could later recall it, was
that, although she was keeping Mrs.
Duncan company, “I didn’t approve of
her plan to kill her daughter-in-law”.

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Twisted woman

The ‘“‘market-place” to which their dan-
gerous mission took them was a seedy,
run-down beer parlour on State Street,
called the Tropical Café, owned by an
illegal Mexican immigrant, Mrs. Esper-
anza Esquivel. Wily Mrs. Duncan had
chosen it carefully. Mrs. Esquivel lived
in fear that the police would discover
that she had no legal right to be living
and operating a business in the United
States; already, on a quite separate brush
with the law over the alleged receiving
of stolen property, Mrs. Duncan’s lawyer
son, Frank, had represented the Mexican
family’s interests.

As Mrs. Duncan saw it, Mrs. Esquivel
owed her a favour and, moreover, she
seemed the likely sort of person to know
drifting, café-haunting customers ready
to offer their services as hired killers.

It was all incredibly cold-blooded yet
it all fitted the psychopathic personality
of Elizabeth Duncan. For, despite out-
ward appearances, she was a dangerously
twisted woman. In the course of her life
she had had many husbands — probably
20 or more, but even she was not certain
—some taken in legal marriages, others
bigamously. She had married most of
them in the hope of acquiring their money,
for she was also a diligent, if not very
skilful, confidence trickster.

The only man who had brought her any

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*

ELIZABETH DUNCAN, AUGUSTINE BALDONADO AND LUIS MOYA (California )

"Pity the gbrl who married Frank Duncan, clacked the gossips
around the Santa Barbara, Calif., courthouse. The owl-eyed lawyer
was arrogant and humorless, lisped 80 noticeably that teasing court
clerks called him a ‘wicked wascal wabbit! behind his backe Butthat
was the lesser half of it; Frank at 29 was a mamma's boye Matronly,
smartly dressed Elizabeth Duncan, separated from her husband when
Frank was a child, held her son's hand in court, applauded when he
won a case, tongue-lashed the district attorney when he loste So
tight was the noose that once, when Frank threatened to leave hom,
his mother took a heavy dose of slepping pills and was carried off
to Santa Barbara's Cottage Hospitale ‘

"There, ironically, romance entered Frank: s life 13 months
agoe Mother Duncan's nurse was slight, auburn“haired Olga Kupczyk,
30, recently of Vancouver, Canada. After Mother Duncan was sent
home, Frank and Olga dated. In May Olga was pregnant, and told
friends she was in love; in June she and Frank were married, But
scarcely had a superior court judge tied the knot than Olga Kupszy k
Duncan's mother-in-law troubles begane Then newlyweds checked
into a Santa Barbara motel for their wedding night. At.1:30 acme
Frank hadd to go home to mother,

"For five mohths Frank Duncan spent evenings with Olga, nights
at homes Sometimes mother Duncan, 54, would harass Olga by tele-~
phone at the hospital; sometimes she Would beat on the apartment
door and scream threatse Twice Olga changed apartments to escape
her mother-in-law; each time Mother Duncan trailed Frank to his
rendezvouse And one day last August mother Duncan hired an ex~
convict to act as her son, posed herself as Olga, got a Ventura
County superior court judge to annul her son's marriages

"Olga and Frank ignored the threats; Olga, in fact, had high
hopes that the baby's arrival might win over Frank once and for
alle Then, in mid-November, Olga's hospital friends reported her
mysteriously missinge Frank was no bhelpe Santa Barbara and Ven-
tura police turned up the phony annulment and, with help from the
FBI, followed a trail that led to two characters of Santa Barbara! s
seamy Haley Street area; blade-thin Augustine Baldonado, 25, and
Luis Moya, @ 22-year-old esnvict (dope and street fighting). Both
finally confessed that mother Duncan had hired them to kill Olga
for $6,000. They led the cops to a shallow grave in a Ventura
County ditche There indeed lay the body of Frank Duncan's bride,
the victim of beating and strangulations

“Mother Duncan, already in jail for the fraudu&ant annulment,
was led from her cell and charged - along with Baldonado and Moya =
with murdere Angrily, she denied all, galled thw whole thing a
frame-up to hurt her Franke Frank himself bid under an assumed
name in a Hollywood apartment until the cops tracked him down. Then
he scarcely grieved over his dead wife and unborn childe But he
was shocked and shaken by his mother's plight» Said he: 'I could
never KKXM recall mother doing anything cruel. She Would have to

be insane to be linked into ite!*

TIME MAGAZINE, January 5, 1959 Page 236

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By
By J. K. Harris

Special Investigator for
ACTUAL DETECTIVE
STORIES

Duncan was asked to account for his
whereabouts for the previous evening.
He did this readily, giving names of
friends whom he had been with until
two o'clock in the morning. A few calls
proved the statement correct.

What had happened to Olga?

The detectives returned to the apart-
ment for another search. They heard a
strange story from the manager.

“When the Duncans were still to-
gether,” she said, “his mother told me
that her son and Olga were living in sin.
I told her that they had registered as
man and wife and I believed they were
married.

“She said they had been but there
was an annulment and if I didn’t believe
her, I could call the authorities in Ven-
tura and learn for myself.”

The detectives phoned Duncan.

“Did you ever request or have granted
an annulment of your marriage?’’ Wade
asked.

“Certainly not,” the attorney
answered. ‘Our marriage was con-
summated; Olga is expecting a child
The main prerequisite of an annulment
is that the marriage not be consum-
mated.”

Santa Barbara Police Chief R. W.
Cooley, at the request of Wade, called
the Los Angeles police and asked for the
services of the famed forensic chemist,
Ray Pinker, to examine the apartment.
Wade called the neighboring city of
Ventura, which is in Ventura County.
and asked District Attorney Roy Gus-
tafson to find out whether an annul-
ment of the marriage of Frank and Olga
Duncan had been granted.

“We're investigating that right now,”
Gustafson said. “It came to our atten-
tion a few days ago and I assigned

Was akilling behind this marriage masquerade in Santa Barbara, Calif.?

Wade reasoned. ‘Nothing is missing
except the woman. And nothing in the
apartment is disarranged. She surely
would have put up a struggle.”

But would Olga have gone out volun-
tarily in her nightgown and robe, bare-
footed, in the middle of the night?

On the other hand, could she have
been forced to leave without some kind
of an outcry or struggle?

The detectives took Nurse Curry to
one side to question her. She told them
she had been a close friend and confi-
dante of the missing woman.

Olga had moved from Vancouver,
British Columbia, to Santa Barbara in
1956 to work at the Cottage Hospital.

“Olga told me she met Mr. Duncan
there. His mother had taken an over-
dose of sleeping pills and Olga was her
nurse.”

“Do you know why they separated?”
Wade asked.

“It was his mother’s fault. She didn’t
want Frank to marry Olga and she
made life miserable for them and he
finally left. Naturally, Olga was desolate
because she is expecting a baby.”

“Could she have taken her own life?”

“Never.” Miss Curry was emphatic.
“Olga was very religious and in a- way
an old-fashioned type of girl. She
kept herself in top physical condition
because all of her thoughts were for the
child she was carrying.”

Miss Curry told the officers: “You
may as well know this, because you’ll
find it out sooner or later. Olga wasn’t
married until June twenty-fourth and
she’s seven months along.”

The detectives talked with Duncan.
He readily admitted his mother had in-

terfered with his marriage. However,
he said he had hoped to reconcile with
Olga before the baby was born. “I feel
that when mother sees her grandchild,
she will forgive Olga and everything
will be all right,” the attorney said.

“You think your wife is all right,
then?” Wade asked, noting the present
and future tense of the statement. “Are
you sure you haven’t any idea what
might have happened?”

Duncan hesitated. “I think I may
know.”

“What?”

The attorney said when he had seen
his wife last, she had told him that his
reputation as an attorney was at stake.
“She knew what unpleasant publicity
could do to my career,” Duncan said. “It
may be she is using this means for re-
venge.”

sneaeenetnatees oi Site

Clarence Henderson to the case.
give you the dope on it.”

Henderson told Wade that Attorney
Hal Hammond, Jr., had represented two
clients who gave their names as Frank
Duncan and Olga Kupezyk Duncan in
an annulment proceeding on August 17.
The clients told him they had been mar-
ried in Santa Barbara on June 24 and
had not consummated their marriage.

“There was no trouble, and I got the
annulment for them the same day they
were here,” Hammond told Henderson.
“Then one day I was talking to an at-
torney from Santa Barbara and I asked
him how Duncan ever got himself en-
tangled in the first place with such an
elderly woman.

“He was completely surprised. He told
me Duncan's wife was a young woman

(Continued on page 53)

He'll

25

See : ?

all the non-support cases, he came up
with one against Ralph W. Winterstein,
an ex-convict. The witness positively
identified him as the man who had
posed as Duncan, Henderson claimed.

Winterstein had a record for larceny,
grand larceny, being AWOL from Camp
Cooke and failure to provide for his
family. But he could not be found.

Chief Cooley finally requested the aid
of the Federal Bureau of Investigation
on the theory Mrs. Olga Duncan had
been kidnaped. Agent D. K. Brown, in
charge of the Los Angeles bureau, and
six of his agents went to Santa Bar-
bara to take an active part in the in-
vestigation.

Meanwhile, Detectives Thompson and
Bouma picked up an interesting bit of
information. Winterstein had been a
frequent customer of the Tropical Club,
a Santa Barbara cafe.

Marcano and Esperanza Esquivel
owned the Tropical Club as well as the
El Zarape Cafe. Both places were listed
by the police and liquor-board inspec-
tors as undesirable establishments. Of-
ficials charged they were frequented by
ex-convicts and by known narcotics
addicts.

The El Zarape had been closed when
state agents charged that the Esquivels
knowingly had allowed the sale of nar-
cotics on the premises and offered for
sale wine which was known to have been
stolen.

Furthermore, the Esquivels were
charged with having stolen property in
their possession. A cache of guns taken
in a burglary was located by the police
in the Tropical Club.

And Frank Duncan had defended the
pair.

He had obtained a dismissal of the
charges against Esperanza, but her
husband was convicted and given a
sentence of from one to five years in
prison.

aa | THINK we’ve got something,”
Wade said when he was told of this.
“Mrs. Duncan could have met Winter-
stein there.”

Moving cautiously, through inform-
ants known to frequent the Tropical
Club, the investigators learned that
Mrs. Elizabeth Duncan had been in the
club about two weeks before Olga dis-
appeared.

They went to see Mrs. Esquivel.

“You know Mrs. Elizabeth Duncan?”
Peck asked her.

“The mother of the lawyer man?”

“That’s right.”

“I see her one time with her son. He
is very fine lawyer, but he should not
have let Marcano to go prison. He says
he is very sorry for that.”

Mama Esperanza at first denied that
Mrs. Duncan had been in the Tropical
Club, but when detectives nailed it down
to the day, Mama suddenly recalled the
meeting.

“She come to tell me she is sorry my
husband is in prison,’”” Mama said. ‘She
tell me her son is working very hard to
get Marcano out of jail for me.”

“You introduced her to Ralph Win-
terstein,”’ Wade accused.

“I do not know any Ralph Winter-
stein.”

Mama couldn’t be budged from her
story.

And still no one knew what had hap-
pened to Olga. ,

Then, on the night of November 28,
James “Chico” Rojos was picked up by
traffic officers in a battered old Chevro-
let sedan when he drove through a stop-
light at an intersection. He had no
operator’s license.

As a matter of routine, police looked
through the car. The 1948 sedan was
pretty well beaten up. One thing inter-
ested the officers particularly. A portion
of the upholstery on the rear side and
the panel of a rear door had been
slashed out. Still visible in the padding
were stains that might have been blood.

The Olga Duncan case immediately
came to the officers’ minds. The car was
turned over to FBI technicians. Tests
gave positive proof that the stains were
human blood.

54

‘

The detectives questioned Chico. He
had borrowed’ the car from a girl only
a few hours before making the mistake
of failing to stop for the red light, he
said. The car indeed was registered in
the girl’s husband’s name.

She was questioned. Did she know
Ralph Winterstein? Had she ever lent
him her car?

She claimed she did not know Win-
terstein. She explained the slashed up-
holstery by saying that she had rented
the car to Luis Estrada Moya, a 22-
year-old cook at the Blue Onion Cafe.
During the time he had the car, the
upholstery had been removed.

Moya took the car on Thursday, No-
vember 13, and returned it on Tuesday,
November 18, she said.

That covered the date of Olga’s dis-
appearance.

“Luis said somebody threw a cigarette
in the back and it caught fire,” she said.
“He paid me ten dollars for the damage.
That’s all I know.”

Augustine Baldonado, bouncer
tioned by Detective Thompson about “after hours’ activities

The police knew Moya. He had regis-
tered with them as an ex-convict after
serving a term in the Chino prison on
a conviction in San Diego for posses-
sion of marijuana. And he frequented
the Tropical Club and was a close friend
of Augustine Baldonado, janitor and
bouncer at the club.

The detectives sought some connec-

tion between Moya and the missing,

Winterstein but were unable to find it.
Could there be a tie-in between

Moya, the bloodstained car and the dis-

appearance of Olga? ;

Captain Wade received a telephoned
tip in Santa Barbara. The caller said
Mrs. Elizabeth Duncan had pawnea
some of her jewelry. Investigation re-
vealed that she had, the day after she
had been to the Tropical Club.

FBI agents also uncovered the fact
that Mrs. Duncan had cashed a check
for $200 on the same day.

Whom had the money been for?

Cooley called District Attorney Gus-
tafson in Ventura and requested that he
arrest Mrs. Duncan on the charges that
she and Winterstein had impersonated
her son and Olga in the fake annul-
ment proceedings. “It may shake some-
thing loose,” he suggested.

It shook loose an avalanche of pub-
licity.

Mrs. Duncan, when placed under ar-
rest and taken to the jail in Ventura,

admitted that she and an accomplice,
whom she paid $60, had obtained the
annulment, police said.

Frank Duncan rushed up from Los
Angeles to represent his mother. He told
the press: “I truly question why she
did it. I haven’t the faintest idea what
she hoped to accomplish. You can un-
derstand that such an annulment has
no legal status.”

The reporters asked Duncan whether
he believed his mother had any connec-
tion with the disappearance of his wife.

He said: “I have talked to Mother
many times about it. She told me, posi-
tively and absolutely, that she had
nothing to do with it.”

What had happened to Olga?

In Santa Barbara, the detectives had
been investigating Moya’s actions, They
learned from an employe of the Blue
Onion where Moya worked that a
woman had left an envelope there for
him two days after the disappearance
of Olga.

at the Tropical Club, is ques-

The witness was almost certain the
woman who had left the envelope was
Mrs. Elizabeth Duncan, the detectives
claimed.

Moya was arrested.

“Whoever told you that woman was
Mrs. Duncan is nuts,” he said. “It was
a dame I met in the Tropical. She went
to the races in Tijuana, and I had her
put a couple of bucks on a horse for
me.”

He’d been out with Baldonado the
night Olga disappeared, he said.

Baldonado was brought in for ques-
tioning. He told a story identical to the
one from Moya.

In. desperation, Cooley, Wade and
Peck went back to see Mama Esperanza.

“One last chance,” Wade warned her.
“We have Baldonado and Moya in jail,
you know.”

“T know nothing.”

Chief Cooley said: “Mrs. Esquivel, we
know that Moya and Baldonado were
introduced to Mrs. Duncan. You ar-
ranged the introduction.”

“There is nothing wrong with that,”
Mama Esperanza said, showing the first
sign of weakening.

Wade broke in: “Like I told you,
Mama, this is your last chance. We
aren’t going to fool around any longer.”

“They will kill me!” Mama Esperanza
cried out.

“Not where they are now, they won't.”

According to the officers, Mrs.
Esquivel told them that Mrs. Duncan
had gone to her and said she wanted a
man to do a job for her.

“She said if I help her, then her son
would help me get Marcano out of
prison,” Mama Esperanza said, the
officers claimed. ‘You know I would do
anything to get my Marcano back to
me. I told her I would have somebody
get in touch with her.

“I gave the job to Augustine Baldon-
ado. He and Moya did what she wanted
them to do.”

“What was that?” Cooley asked.

Taking a deep breath and shaking her
head, Mrs. Esquivel related, according
to the police, that Baldonado and Moya
had come to her house early on the
morning of the day Olga had been dis-
covered missing. Both men were wear-
ing bloodstained clothes.

Mrs. Esquivel claimed, police said.
that she heard Baldonado say: ‘‘We did
the job for Mrs. Duncan,” and later,
“They can’t ever find that witch. The
body is in a pipe,” and also, “I hit that
witch. And that witch sure screamed.”

Both Baldonado and Moya denied the
statement. However, it was enough for
the investigators.

“We have enough grounds to file
charges,” District Attorney Thomas an-
nounced. “A body isn’t necessary.”

Thomas drew up charges in which he
claimed eight overt acts against Mrs.
Elizabeth Duncan, Augustine Baldonado
and Luis Estrada Moya for the kidnap-
ing of Mrs. Olga Duncan and ten overt
acts against the trio charging them

‘with murder of the expectant mother.

And on Sunday morning, December
21, as the detectives quizzed Baldonado
again, they claimed he shrugged and
said: ‘“‘What’s the use? I'll show you
where we put the dame.”

T= detectives claimed that Baldo-
nado confessed to them that Mrs.
Elizabeth Duncan had hired him and
Moya to get rid of her daughter-in-
law, Olga, and had promised them
$3,000 each.

“We just grabbed the dame in her
nightgown as she was getting ready for
bed,” Baldonado said, according to the
officers. “I kept a hand over her mouth
and she bit one of my thumbs. We had
to slap her around some in the car to
keep her quiet and that’s where the
blood came from.”

Baldonado led the officers to an iso-
lated section of road in the hills nine-
teen miles northwest of Ventura. He
pointed out a grave down a 20-foot em-
bankment.

Olga was there, all right. A post-
mortem examination indicated that the
woman had been buried alive, although
Baldonado had said according to police
that he and his companion strangled
her before burying her.

But Moya would admit nothing. Until
Christmas night. Then, according to the
police, he told substantially the same
story as Baldonado had, concluding, “It
feels good to get it off my chest.”

Moya also cleared up the point of how
Olga was induced to leave her apart-
ment in nothing but her robe. Investi-
gators say he told them he went to the
door and announced that Olga’s hus-
band was drunk outside in a car; she
came to the parked car, where Baldo-
nado was lying in the back seat, bent
over him, and Moya struck her.

Because the actual slaying had taken
place in Ventura County, the case was
turned over to District Attorney Gustaf -
son for prosecution.

On December 26, murder indictments
were returned by the Ventura County
grand jury against Mrs. Elizabeth Dun-
can, Augustine Baldonado and Luis
Estrada Moya. The same jury also re-
turned indictments charging Mrs. Dun-
can and Ralph Winterstein with posing
as the nurse and Frank Duncan to ob-
tain the fraudulent marriage annul-
ment.

Ralph W. Winterstein is still being
sought by the authorities.

The other three are being held pend-
ing further legal proceedings.


ee ae ee

BABDCNADO, DUNCAN & MOYA,

ex CA (Ventura)

August 8, 1962

The two Mrs. Duncans, Olga, who had onl
her mother-in-law, who waded through six of

one husband and that for a short time, and Elizabeth,
them. At right, in a plastic bag, Olga returns at last

ANNULMENT
From a GHOST

The Olga Duncan Case -

Nurse Adeline Curry at St.
Francis Hospital, Santa Barbara,
California, first suspected something
was wrong on the Monday morning of
November 17, 1958, when Olga Duncan
failed to appear on a case she had been
assigned to.

“I’m afraid something has happened
to her,” Nurse Curry told the nun at
the desk in the hospital. “You know,
Olga is thirty years old and this is her
first baby. I called her apartment but
she doesn't answer the phone.”

Nurse Curry obtained permission to
take a cab and see what might be wrong.

When she arrived at the apartment,
she asked the landlady if she had seen
Mrs. Duncan.

“No, I haven't,” the manager said.
“And I’ve been wondering about it.”

Every morning at exactly 6:50 a cab
pulled up to take Mrs. Duncan to work,
she said. ‘You could set your watch by
that time, but the cab didn’t come this
morning.”

Sliding glass doors to the modern

Pits pregnant Olga was missing.

24

OFFICIAL D

apartment were unlocked and partially
open. Both women wentin. The rooms
appeared to be in perfect order. Covers
of the bed were turned down but it had
not been slept in. °

“Look!” Nurse Curry cried.

“What?”

Miss Curry pointed to a maternity
girdle. “Olga told me it was the only one
she had. She certainly wouldn’t have
gone out without it.”

“What should we do?”

“We'd better call her husband.”

Miss Curry, through her close,
friendly relationship with Olga, knew
she and her prominent attorney hus-
band were separated. Nevertheless,
she called his office and was told that
he was in court and would be given the
message.

“Mrs. Duncan had visitors last night,”
the manager said. “I heard them leave
about half-past eleven. My apartment
is directly below this one.”

“I know. They were friends of hers
from the Cottage Hospital. Olga asked
me to come but I couldn’t make it.”

Olga, who came from Canada, had
worked at the Cottage Hospital prior to
her marriage. Miss Curry called there
and talked to Nurse Sylvia Butler who
with Nurse Doreen Corraini had been
the visitors.

“She was all right when we left,” Miss
Butler declared. “She said she was tired
and was going straight to bed. In fact,
she was already undressed and in her
nightgown.”

An hour later, Frank Duncan arrived
at the apartment.

He was deeply concerned but unable
to offer any explanation for the mysteri-
ous disappearance of his estranged wife.
“I think we should call the police,” he
said. He did.

Captain Albert C. Wade, Lieutenant
Leonard E. Peck, Sergeant Thomas
Bouma and Detective Charles Thomp-
son drove to the apartment. Nurses
Butler and Corraini were there. They
told the officers about being at the
apartment during the evening and
about Olga, seven months pregnant,
getting into her nightgown.

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“It’s gone and so is the white robe she
was wearing,” Miss Butler said. “But
the green slippers she had on are in the
bathroom.”

The detectives could find no sign of a
struggle. All of the lights were on.

Olga’s purse, with money in it, her
jewelry and other valuables in the
apartment were untouched.

“Have you any ideas?” Captain Wade
asked Duncan, a slender, dark-haired
man wearing heavy, horn-rimmed
glasses.

He shook his head. ‘The last time I
saw my wife was a week ago last Fri-
day.”

The tenants on one side of Mrs. Dun-
can’s apartment had been away on a
vacation; tenants on the other side had
been out for the evening and had not re-
turned until two o’clock in the morning.
At that time, all of the lights had been
on in Olga’s apartment. They had not
seen her, nor had they heard any
sounds during the night.

The detectives went into a huddle.

“It couldn’t have been a prowler,”

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her at her home at 10:45 p. m., and all
three of the youths had expressed their
intentions of going right home.

“Did you notice anything suspicious?”
Fields asked. ‘Like a car following you.
Anything like that?”

The girl thought about this for sev-
eral seconds. Then she said: “Only a
highway patrol car. I remembered
Dwight saying it had been trailing us
for about three miles when we got to my
house. He was driving real slowly and
carefully.”

Now the officers were positive that the
three had been kidnaped. Undoubt-
edly, Edwards had stopped them at the
spot where Vanatta had found the
abandoned prowl car, and had com-
mandeered Throneberry’s sedan. He
probably was holding the trio captive.

Where would Edwards strike next?

And what about Warner, Carter and
Throneberry? Were they still with him
in the Ford? Or had he left them tied
somewhere in a forest to die of hunger
and exposure in the unusual near-zero
temperatures?

By noon, with no word from Edwards
or his prisoners, the strongest nerves
were becoming frayed.

Then, at 1:30 p. m., the frightened
boys returned to Shelbyville. Edwards
had released them in Birmingham, Ala-
bama, after exacting a promise from the
terrorized trio that no mention of his
whereabouts would be made until they
returned to Shelbyville.

Fearing that the convict would hunt
them down if they disobeyed, they’d
kept that promise.

Edwards had forced them first to
drive him to Fayetteville, intending to
circle back to Murfreesboro, but when
he heard of the heavy guard on duty
at the jail he had changed his plans.

“Things are too hot around here,”
Throneberry quoted him as_ saying.
“I've got to get out’a here for awhile.”

On the outskirts of Birmingham,
Throneberry’s car had developed motor
trouble and the convict left them. “The
last we saw of him, he was trying to
thumb a ride,”’ the youth said.

The search for Edwards shifted im-
mediately to Birmingham where Detec-
tive Captain George L. Pattie was put
in charge.

Pattie went through the records but
no kidnapings or missing motorists had
been reported. All trains and buses were
searched before they were allowed to

leave the city and a stake-out was or-
dered at the airport. Hotels and motels
were canvassed in vain.

Stolen-car reports were given top
priority by Pattie and the men working
under him, but the day passed with no
trace of the heavily armed cop-killer.

By now the Federal Bureau of In-
vertigation had entered the case, with
N. R. Johnson of Atlanta, G. C. Gearty
of Knoxville, and J. M. Lopez of Mem-
phis heading up the government’s
search. The FBI wanted Edwards for
fleeing to avoid prosecution and kid-
naping. More than 100,000 wanted
notices were ordered prepared on the
fugitive and circulated throughout the
nation,

In less than a week, Spence Edwards
had skyrocketed from a number in a
Georgia work camp to a pin-up boy in
every post office and police department
in the country. He was the hottest
item on the current wanted list.

But more days passed, frustrating
days for the officers, and still there was
no trace of Edwards.

Then, on Tuesday afternoon, Decem-
ber 2, Texas State Trooper Allan Kempf
was cruising slowly along Highway 83,
five miles north of Carrizo Springs,
when an automobile bearing Mississippi
tags roared past him. The car was
headed south, toward the Mexican
border, less than 30 miles away.

Kempf pressed down on the accelera-
tor and sped after the sedan. :

The Mississippi car picked up speed.

Kempf tromped harder on the gas
pedal and pulled alongside, siren
screaming.

“Pull over and stop!" the, trooper
ordered. ;

The driver, hatless and bushy-haired,
slid to the shoulder of the highway, and
Kempf leaped out of his patrol car. He
walked over and jerked open the sedan
door.

“Let me see your driver's license.”

The man under the wheel sneered
and handed over a Georgia license. The
name on the card read Hubert Turner;
the address, Dalton, Georgia.

“Get out,”” Kempf ordered. '

“What is this? A pinch?”

“Maybe. Unless you can tell me why
a man from Georgia is driving a
Mississippi car.”

The driver’s hand swept into view. It

-was holding a .22-caliber pistol.

“Okay, copper, you asked for it!”
The gun in his hand jerked and a

v4

slug banged past Kempf's head. The
trooper took a step backward, pawing
for his service revolver in the holster at
his side.

Another slug tore past the officer's
head.

Kempf took another step backward.
The sedan roared off down the highway.

The trooper squeezed off two shots
in rapid succession.

The sedan swerved, but kept going,
picking up more speed.

Kempf leaped back into his patrol
car, grabbing up the mike. He gave his
location.

“T've got a hot one! It could be that
7 we got the bulletins on from the

ni

“T’ll notify the sheriff’s office right
away!” the dispatcher exclaimed.

But they were too late. In Carrizo
Springs, Kempf found the Mississippi
sedan abandoned on a side street.

- By this time, Dimmit County Sheriff
Tom G. Brady had reached the scene.

BRADY looked at the splintered rear
window. One of Kempf’s slugs had
pierced the glass and smashed through
the windshield.-

“He must’ve been lying down on the
seat for that bullet to have missed him,”
the sheriff said.

Minutes later, came a report that a
car had been stolen by a short, thin
man, wearing a brown coat and dark
trousers.

“That’s our boy!”” Kempf exclaimed,
jotting down the description and license
number of the vehicle

The chase was on again.

Seven miles south of the city, they
found the stolen car parked in a drive-
way. A puzzled rancher ran up to meet
the officers.

“What’s- going on around here?” he
shouted. ‘Some guy just drove in here,
left this car and took off in my pickup
truck.”

“Which direction?” de-
manded.

“South, into the desert. He took that

Kempf

‘road that dead-ends at the creek.”

a police cars spurted away in pur-
suit.

At the creek bed, they found the pick-
up—overturned. The driver was gone.

“We've got him now,” Brady said
grimly. ‘He hasn’t a chance out there.
That’s wild country and the only place
he can hide is in the brush.”

Kempf made a wry face. “Those

thorns will punch him so full of holes
he'll look like a sieve.”

Brady and Kempf got on their radios
and called for help. Within an hour, a
posse of more than 30 men had assem-
bled on the creek bank. Brady directed
squads to block off every path in a wide
circle, and Kempf called for helicopters
to start patroling overhead.

Slowly, the officers moved forward.
cautiously peering under every thicket.
examining each vague object they saw.

At about eight p. m., Jake Sherran
and August Linnartz, two ranchers,
searching a pasture on the ranch of Bill
McMurrey, a retired Texas Ranger cap-
tain, saw a shadow in the glare of their
jeep headlights

It was a man—a thin, bushy-haired
man—and his face was twisted with
agony. His hands were on top of his
head to indicate he wanted to surrender
to them.

“Help me!” the man cried out. “I’m
cut to pieces with thorns.”

Sherran stopped the jeep. “Don't
move!” he warned the man. Then, to
Linnartz: “Go find the sheriff! This
may be a trick.”

But it was no trick. Spence Edwards
was through. The heavy underbrush
had done what men and bullets could
not. He stood motionless, his hands
tightly clamped on the top of his head
until Brady arrived and snapped hand-
cuffs on his wrist.

Displaying no emotion except pain
from countless thorn tears in his flesh,
the captive marched meekly to the
sheriff’s car, climbed inside and was
whisked off to jail in Carrizo Springs.

He readily admitted his identity and
confessed the kidnapings with which
he had been charged, Sheriff Brady an-
nounced later.

According to Brady, the fugitive said
he had stolen four automobiles, the last
one in Mississippi, in his futile attempt
to reach the border and slip out of the
country.

As this issue of OrriciaL DETECTIVE
Srories goes to press, Edwards still is
being held in Dimmit County jail, where
he faces a charge of attempting to kill
Trooper Kempf. Conviction on the
offense carries a sentence of 30 years
Georgia and Tennessee authorities are
seeking custody and federal warrants
still are outstanding against the man.

The names Bob and Margie Oliver
are fictitious in this story.

Annulment from a Ghost (Continued from page 25)

and was expecting a baby, which would
mean, of course, that the annulment
was fraudulent.”

Hammond called Duncan, whom he
did not know personally. Duncan stated
definitely that he had not asked for an
annulment and knew nothing about the
proceedings. He said he had no idea

who had impersonated him and his.

wife or the reason for such an action.

“We've been trying to figure out what
it’s all about,” Henderson told Wade.
“As soon as we do Gustafson is going
to file charges.”

Ray Pinker arrived from Los Angeles
and made a thorough search of the
apartment. ‘‘There isn't a thing in here
to indicate anything happened to the
woman,” he declared. “No bloodstains,
no broken articles—absolutely nothing
to suggest force.” ’

The detectives were becoming more
convinced each day that Olga had not
disappeared voluntarily. But they were
unable to uncover even the slightest evi-
dence of anything else.

Chief Cooley decided: “I think it’s
time we released some publicity. Give
the woman's description to the press
and ask anyone who might have seen
her to get in touch with us.”

As soon as that was done, District
Attorney Gustafson in Ventura called
Chief Cooley. ‘We have a positive iden-
tification that Duncan's mother posed

as his wife to get that annulment,” he

declared. ‘One of the clerks here knows

eed and saw her in the building that
ay.”

“Who was the man who posed as
Duncan?” :

“We don’t know that yet. But we've
found out something else that is pretty
interesting. The senior Mrs. Duncan
knew quite a bit about annulments.”

“How so?”

Gustafson said that Henderson's in-
vestigation into the case had disclosed
that Mrs. Elizabeth Duncan had mar-
ried a 27-year-old Marine lieutenant
named Stephen S. Gillis in Richmond,
California, on. January 6, 1954. Gillis
had been a classmate of Mrs. Duncan’s
son. He had asked for an annulment of
the “loveless marriage,” charging that
his elderly bride had refused to con-
summate the marriage “until my son
finishes school.”

Mrs. Duncan answered this charge by
claiming she had given birth to a baby
girl in Santa Barbara and that Gillis
was the father.

The San Francisco judge who heard
the arguments found no evidence that
Mrs. Duncan, who was 51 at the time,
had been a mother recently and granted
the annulment. :

‘‘What do you want us to do?” Gus-
tafson asked Cooley. “We can charge
her with impersonating Olga Duncan

and falsification of evidence. But we
don't want to upset anything you might
have cooking on the girl’s disappear-
ance.”

“Let it ride for awhile,” Cooley re-
quested. ‘Right now, we don't have the
vaguest idea what this is all about.”

On the heels of the disclosure from
Gustafson, City Attorney Stanley F.
Tomlinson brought a large file to Chief
Cooley, and Santa Barbara County Dis-
trict Attorney Vern B. Thomas.

He said it contained the result of an
investigation made by R. C. Falkenberg,
a former city clerk of Monterey, into the
past life of Mrs. Elizabeth Duncan.
Falkenberg had filed suit against Mrs.
Duncan in 1951, to recover money and
articles allegedly taken from his daugh-
ter, who lived in the same apartment.
Falkenberg claimed he had won a
judgment against Mrs. Duncan for
$1,596.36 but had been unable to collect
the debt and had made the investigation
of her as the result of it.

The file showed that Elizabeth had
been married six times. The first had
been in San Diego on April 24, 1932, to
Frank Duncan. On October 6, 1950, Mrs.
Duncan had married a Joseph Gold.
They separated on November 15, 1950,
and a divorce was granted in 1951.

In December of the same year, Mrs.
Duncan married George Satriano. They
were divorced on July 23, 1953.

A little over a month after the
divorce, on July 29, 1953, she married a
Marine named Benjamin Y. Cogbill and
received an annulment of that marriage
on October 30, 1953. The next marriage
was to her son's classmate, Gillis, the
final marriage to Leonard Solenne. a
truck driver, in San Francisco on August
12, 1957. Solenne went into court on
October 2, 1957, and complained that
she had represented fraudulently that
she was the beneficiary under a will of
a former husband of a large sum of
money.

Frank, acting as his mother’s at-
torney, had filed a consent to the action
and an annulment was granted on
October 9, 1957.

As the attorneys and police studied
the file, Cooley declared: “It shows she
knew how to go about getting an annul-
ment for her son’s marriage, but it still
doesn't tell us what happened to Olga.”

“She hired somebody to pose as her
son in court,” Wade said. “She may
have hired him for other things. I'd
sure like to know who he is and where
he was on the Sunday night of Novem-
ber sixteenth.”

Henderson, in Ventura, came up with
the answer. He learned from a witness,
who had seen the man with Mrs.
Elizabeth Duncan, that his name was
Ralph and that he had been involved in
a non-support case. Going through

53

lisappearance
ines in South-
ra County po-
tions. When
learned of the
rriage, his re-
olice hauled in
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13, 1958, al-
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composed and
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<e first under the
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ounty Sheriff’s
do confessed to
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though he didn’t attempt to obtain a
stay of execution for her wrenched
hirelings. A prosecution request to
have the three charged with double
murder because of the embryo Olga
had been carrying, had been rejected.
In the law’s eyes, a baby must have
been born before such a charge could
stick.

“Where’s Frank?” Mother Dun-
can’s last mortal words fell upon
empty ears at 10 a.m., August 8,
1962, as, oozing poise and dignity,
she went primly to her death in San
Quentin’s seldom used gas chamber.
Frank had spoken with her on her last
night but was not among the wit-

nesses at the execution. Interviewed
on the eve of his mother’s demise,
he’d walked briskly away to his car
with the retort: “They’re going to kill
her in that most obscene place. I don’t
know how they can be so cruel.” He
joined his second wife and was
whisked away to the new life he
richly deserved.

Moya and Beldonado met their
ends three hours after Elizabeth Dun-
can without any apparent remorse.
Facetiously, they’d ordered huge,
exotic meals for their last dinners in-
cluding frogs’ legs, oysters, steaks,
strawberry shortcake—and_bicarbo-
nate of soda! Moya, pale and subdued

as the pair were seated in the twin
chairs in the pale green execution
chamber, smiled wanly as old laugh-
a-minute Gus couldn’t resist his little
joke: “Hey, Warden,” Gus called out,
“don’t forget to close the door!” He
chatted amiably and reassuringly to
his little buddy as the pellets dropped.

As the killers of Olga Duncan were
launched into eternity, the nation
joined Marilyn Monroe’s ex-hus-
band, Joe DiMaggio, in weeping at
the blonde star’s funeral.

The world, too, shed its tears for
Marilyn Monroe.

It shed none for the detestable trio
of Santa Barbara. *

Did He Kill To Prove His Virility?

(continued from page 23)

“He replied, ‘Yes and no.’ He said
he murdered her but did not rape her.
He said his intentions were to molest
her but not rape her.”

He said he took her to a creekbed
where he struck her three times in the
jaw. He said he didn’t hit her with a
pipe; it was just lying there.”

Illinois forensic psychologist Dan-
iel Cuneo said that the defendant suf-
fered from schizophrenia, and was so
terrified that people would deem him
a homosexual that he would do any-
thing to convince them otherwise. So
then, did he turn rape-slayer to prove
he wasn’t gay?

The judge recalled Sgt. Heffernan
to the stand to ask him about the
clothing Woidtke was wearing on the
day of the murder. The sergeant said
that he asked Woidtke about this, and
Woidtke shrugged and said, “A guy
with something on the ball would
have gotten rid of that.”

The sergeant also said that about
that time, the defendant told him that
Cardenas was a pretty strong girl, but
“was no match for me.” Asked if he
had scratches on him at the time of his
arrest the sergeant acknowledged:
“Yes, I noticed he did have scratch¢s
on his arms and hands.”

The defendant’s lawyer wondered
why police failed to tape-record the
confession on two occasions. He
noted that it was not until Woidtke’s
third confession that his statement
was duly recorded.

During that’ confession, Woidtke
allegedly said that Cardenas respond-
ed favorably when he made a pass at
her in the woods, but when he
grabbed her breasts she resisted.

He said this made him mad, so he
struck her four times over the head
with the pipe, then punched her in the
jaw.

In his closing argument on August
25, 1988, defense attorney Trentman
asserted that his client’s psychosis led
him to be maneuvered into a bogus
confession by professional interroga-
tors “who could convince the devil to
go to church.”

He said that Woidtke possessed an
abnormal psychotic fear of being clas-
sified a homosexual, and that a Bel-
leville officer called him a “dirty ho-
mo” when he first questioned him at
the crime scene.

Trentman also charged that law-
men had not provided the suspect
with legal representation during all
three of his confessions. He main-
tained that Woidtke was almost child-
like and had played along with the
police to get attention, and because he
would have done anything to con-
vince them he was not gay.

Among the evidence presented by
prosecutors was a plaster cast of a
bootprint almost three sizes bigger
than Woidtke’s foot.

Trentman said that this piece of ev-
idence alone proved his client’s inno-
cence since “Woidtke did not own a
pair of boots of that type.”

For nearly five hours the defense
attorney hammered away at the issue
centered around his client’s psychiat-
ric perplexities, which, he insisted,
led him into confessing to a crime he
had not committed.

“He enjoyed the attention and the
inference that he had had sex with a
woman,” he said. “Rodney Woidtke

was eating that up. You can’t send a
man to jail because he’s a mental pa-
tient, because he gets rattled when
he’s interviewed.”

But Judge Richard Aguirre felt
otherwise. He found Woidtke guilty
of first-degree murder, but dropped
the rape charge.

As Woidtke was being led from
the courtroom in handcuffs and
shackles, he shouted: “I didn’t have
anything to do with it! I’m not harm-
ful! I’ve never hurt anyone in my
life!”

On September 22nd Judge Aguirre
sentenced Rodney Woidtke to 45
years in prison. State law stipulated a
sentence between 20 and 60 years.

Gun Freak Held
In Weird
Scissors Kill

(continued from page 19)
he was in the house, a friend of mine
dropped by and he left.”
“Describe him for the sheriff,” the
deputy requested.

The woman said he had been nice-
ly dressed, middle-aged, short,
heavyset, wearing glasses and had
been carrying a bag on a strap over his
shoulder.

“The same guy who approached
the other woman out here today,”
Nonn exclaimed.

“Did you see a car?” Justus ques-
tioned.

The woman said she assumed the
man had a car, but she had not actual-
ly seen it and the man had not given
her his name.

“We've got to find that guy,” Jus-

(continued on next page)

47


BALDONADO, DUNCAN

& MOYA

¥ %
%
%

To many observers, Elizabeth Duncan seemed unnaturally fond of her grown son—and

unduly hostile toward her daughter-in-law, who, not surprisingly, wound up dead.

by PAT BURTON

T 11:30 P.M. ON Monday, No-
vember 17, 1958, Olga
Kupcezyk Duncan, 30 years old

and seven months pregnant, opened her
door to a stranger. Six weeks later, her
corpse was found in a shallow, hand-
dug grave in the cool, barren mountains
30 miles south of her home in San Ber-
nadino, California.

The hours prior to Olga’s disap-

56 True Detective

pearance were spent with friends who
had dropped by to see her new apart-
ment. The two visitors, nurses at Cot-
tage Hospital where Olga herself had
worked until the time of her marriage
six months earlier, listened sympathet-
ically as their hostess confided that her
new marriage was in trouble.

In an attempt to cheer her, the nurses
complimented the decor of the second-
floor apartment in a-new building on a
quiet, lushly wooded, upper middle-
class street. When one of the visitors re-
marked that the apartment was as neat

This poycho mom
went too far for
the love of her
26m. Not only die

several hitmen, to
get rid of her
__ pregnant

and attractive as Olga herself, the un- .

happy newlywed responded with the
bitter complaint that it.was the third~
home she had tried to establish in her
short marriage to an attorney well
known in the Santa Barbara legal com-
munity.

Shortly after 11:00 p.m., Olga’s visi-
tors said goodbye and left. She had
changed into a.nightgown and was pre-
paring for bed when she heard a knock
at the door. Slipping into a pink-flow-
ered robe and slippers, Olga hurried to
answer it.

The slender, dark-haired young man
at the door asked Olga if she was Olga
Duncan. When Olga nodded, the man
said, “I met your husband at a bar. He
was pretty drunk so I brought him
home. He’s downstairs in the car but I
need help to bring him up.”

Without pausing to close the door be-

December, 1994

hind her, Olga hu:
fast as her swoll
Running toac
parked at the curt
form slumped
When Olga ope
shadow sprang
grabbed, and sh
into the vehicle
scream was mon
sharp blow to the
man who had Ju:
struck her with |
fore hurriedly g:
seat and starting
With courage |
tect her unborn
stubbornly refu
She continued t
frantically with t
Her desperate s
captor, who exc


‘M’ Is For Murder...Mother

(continued from page 45)

with the day’s considerable take. A
diligent and enterprising employe
when the effects of his daily dozen
marijuana cigarettes allowed, Moya
crossed the threshold of success. Pre-
dictably, though, he quit the Blue On-
ion to work for peanuts at the Tropi-
cal Cafe after he’d met soulmate-
dishwasher Gus Baldonado at a tav-
ern.
Luis Moya and Gus Baldonado
were made for each other, welded in
mutual apathy. The pair’s partici-
pation in a particularly hideous,
senseless and cowardly crime re-
sulted from what they both felt was
Caucasian dominance and undue in-
fluence, prompting them to look upon
Elizabeth Duncan as full of promise,
leading to the life they sought but had
merely sampled so far. When Mama
offered $6,000 to kill Olga, they de-
murred at first but, after Moya helped
Baldonando figure out how much

went awry as sturdy Olga, made of
stout Canadian stuff, refused to suc-
cumb, doubtless aided in the struggle
for life by the thought of the embryo
Frank Duncan had planted within
her.

After a savage beating with the
shattered gun and with a handy rock,
Olga was strangled and buried inher
robe in a hole Baldonado dug in the
hard earth with bare hands. The inept
duo had omitted to bring digging
tools. Olga Kupezyk Duncan’s grave
was in a roadfill alongside Highway
150 in the Casitas Dam construction
area between Carpinteria and Ojai.

If the two killers thought the good
life lurked just around the “esquina”
once they collected their mythical six
grand, they had a rude awakening as
Moya made frequent, futile tele-
phoned attempts to pry the money
from Mama Duncan, who wouldn’t
have recognized so much cash if it

marijuana and how many well- Ahad been dropped in her lapA skilled
(

stacked chicks six-thousand big ones
could buy, Olga Duncan’s doom was
sealed.

The boys remained blissfully un-
aware that big-talking, small-deliv-
ering Mama had her work cut to raise
sixty dollars let alone six thousand,
but a steady diet of booze and joints
obliterates many a doubt. And as one
of Mama’s former husbands once
confirmed: “She could make you be-
lieve anything she wanted you to be-
lieve by the sheer force of her will.”

At 11:30 on the night of Monday,
November 17, 1958, Luis Moya
rapped upon the door of apartment 11
at 1114 Garden Street in a quiet, taste-

ful, residential neighborhood of Santa

Barbara. Olga Duncan, seven months
pregnant and clad in bathrobe and
slippers, listened gravely as Moya
explained that he’d heard a nurse
lived at number 11 and he needed as-
sistance’ for a sick friend lying down-
stairs in a car. Gentle, trusting Olga
didn’t hesitate. . c

Laying on the back seat of a rental
car Baldonado made a convincing pa-
tient as Olga bent to look into the car.
Moya struck her head so hard with a
handgun .that the weapon’s stock
broke off. He bundled the screaming
nurse into the back seat and drove off.
The pair’s original intention to shoot
the victim and to bury her in Mexico

46

procrastinator who’d bettered more
agile-brained creditors than two hap-
less dishwashers, Mama knew that
nobody was about to call police nor
contact the Better Business Bureau to
gouge from her money she never had.

She did manage to rustle up $335
by pawning two rings promising to
pay the rest, she said, once she could
make a withdrawal from her long-
suffering bank without arousing sus-
picion. Actually, the only suspicion
generated at the bank would have
been the manager’s if any check
drawn on Mama’s near zero account
had been presented.

Three hundred and thirty-five dol-
lars, then, represented the total pay-
ment the plotters received for an espe-

CRACK MAN

cially revolting crime.

Olga Duncan’s_ disappearance
made newspaper headlines in South-
ern California as Ventura County po-
lice began investigations. When
Frank Duncan ‘finally learned of the
annulment” of his marriage, his re-
port to Santa Barbara police hauled in
his mother and her dupe, Ralph Win-
terstein. On December 13, 1958, al-
most a month after Olga vanished,
both were arrested. Detectives envi-
sioned a more serious charge than
fraud against Mama when, upon
questioning the Tropical Cafe’s own-
er, they learned of Elizabeth Dun-
can’s brazen quest for somebody to
kill her daughter-in-law. Then they
found out about Baldonado’s and
Moya’s introduction to the formidable
woman who would clearly stop at

nothing to get back as Frank Duncan’s °

leading lady.

Two days after Mama’s arrest,
Gus and Luis found themselves back
in an only too cozy habitat, behind
bars, but this time bail was set at a
major league $100,000 for each man.
Stunned by the events propelling them
from dreams of a long spell of de-
bauchery in which booze and broads
figured large, to the gas chamber’s
edge, the two untutored and venal
murderers languished in their cells in
uneasy silence.

Elizabeth Duncan, composed and
basking in the glory of her status as
Ventura County Jail’s most distin-
guished inmate, wasn’t even close to
acknowledging her part in the sense-
less slaying.

Good time Gus, four days before
Christmas, 1958, broke first under the
relentless questioning of Sergeant Ray
Higgins, Ventura County Sheriff's
Department. Baldonado confessed to
the crime implicating Elizabeth Dun-
can, his sawdust benefactor, and Luis
Moya. The trio was charged with Ol-
ga Duncan’s murder as her body was
recovered from the crude grave in ru-
ral Ventura County.

For more than three years Califor-
nia’s ponderous legal system sus-
tained Mama and her two cohorts, af-
ter their convictions, as appeal
followed appeal. But as it became in-
creasingly clear that California Gov-
ernor Edmund G. Brown would not
intervene and that the eleventh hour
was at hand, Frank Duncan made a
last ditch try to save his mother al-

(continued on next page)

3
though |
stay of
hirelings
ha
m I
haa veer
In the la
been bor
stick.

“Wher
can’s la
empty e
1962, as
she wen!
Quentin’
Frank ha
night bu

D

“He r
he murd
He said
her but n

He sa
where hi
jaw. He
pipe; it v

Illino)
iel Cune
fered frc
terrified
a homo:

Woidtke
with’ so
have got

The ;
that tim:
Cardena
“was no
had scra
arrest |
“Yes, I
on his ar

The (
why po
confessi
noted th
third cc
was duls

Durin
alleged]
ed favo
her in

grabbed

.

f, the un- .
with the

the third

ish in her
ney well
egal com-

lga’s visi-

She had
1 was pre-
d a knock
yink-flow-
hurried to

oung man
was Olga
1, the man
: a bar. He
sught him
e car but I

ie door be-

hind her, Olga hurried down the stairs as
fast as her swollen belly would allow.

Running to a cream-colored sedan.

parked at the curb, Olga saw.a shadowy
form slumped over in the backseat.
When Olga opened the car door, the
shadow sprang to life. Her arm was
grabbed, and she was roughly jerked
into the vehicle. Olga’s involuntary
scream was momentarily silenced by a
sharp blow to the back of her head. The
man who had lured her downstairs had
struck her with the butt of a pistol be-
fore hurriedly getting into the driver’s
seat and starting the car’s motor.

With courage born of the need to pro-
tect her unborn child, the petite Olga
stubbornly refused-to submit quietly.
She continued to scream and struggle

frantically with the man in the backseat. °

Her desperate screams unnerved her
captor, who exclaimed, “I can’t quiet

her down! Do something! I can’t hold
her!” The driver responded by turning
around and pistol-whipping the strug-
gling woman until the gun was broken
and Olga lay limp and quiet on the floor
of the car.

The wooded residential street was de-
serted. No one in the neighborhood
heard a woman scream or saw the light-
cojored vehicle as it sped away into the
night.

It was daylight when Olga’s husband,
who had spent the night across town at
his mother’s home, discovered that his
wife was missing. He returned home
shortly before 8:00 a.m. to find the front
door ajar and the apartment deserted.
Although the bedcovers were turned
back, it was obvious that the bed had not
been slept in. Alarmed and puzzled, the
attorney immediately notified the po-
lice.

Since Olga Duncan had been gone
but a short time and there was no sign of
a disturbance in the apartment, authori-
ties did not, at first, take the report seri-
ously. The young husband denied that
there had been any sort of quarrel, but
the cops figured that Olga’s unexplained
absence was contrived to punish him for
some real or imagined marital misdeed.

On November 19, 1958, the Santa
Barbara New Press carried a’small item
headed, ‘‘Missing Nurse Sought by Po-
lice and Friends.”” Olga’s doctor came
forward to say that the pregnant woman

’ had been deeply depressed and sug-

gested that she might have committed
suicide.

Several days went by before inter-
views with people who knew both the
missing woman and her husband
brought police to the conclusion that
Olga Duncan had been forcibly ab-

True Detective 57

42 AMERICAN DETECTIVE

Davis, the master kidnapping-crash
artist; Stevens who would be a Dill-
inger; Barnes, the fox; Kessel, who
idolized Stevens; Kuckarski, rat-like
and cunning; Cannon, the blood-
lusting knife-wielder, and Eudy, cold-
blooded, mean—crossed the white
line that meant
death

he, i a :
S YWERE CONVICTS AND

"een ALTER EMERGING FROM

GLMOS PONT
WAEOENS FICE: |

more one of pity than of condemnation; few, if any, among
those lost souls questioned either his courage or his fairness.
Behind him was a record of ability to govern prisons; in
an emergency he was a man of steel; he had vet to allow an
escape in a prison break.

But fate sometimes weaves a curious pattern and travels
a far flung and devious route before the lives of men are
brought to a given point and trails at last cross. It was a
bit of a paradox that dressed in a uniform which he had
borrowed from another prisoner, there stood before that
white line on this particular morning the very man whose
desperate deeds had brought about the appointment of the
warden as head of Folsom Prison, for his elevation had been
the direct result of a previous prison break.

The convict’s name was Clyde Stevens, although most
people in California had come to know him as “The Dillinger
of the West,” a title which he dearly loved. Tall, slim, dark,
a bank robber and holdup man, he was the sort who could

laugh while he killed men. Born in Kentucky, under
fire at 15 years of age, an expert with firearms,
vet something of a braggart, he had come
west with the announced intention of out-

doing the infamous Indiana outlaw.
In Stevens’ cunning mind that morn-
ing there was but one thought—the
hour had arrived when he would
make another bid for freedom.
lf all went as he had planned,
within half an hour he would
be on the outside again; six
other men in that line of forty
cherished that same, secret

thought.

Now prison breaks are not

consummated in a day; suc-

Following the attempted break,
as depicted by artist, below,

seriously mutilated by twelve

stob wounds, was rushed to a

Sacramento hospital in an effort
to save his life.

LOD 10.8. TRACER,
| KILLING ONE OF C0

Warden Clarence Larkin, left, .

» cessful

then m:
every 1
sifted,
minutes
in Fols:
far bac
Clarence
attempt
men m:
abortiv:
what t
accomp
But
stood |
the for
called
because
was wl
introdu:
of cras|
warden
Thus
after te
been se
Here \
ning, 1
their a

Strange!
deeds |
of the
Prison, ;
deoth.

weapons


ii any, among
wy his fairness.
rn prisons; in
vet to allow an

“rn and travels
ves of men are
ross. It was a
which he had
od before that
ery man whose
‘intment of the
vation had been

although most
s°The Dillinger
Tall, slim, dark,
sort who could
Kentucky, under
rt with firearms,
t. he had come
intention of out-
diana outlaw.
mind that morn-
one thought—the
| when he would
bid for freedom.
he had planned,
in hour he would
wutside again; Six
1 that line of forty
that same, secret

mn breaks are not
ed in a day; suc-

the attempted break,
ad by artist, below,

Slarence Larkin, left, .

mutilated by twelve
ids, was rushed to o
to hospital in an effort
save his life.

KULING ONE

CURED AB. roa

FOLSOM'S BLOODY SUNDAY : 43

cessful plots represent long hours of study in the silent cells:
then many whispered conversations with confederates until
every idea, born of past experience, has been thoroughly
sifted, and brought to bear upon the actions of a few swift
minutes. So the sinister plot which was now about to unfold
in Folsom in so dramatic and tragic a manner had its roots
far back in the year 1927, when Captain of the Guard
Clarence Larkin underwent his first baptism of fire in an
attempted break and he got his first lesson in how to battle
men maddened with ae desire for freedom, for without that
abortive attempt at Folsom, one of the bloodiest on record,
what the seven men now had in mind might have been
accomplished.

But insofar as the plot itself was concerned, there now
stood beside Clyde Stevens, the man who had invented
the formula which was about to be attempted; they
called him “Dandy Ed” Davis in the underworld
because of his love for sporty clothes, and he it
was who at Lansing Prison, Kansas, in 1933,
introduced to the world a new and novel means
of crashing out of stir, that of kidnapping the
warden.

Thus, as the zero hour of noon drew near,
after ten vears of training, the stage had
been set for a clash of steel against steel.
Here were desperate, experienced, cun-
ning, ruthless jail breakers about to test
their ability to escape against the man

Strangely enough, the man whose desperate
deeds had brought about the appointment
of the warden, right, as head of Folsom
Prison, planned the break that ended in his
deoth. After the battle, below. The only
weapons carried by guards inside prison
walls are loaded canes.

who had sworn no convict would ever get out of Folsom
save by legal methods. Certainly it was a sinister game If
which they were about to engage.

So the story of how this crucial moment had at last
arrived after so many years of preparation may well begin in
Lansing Prison on Memorial Day of 1933 when Warden
Kirk Prather was serving his last twenty-four hours as head
of that institution, the then Governor Alf Landon having ap-
pointed a new warden.

For almost a month prior to that Memorial Day, Warden
Prather had been worried by rumors that a quantity of

nitroglycerin and — auto-

matic pistols had

been smuggled
inside the
prison and


was secreted
somewhere;
he feared a
general break
was impend-
ing. An ex-
tensive

search had
been con-
ducted for

several days
but neither
the explo-
sives nor the
weapons
were found.
Nevertheless,
since the in-
formation had
been received
from a seem-
ingly au-
thoritative source

the warden had
difficulty in sleeping
soundly as the day of his
departure approached.

Memorial Day arrived and
Warden Prather was happy
in the thought that by to-
morrow the worry of a break
would belong to another man,
After weeks of rain the sun
shone through as a good omen; the prisoners were assembled
in the recreation yard to watch a ball game between Topeka
and Leavenworth; the score was 2 to 1 in favor of the latter.
Secure in the belief that the convicts would observe the age-
old, unwritten, self-made rule that trouble must not be started
ona holiday, Warden Prather mingled freely with the men.
To some he said farewell but others he passed by with a
careful and scrutinizing eye.

Among those for whom he had no word of friendly greet-
ing was surly Wilbur Underhill, already three times a killer
and destined to make his name infamous in the history of
public rats in that era of crime preceding the coming of the
G-Men. Standing beside Underhill as the warden passed,
was “Old Harvey” Bailey, even then 45 years of age, but
the most skilled bank robber of his decade; his prematurely
gray hair and his cool, winning smile made him a standout
wherever men assembled for whatever purpose.

And there too was “Dandy Ed’ Davis, an escaped murderer
from McAlester Prison, Oklahoma. He was serving life
at Lansing as an habitual criminal. If less famous than
either Underhill and Bailey he was equally as desperate and
even more cunning and it was his fertile brain which had
conceived the idea of kidnapping the warden. This same
“Dandy Ed? now toed the white line at Folsom on the
forenoon of September 19th, 1937, secure in the thought that
what had succeeded once would succeed again—he had not
reckoned with his host, however.

“We'll kidnap the warden and take him with us and hold
him until we are miles away,” Davis whispered to his con-
federates. “The screws won’t dare shoot while we have
him. It’s a cinch.”

So Davis sold the idea to Underhill and Bailey and nine

44

The seven who engineered the fatal plot. Top, left to right:
Ed Davis, Robert Cannon, Benny Kuckarski, Fred Barnes, and
Wesley Eudy. Above: Clyde Stevens, left, and Albert Kessel.

other cons were
enlisted to help
carry out the plot.
Warden Pra-
ther eyed the
trio coldly as he
passed, then
turned his head
toward the ball
game; a shout
went up as a two-
bagger soared into
left field. Then
suddenly the war-
den felt the un-
mistakable pres-
sure of a gun in
his ribs; over his
shoulder he stared
into the cold eyes
of “Old Harvey.”
“Don’t move
and don’t cry out,”
commanded Bailey,
“or you are a dead man.”
Almost instantly ten other
convicts had gathered around
the warden; Davis threw a
loop of wire over the captured
man’s head and began to lead
him toward a guard tower.
A guard raised his weapon to
shoot but Warden Prather
had to order the gun thrown to the ground. And one by one
at the command of their chief who had no other choice, the
guards surrendered their weapons until eleven of them were
in captivity. Forcing the officials into a guard tower, Davis
produced a rope and tying it to an iron post bade them slide
down. Covered with the commandeered arms and those
which had. been smuggled inside, the group huddled below
until joined by their captors.

Now the party separated ; Bailey, Underhill and Davis held
up a passing car and taking Warden Prather and a guard
as hostages, made good their escape. Two days later, far
from any town, in the wooded Oklahoma hills, the two
officials were turned loose and they made their way on foot
back to civilization.

Wilbur Underhill died a few months later under fire of-

the G-Men’s guns in Oklahoma City. Harvey Bailey, with
“Machine-gun” Kelly and others of that infamous mob
were trapped for the Urschel kidnapping in Oklahoma City
and finally safely stowed away on the “rock” at Alcatraz.
But wily Ed Davis was either more crafty or more fortunate.
Keeping away from Bailey’s gang, which had become the
“hottest” in the nation, Davis came west to Los Angeles and
there continued in the kidnapping game. Here he inaug-
urated a new twist to the “snatch” racket; instead of fooling
with ransom notes he kidnapped prominent business men,
took them to their places of business and made them open
their safes and shell out the contents. It wasn’t big-time
money but it was lucrative at that.

Late in 1934, however, Davis fell afoul of the police and
was sentenced to life in Folsom. Sneering, hard, he was an
unruly prisoner until he realized that such conduct would
get him nowhere with a man like Warden Court Smith or

his sec
began
inside
him w
Larkin
could |
him th:
and th
Larkin
remen)
break t
desper:
guards
The
Brown
shots o
of kniv
assemb
office «
A fu
of the ;
hall. T
forts o
convict
Final
a grouy
the riv
persona
range:
raised
the mu:
elevate:
Thus
Septem
vet ano
Davis v
The
January
by Am
step wa
bring C


cons were
ed to help
out the plot.
arden Pra-

eyed the
coldly as he
sed, then

ed his head
ird the ball
re; a shout
t up as a two-
rer soared into
field. Then
lenly the war-
felt the un-
takable pres-
> of a gun in
ribs; over his
wilder he stared
» the cold eyes
“Old Harvey.”
‘Don’t move
don’t cry out,”
nded Bailey,
e a dead man.”
ntly ten other
-athered around
Davis threw a
ver the captured
id began to lead
a guard tower.
d his weapon to
Varden Prather
And one by one
yther choice, the
en of them were
ind tower, Davis
- bade them slide
arms and those
p huddled below

ll and Davis held
her and a guard
o days later, far
ia hills, the two
their way on foot

iter under fire of:
rvey Bailey, with
it infamous mob
in Oklahoma City
‘ock” at Alcatraz.
or more fortunate.
1 had become the
, Los Angeles and
_ Here he inaug-
instead of fooling
ient business men,
d made them open
It wasn’t big-time

il of the police and
g, hard, he was an
uch conduct would
en Court Smith or

his secretary, Clarence Larkin. He grew more docile and
began to plot an escape but despite the many desperate men
inside he found not enough who were to his liking to make
him want to take the chance. And then, when Clarence
Larkin was made warden he was even less sure a break
could be engineered. Every con with whom he spoke told
him that nobody could beat Folsom while Larkin was warden
and that prisoner talk was not based upon false ideas. If
Larkin had never been made warden he would have, been
remembered forever as the man who frustrated the bloody
break there on Thanksgiving Day, 1927. That plot was more
desperate than well planned; in it nine convicts and two
guards were killed and 34 others wounded.

The riot started just before noon when Convict Arthur
Brown entered the crowded assembly hall and fired three
shots over the heads of the crowd. It was a signal; scores
of knives flashed into view: 1,200 men surged from the
assembly hall into an abandoned cell block, headed for the
office of Warden Court Smith.

A furious battle followed and led by Larkin, then captain
of the guard, the rioters were forced back into the assembly
hall. There for twenty-four hours against the combined ef-
forts of the police, national guard and prison guards, the
convicts withstood every attempt to dislodge them.

Finally Larkin took matters into his own hands; leading
a group of prison guards he approached the stronghold from
the river side of the prison and under a heavy fire he
personally hurled gas bombs into the assembly hall at close
range; he brought the battle to an end. The total dead was
raised to sixteen when five convicts were later hanged for
the murder of two of the guards. Clarence Larkin was now
elevated to the position of secretary to the warden.

Thus two of the many sinister steps which led toward
September 19th, 1937, had been taken, but there remained
yet another before the trails of Warden Larkin, Stevens and
Davis were to finally converge.

The third step was the famous San Quentin break of
January 16th, 1935, first given to the world in any magazine

by AMERICAN DETECTIVE in its issue of April, 1935; that
step was to make Clarence Larkin warden of Folsom and
bring Clyde Stevens there as an inmate.

Inner door leading to the office of captain of the
guards, right, where the attack was started. The
warden's secretary, Jack Whalen, below, with the array
of weapons fashioned in the prison shops. Note the
two perfect replicas of automatics carved out by one
of the convicts.

FOLSOM'S BLOODY SUNDAY

45

For the purposes of this story it is not necessary to recount
the long career of crime which caused Stevens to be incarcer-
ated in San Quentin; it is enough to know that he went up
as a highway robber and that all too soon, he was paroled
in 1934. But before he left the prison, imitating his hero.
tohnny Dillinger, he promised to liberate certain of his pals
whom he left behind.

In an attempt to make good on that boast he managed to
have four guns smuggled into the penitentiary. Among those
who were parties to this plot it is said was one Fred Barnes,
an ex-Uklahoma convict and a former pal of Ed Davis. He
knew all about the manner in which the Lansing crash had
occurred and the San Quentin job was planned along those
same lines. He was said to have been a participant in the

oe ce peep eee rer ace

attempt but for an infringemem
of prison rules he found him-
self in “solitary” at the time
set for the break.

Exactly according to sched-
ule, Warden James B. Holo-
han, and three members of the
prison parole board were sur-
prised and captured in the
warden’s home. A brave man,
he resisted and was bludgeonea
almost to death. With the
members of the board and a
guard in an automobile which
stood in front of the house, the
foursome cowed the tower
guards into opening the gates
and they drove triumphantly


Aa tenaagementh CbeE 7h =i)

HIRED KILLERS: CASE

lasting joy was Frank Low who had
fathered her son, Frank, in 1928. She
quickly tired of Mr. Low and illegally
“married” a Mr. Duncan, whom she
also deposed in favour of yet another
“husband”, but she raised her son as
Frank Duncan. Young Frank she doted
upon and wrapped in a suffocating mother
love, obsessed with the anxiety that he
would one day leave her.

Major quarrel

“Frank,” she told her own doctor,
who was concerned about the effects on
the boy of her neurotic obsession, “will
never leave me. He would never dare to
get married.” Surprisingly, in view of this
crushing maternal weight, Frank Duncan
showed remarkable independence. An
intelligent, lively-minded boy, he did well
educationally, made his way through law
school and ended up as a successful
lawyer with bright prospects.

Somehow he survived the embarrass-
ment of being followed around from
court to court by his energetic, clinging
mother and listening to her vigorous and
sustained applause every time he won a
case. Lawyer-colleagues, gossiping to-
gether while juries deliberated, expressed
the private view that the sooner Frank
Duncan found himself a wife and escaped
to complete personal freedom the better
off he would be.

In the few quiet moments of medita-
tion that he could snatch for himself,
Frank began to think along similar lines.
He was more than ready to throw off the
yoke that bound him and, in 1957, he and
his mother had their first major, stand-
up quarrel. In his exasperation he ordered
her out of their apartment. She. prepared
to go to any lengths to remind her son
of his permanent servitude, responded by
taking an overdose of sleeping pills.

Loving Mother Duncan survived, but
her action was to have terrible and far-
reaching results for herself and three
other people. For she was taken to a
nearby hospital and there given into the
care of a dark-haired attractive nurse,
Canadian-born Olga Kupczyk, 29-year-
old daughter of a railroad foreman.

Olga was one of the first people Mrs.
Duncan saw when she emerged, pallid
and shaken, from her coma. And Olga
was almost the only person in the hos-
pital, even including his mother, to whom
Frank paid immediate attention on. his
first bedside visit to the patient. The
attraction was mutual and the devastated
mother, watching the alarming, affection-
ate glances between son and nurse. now
saw that her worst fears were being
realized. Her rival, long dreamed of
with dread, had taken human shape and
soon Mother Duncan would no longer be
Frank’s only and eternal love.

Within a few months the web that was
being spun between the three principals
in the drama tightened with the disclosure
that Olga had become pregnant and a
hesitant Frank found it necessary to in-
form his mother that he was considering
marrying the girl. Mrs. Duncan, now
restored to normal, angry health, was
driven into a frenzy of rage, saw the nurse
and told her with vehemence: “I'll kill
you before ever you marry my son. You
are not a fit person to live with my son.”

Determined as he seemed to lead his
own life, Frank Duncan was neverthe-
less still too conscious of his mother’s
vulnerability to make a decisive, preci-
pitate break. Accepting the quite ex-
ceptional patience of his betrothed, he
secretly married Olga but, from his very
wedding night, left her at a late hour
each day to return home and sleep at
his mother’s apartment. Later he re-
marked, ruefully, “‘Quite frankly, 1 was
going back and forth like a yo-yo.”

Screaming tirade

But it was impossible to under-rate a
woman of such tenacity as Elizabeth
Duncan. Within a day or so she had
learned of the marriage and determined
that it would not last. Her first move
was to insert an advertisement into a
local newspaper declaring: ‘I will not be
responsible for debts contracted by any-
body other than my mother, Elizabeth
Duncan on, or after, June 25, 1958.
Frank Duncan.”

The advertisement came as a surprise
to Frank but, still anxious to dampen the
fires of fury, he felt it unnecessary to do
more than to admonish his mother for
interfering in his private affairs. As far
as Mrs. Duncan was concerned, he had
no private affairs and she presented her-
self, without warning, at Olga’s apart-
ment and launched into a wild tirade
which was ended only when Olga summon-
ed the help of her Jandlady who persuaded
Mother Duncan and her son to leave.

Clearly, poor Frank had not launched
himself upon wedded bliss but his mother
was only yet in the early stages of her
campaign to separate husband and wife.
Her first improbable scheme was to kid-
nap Frank, while he was visiting his bride,
and whisk him away to a hideout in Los
Angeles. She even bought some rope with
which to secure her rebellious son and
confided her plan, inevitably, to her good
friend. Emma Short. But in her more
lucid moments even Mrs. Duncan was
forced to acknowledge that the scheme
was preposterous and she abandoned it.

What she could not, or would not,

AUTHORITIES uncover the body of Olga
Duncan (right). Hired killer Luis Moya
(left) was one of the two men who
contracted to dispose of her for a fee.

HIRED KILLERS: CASE


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HIRED KILLERS: CASE

tract” had been duly carried out. ‘“You
don’t have to worry about her any more,”
he said before coming to the principal
reason for his call: ‘““Are you going to be
able to accomplish your end?”” Mrs. Dun-
can was in no doubt as to what that
cryptic question meant. The labourers
now wished to make it clear that they
were worthy of their hire but, worthy or
not, Mrs. Duncan had no money for them
and no intention of meeting the full bill.

She had her story well prepared. ‘‘The
police have been up to the house asking
about Olga’s disappearance,” she ex-
plained. “So I can’t draw any money out
of the bank.” She had a little money
—around $200—and that would have to
suffice for the moment. A few days later
she met the two boys, accompanied by
faithful Emma Short, and handed over
an envelope to Moya. On opening it later
he found it contained only $120.

had damaged the firing mechanism and,
while Moya struggled with it in vain,
Baldonado bent over the reviving woman
in the darkness, searched for her neck
and strangled her. When she had ceased
to move, Moya picked up a rock and used
it to deliver the coup de grace.

So pathetically inept were the two
young murderers that they had brought
no tools with which to dig a grave and
conceal the body. Both jumped down
into the culvert and began scrabbling the
dirt away with their bare hands, gouging
out, after much sweated effort, an in-
secure and shallow pit into which they
slid their victim’s bloodied body.

Cryptic question

Blood dominated their thoughts as, at
last, they drove back to Santa Barbara,
for there was blood everywhere. It
saturated their clothes, it lay in thick
pools on the car seats and it seeped and
trickled between their feet. Back in the
city they spent anxious hours getting
rid of their bloodstained clothes and
tearing out the blood-covered seat cover-
ings. They had accidentally started a
fire in the car with a lighted cigarette, they
explained to the Chevrolet’s owner.

For a time it looked as though the clum-
sy murder might escape detection. A
distraught Frank Duncan, calling at
Olga’s apartment and finding lights blaz-
ing and doors unlocked, summoned the
police, but their best assessment was
that this was a missing-person case. No
doubt Mrs. Olga Duncan would return,
or be traced, before long. No one came
forward to offer any useful information,
not even Emma Short who knew the al-
most certain answer to the mystery.

Two days after the murder, Luis Moya
telephoned Mrs. Elizabeth Duncan at
her home and reported that the ‘con-

20

ALL THREE killers (this page) were
slated to die on the same day — in the
gas chamber at San Quentin, California,
but Mrs. Duncan appeared unperturbed.

Infuriated by what was now clearly
a rather nasty con-trick, the two killers
began to pester Elizabeth Duncan for
their pay-off to such a wearing extent
that she decided to indulge in a piece of
table-turning blackmail. She told the
police that she was being blackmailed
by two Mexicans, whose names she could
not reveal but who were threatening to
kill her and her son, Frank. Her theory
was that once the killers heard of her
action they would quietly leave town and
she would be rid of them, just as she was
now rid of her daughter-in-law.

It was Mother Duncan's last and
clumsiest move. The police, by now aware
of the bad blood that had existed between

mother and daughter-in-law, began to
look more closely at Mrs. Duncan’s wide-
ranging activities. They questioned Emma
Short, because of her known close associ-
ation with Elizabeth Duncan, and at
last old Emma began to talk. Astonished
policemen sat wide-eyed as they heard
her tell of the “contract” meeting at
the Tropical Café and her explanation
that she had not thought it necessary to
pass on the information before murder
was committed.

Side by side

From that point on, events moved
swiftly to an inevitable climax. Baldonado
and Moya were picked up and Baldonado
dictated a confession which included
precise details of the roadside grave of
Olga Duncan. Mother Duncan’s arrest
followed as a matter of routine and by the
time they came to talk to her at length
the police were convinced that she was
one of nature’s pathological liars. Almost
nothing she said rang true—except her
blinding devotion to her son.

All three, the female instigator and
the two hired killers, were found guilty
and sentenced to death. Mrs. Duncan still
had hopes of survival and her lawyer son
repaid her distorted devotion by fighting,
after a long series of appeals, for a final
stay of execution. But even his energy
and skill could not prevail against the
course of the law and the murder trio
went to the gas chamber at San Quentin
on August 8, 1962. Moya and Baldonado
died together, strapped into death chairs
placed side by side.

Mother Duncan died alone. Her son
could not be with her for, up to that
final, eliminating moment, he was still
pleading her case. Her last words, as the
door of the glass and steel gas chamber
was opened, were: ‘Where is Frank?”

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HIRED KILLERS: CASE

abandon was her vitriolic hatred of Olga.
She assured Mrs. Short that she would
disfigure Olga with acid but then, on
second thoughts, proposed that she
should strangle Olga with Emma Short’s
assistance. The idea was that Mrs. Short
should induce Olga to come to her home
where Mrs. Duncan would hide in a cup-
board. When Emma Short had invited
Olga to take a comfortable seat, with her
back to the cupboard, Mrs. Duncan
would spring out and strangle the girl.

As the monumentally acquiescent Mrs.
Short later explained: “The idea was that
she should then hang her up in the cup-
board until the evening. Then she would
put a blanket around her, tie her with a
rope and put a stone to the rope and
take her to the beach in a car and throw
her over the wharf.” According to her
own narrative, Mrs. Short’s response was
curious. ‘“‘Do you realize,” she told her
bloodthirsty friend, ‘‘what you are trying
to do? She will never stay in my apart-
ment all night!”

Faced with Emma Short’s reasonable
objection to being saddled with the
annoyance of a corpse in a cupboard,
Mrs. Duncan turned her mind towards

EXACT details of the crime and
location of the body were provided by

Augustine Baldonado (below), the second
of the amazingly incompetent killers.

UPI

more businesslike and better-organized
methods of disposal. She would put the
“job” out on hire and, for a mutually
agreeable sum of money, hand over the
technical details of her daughter-in-law’s
death to a third party. And so it was that
the two old ladies, Elizabeth and Emma,
found themselves in the steamy premises
of the Tropical Café on State Street.

Apprentice killers

Mrs. Duncan turned her glib tongue to
the immediate task of convincing the
Tropical’s owner, Mrs. Esquivel, of her
problem—adjusting the facts to suit
the situation. Her daughter-in-law, she
confided, was blackmailing her and unless
she could be removed, her -son, Frank,
might well be the victim of Olga’s wrath.
Perhaps Mrs. Esquivel had some friends
who might not object to “removing” a
bothersome person?

Mrs. Esquivel, adopting the view that
the customer, however eccentric, was
always right, knitted her brows in thought
and finally pronounced that there were

SMILING contentedly, Mrs. Duncan
gazes at her grief-stricken son during

the trial. Her friend Emma Short (right)
knew about the murder but said nothing.

“a couple of boys’ but whether they
would be available or not she did not
know. Perhaps if Mrs. Duncan could
return the following day she would intro-
duce them to her?

Mrs. Duncan duly returned with the im-
perturbable Emma still tottering in her
wake, and was introduced to two unem-
ployed young men, Luis Moya, Jr., 21,
and his inseparable companion, Augus-
tine (Gus) Baldonado, 26. Both were
drifters, who had been in and out of the
hands-of the police, but neither of them
had any history of violence.

Almost certainly they had never met
any matronly old body with such a per-
Suasive tongue as Mrs. Duncan before
and they solemnly sat down at one of the
café’s grubby tables with her and dis-
cussed her proposition as others might
discuss a real estate deal.

For once, Emma Short was excluded
and left to sit on her own, sipping coffee
at an adjoining table. But the trio of
Mother Duncan and “the boys” moved
swiftly to the heart of the matter. As
young Moya _ subsequently reported:
“After we got down to brass tacks we
just started making suggestions of
how much money it would be worth to
her to eliminate her daughter-in-law,
and when it could be paid and how much,
and there were suggestions made of how
to get rid of her body. At first Mrs. Dun-
can just wanted to pay $3000, but I
finally boosted the price up to six...
She agreed to pay $3000 right away and
then the remainder after Mrs. Olga
Duncan was eliminated.”

Mother Duncan was full of sugges-
tions for the actual commission of the

“elimination”. Once again, it involved
rope, with the addition of sleeping pills
and a final neat touch of acid “to dis-
figure her in general and her finger-
prints .. .” Finally, ‘‘the boys” agreed to
accept the assignment and promised to
proceed as quickly as possible to fulfil it.

There remained, of course, the question
of money. Mrs. Duncan omitted to men-
tion that, far from having $6000 at her
disposal, she had not the remotest chance
of laying her hands on the initial $3000,
or anything like it. But Moya and Bal-
donado were among two of the most
gullible apprentice hired killers in criminal
history. They listened to Mother Dun-
can’s promises, finally accepted a ludic-
rous cash advance of $175 and naively
agreed to receive the balance after the
“contract” had been completed.

Mrs. Duncan left the café in high
spirits, informing reliable old Emma on
the way back home, “I think they are
going to do it.”

Moya and Baldonado wasted no time.
They hired a 1948 Chevrolet for $25,

HIRED KILLERS: CASE

borrowed a -22 pistol from an obliging
friend and bought some ammunition to
fit it. Soon after 11 p.m. on Monday,
November 17, 1958, they drove to Santa
Barbara’s quiet suburban Garden Street
and parked outside number 1114, the
house in which Olga Duncan lived.

They waited to ensure that all was
quiet and then young Moya went into the
building, up the stairs and knocked on
Olga’s door. She appeared in housecoat
and slippers and politely Moya launched
into the killers’ well-rehearsed script.
Frank, her husband, he said, was down-
stairs in the car. “I met him in a bar and
he’s pretty drunk and has quite a large
amount of money with him and he told
me to bring him home. But J need help
to bring him up.”

Immediately Olga offered that help and
followed Moya back down to the street.
Baldonado had meanwhile stretched him-
self out on the back seat of the car, face
downwards, to simulate the drunken,
passed-out form of Frank Duncan. Moya
opened the car door and Olga put her
head in, reaching towards what she
took to be her inert husband. As she did
so, Moya struck her a blow on the side
of the head with his pistol and pushed her
on to the car floor as the suddenly active
Baldonado dragged her towards him. In
a moment the car door had shut and Moya
was driving fast away towards the beach.

But the two young hoodlums had not
made a very professional start to their
killer careers. Olga, who was only dazed,
came to her senses, began to scream
and struggled to escape from the fast-
moving car. Baldonado grabbed at her
and tried to quieten her but she was a
well-built, strong young woman and she
fought against him valiantly.

“I can’t hold her,” the breathless Bal-
donado gasped and, as he was forced to
brake at a stop sign, Moya leaned back
across the front seat and struck viciously
several more times at Olga’s head with
the pistol. Quiet at last, her blood spilling
into the car, she slid to the floor.

Damaged mechanism

Now the second part of the makeshift
plan worked out by the two killers began
to go wrong. They had intended to dis-
pose of the body somewhere around the
Mexican border but, shaken by events,
they changed their minds and decided
instead to head for the mountains, south
of Santa Barbara, and rid themselves of
their victim with the utmost speed. Thirty
miles down Highway 150 they found a
darkened roadside culvert, parked beside
it and, seeing that the road was deserted,
dragged Olga Duncan out of the car.

She was still breathing and Moya drew
his pistol once again, this time to put a
final, despatching bullet through her head.
But the use of the gun earlier as a club

18 19

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Duncan, Moya h Baldonado. — Califoynia \VOX


trangled and buried her.

of the missing woman’s

xf Olga’s acquaintances
’t want Frank to marry,
to break up their mar-
a judge’s chambers—so
d cause trouble at the
ut, anyway. She broke
a few weeks, and they

ther was known in the
as a fussy mother hen,
ick made. If Frank lost
on the stupidity of the
e would walk with him
nands in hers, or throw-
zaming at him and the

en her hold on him,” a
Mrs. Duncan is stronger
im wrapped around her

the newlyweds’ address,
ment. In a wild frenzy,
on as a young boy. She
vept before her agitated
red him to return home

for Olga Duncan. Her
< up the weird triangle,
ce useless. He spent the
‘1 went to his mother’s

in fought a verbal cam-
»d daughter-in-law. She
oride and complained of
| Olga had entered the
iad been married before,

CRIME DETECTIVE

and that she was the mother of two children. She claimed
the unborn child Olga was carrying did not belong to her
son, and that Frank had been tricked into believing he was
the father.

And Elizabeth Duncan said over and over again accord-
ing to witnesses, “I'll kill her. I'll kill her.”

When Olga couldn’t take any more, she told her husband

he had to make a choice—between her and his mother..

He went home to live with his mother.

Orne friends urged her to have her mother-in-law ar-
rested. The nurse consulted a lawyer about getting
her marriage annulled. But Frank asked her to wait until
after the baby came in January, and vowed that “something
can be worked out.”

While she waited, Olga wrote her parents about Mrs.
Elizabeth Duncan. “That woman is nuts,” she wrote. “Life
is short and I want to enjoy the rest of it.”

Police were told by Olga’s landlady that during one of
her tirades against her daughter-in-law, Mrs. Duncan
claimed her son’s marriage had been annulled in Ventura,
twenty-seven miles from Santa Barbara.

An investigator, checking the court records there, found
that on August 7th an annulment had been granted one
Olga Kupezyk Duncan and Frank Duncan on the grounds
that the marriage had not been’ consummated. The investi-
gator then talked to the attorney who had handled the case.

The lawyer recalled that a couple had come to his office
and said they wanted to dissolve their marriage without
publicity or scandal. He complied with their wishes and
took the necessary legal steps, but a few months later
he discovered that the real Frank Duncan knew nothing
of the annulment. The lawyer investigated further and
found that the woman who claimed to be Olga Duncan,
and who asked for the annulment, was actually Mrs.
Elizabeth Duncan. The man who had impersonated Frank
Duncan was unidentified.

The lawyer told the police investigator that he had re-
ported these findings to Frank Duncan and to Ventura
District Attorney Roy Gustafson.

“Mother did a foolish thing,” Frank Duncan admitted
to the police who questioned him about it, “but she thought
she was helping me.”

As to his mother’s threatening his wife, Duncan said,
“Mother doesn’t like Olga, but my wife’s friends are exag-

gerating the whole story. Our marriage has not broken up.”
But Roy Gustafson now joined forces with Santa Bar-
bara District Attorney Vern B. Thomas to investigate the
possibility that Olga Duncan had been kidnaped or mur-
dered. They checked the background of Mrs. Elizabeth
Duncan—and they found it was quite a background.

Ms Duncan had spent a lot of time in courtrooms.
Preliminary investigation disclosed that she had mar-

tied at least six times after divorcing Duncan in 1948.

Most of the marriages ended in annulments, within a short
time, on the grounds that the marriages had not been con-
summated. But that wasn’t all.

In May of 1953, under the name of Betty Cogbill, Mrs.
Duncan was arrested in San Francisco for operating a
house of prostitution. She was convicted of soliciting, and
was given a thirty-day suspended senténce, plus a year’s
probation.

B’ December. 4th, there was still no word of Olga Dun-
can and no clue as to her whereabouts. It was on that
day that Frank and Elizabeth Duncan entered the Santa
Barbara police station.

Duncan told the lawmen that his mother was a victim
of extortion. An ex-convict named Luis Moya, he said,
had forced Elizabeth Duncan to pay him $150 on threat
of bodily harm. Now, Moya and another man were de-
manding an additional $500 from his mother, Duncan said.

“Some time ago, I charged a friend of theirs $500 to
defend him in a criminal case. He was found guilty and
sentenced to jail, so now these men want the money back.”

While her son was making the report to the police, Mrs.
Duncan was reluctant to talk about the case at all. Later,
she viewed Luis Moya.in a line-up but failed ‘to identify
him. She made it plain she preferred to drop the whole
matter, and Moya was released. But the investigators began
looking for a link between the ex-convict, Frank Duncan’s
mother, and his wife’s disappearance. They found it in the
person of an eighty-four-year-old widow.

er name was Adele Martin, a next-door neighbor of

Mrs. Duncan. Her first words to the investigators
were, “You've got to help me. She’s already had one person
murdered, and she wouldn’t hesitate to kill me.”

A loyal son stands behind his mother. He refused to believe
that she had been responsible for the horrible death of his
pregnant wife. Left photo—Lieut. Leonard Peck exhibits guns
with which Elizabeth Duncan's hired assassins beat the victim.

ie.

Nurse’s body is hauled up from shallow ravine more than a month.after her abductors had beaten, strangled and buried her.

The unrumpled bed testified that no one had slept, on
it the night before. Although it was ten a.m., the lights.
were still burning. A pocketbook and cosmetics were laid
out on the bureau, and a few articles of feminine clothing
were on a chair. Everything else was in place. But Mrs.
Olga Duncan, the lady of the house, was not at home.

Frank Duncan, her husband, explained to the police

that he and his wife were not living together. They had
been married on June 2, 1958, and separated less than
three weeks later. Olga was pregnant, and they had been
planning a reconciliation.

Duncan told the police how his wife came to California
from: her home in Winnipeg, Canada, in 1957, and how
they had met at the Cottage Hospital in Santa Barbara.
Pungen had been visiting his mother, who was a patient
there.

Duncan had been called on the morning in question by

one of his wife’s friends who became worried when Olga’

Duncan didn’t appear at her nurse’s job at St. Francis
Hospital. Olga had entertained two other nurses the night
before, but they had already been contacted and reported
they left the apartment at eleven-thirty. Olga had an-
nounced at that time, that she was going to bed.

The police took Duncan’s description of his wife: Olga
Duncan, née Kupczyk, thirty years old, five feet two inches
tall, auburn hair, brownish-green‘eyes, weight 135 pounds,
in advanced stage of pregnancy.

“Her friends insisted I contact you,’ Frank Duncan
told the police. “But my wife has changed her apartment
several times already. Maybe She's gone away for a while.
It’s probably nothing serious.’

Considering the suspicious appearance of his wife’s
apartment, Frank Duncan’s optimistic view of the situation

was not shared by the police who began, with intense .

diligence, to investigate further. They proceeded with their
plan to question the missing wife’s friends. And from the
very beginning, they were made aware that this was one
of the strangest cases in crime history .. .

38

VER and qver again, the name of the missing woman’s

’ mother-in-law was brought up.

“That woman is a witch,” one of Olga’s acquaintances
said of Elizabeth Duncan. “She didn’t want Frank to marry,
and she did everything she could to break up their mar-
riagé. They had to wed’ secretly—in a judge’s chambers—so
that woman couldn’t show up and cause trouble at the
ceremony. But: she finally won out, anyway. She broke
them up after they were. married a few weeks, and they
haven’t been living together since.”

Police learned that. Frank’s mother was known in the
courtrooms where he practised law as a fussy mother hen,
watching every move her little chick made, If Frank lost
a case, she was likely to comment on the stupidity of the
judge and jury. When he won, she would walk with him
through the corridors, taking his hands in hers, or throw-
ing her arms around him and beaming at him and the
whole world.

“Sometimes Frank tries to loosen her hold on him,” a
neighbor told investigators, “but Mrs. Duncan is stronger
than he is, and she always gets him wrapped around her
little finger again.”

When Mama Duncan learned the newlyweds’ address,
she swooped down on their apartment. In a wild frenzy,
she tore up photographs of her son as a young boy. She
raved and ranted, screamed and wept before her agitated
son and his bride. Then she ordered him to return home
with her.-And he went.

The next two weeks were hell for Olga Duncan. Her
husband’s weak attempts to break up the weird triangle,
of which he was one corner, were useless. He spent the
early evenings with his wife, then went to his mother’s
home to sleep.

All the while, Elizabeth Duncan fought a verbal cam-
paign against’ her newly-acquired daughter-in-law. She
telephoned threats to the young bride and complained of
her to her friends. She claimed Olga had entered the
United States illegally, that she had been married before,

CRIME DETECTIVE

and that she wa:
the unborn chilc
son, and that Fr
the father.

And Elizabeth
ing to witnesses,

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He went home

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While she wa
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took the necess
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District Attorne
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‘GREE...”

son Frank, right, as the
iest. It's a losing battle.

she had obtained. She
ie laughed and admitted
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earance.
3 arraigned on the fraud

Ventura and Santa Bar-
Duncan could be found.
ody, went after the trio
‘sing nurse. He had the
undred thousand dollars.
’s action as “ridiculous.”
sibly have had any part
ith him the entire night

zation broke wide open

1 had hired him and Luis
the price of six thousand
»dy, he said, in a shallow
as Pass Road. Baldonado
them by Elizabeth Dun-
ked for more, Mrs. Dun-
n.

iow the men had lured

CRIME DETECTIVE

STILL HOPING—SHE TAKES LAST RIDE...

Elizabeth Duncan is surrounded by guards as she leaves California Institution for Women to be taken to San Quentin death

the young, pretty nurse from her apartment on a ruse, forced
her into a car, then beat and strangled her. Later in the day,
he led the lawmen to the mountain road where they found
Olga’s body.

Luis Moya denied his guilt until late Christmas night.
Then he, too, confessed. But Elizabeth Duncan scoffed and
sneered at her questioners.

“Those two men are trying to blackmail me,” was all she
would say.

On December 26, 1958, the Ventura County Grand Jury
indicted the trio for murder.

~ .
| thprogies Duncan complained to police and reporters that
the charges against his mother were “fantastic,” but as
the trial date drew near, and more details of the case came
to light, he could only shake his head and say, “I don’t know,
I just don’t know.”

District Attorney Gustafson was a lot more definite. He
emphatically stated that the two men and Mrs. Duncan were
guilty, and added that he would fight for the death sentence.
“Nothing short of death could be considered a just and fit-
ting penalty,” he announced.

Mrs. Duncan retained attorney S. Ward Sullivan. She
entered two pleas: not guilty and not guilty by reason of
insanity.

Under California law, she faced’ three separate court ac-

CRIME DETECTIVE

cell. Next day she went to her execution, seemingly calm, expressing hope that her embattled son would get her reprieve.

tions—a trial to determine her innocence or guilt, a hearing
before the same judge and jury to fix her sentence if she
were found guilty, and a sanity hearing.

The trial began on February 24, before a jury of eight
men and four women. Elizabeth Duncan appeared in court
dressed in a black and white dress. She carried rosary beads
and announced to newsmen, “I think God will see me
through.”

USTAFSON began his opening statement by hitting hard

at the defendant. He pictured Mrs. Duncan as a conniv-

ing, bitter-tongued mother afraid of losing her son, who

hounded her daughter-in-law with “telephone calls, curses
and tongue lashings.”

Then the District Attorney painted a verbal picture of a
meeting between Mrs. Duncan, Luis Moya and Augustine
Baldonado, describing how the three “struck a bargain that
eventually brought Olga Duncan to a shallow grave.”

Then he introduced witnesses to show how Mrs. Duncan
had “shopped around” to find someone to kill her daughter-
in-law.

Mary Lou Kirk, a Santa Barbara carhop, testified that
the defendant offered her fifteen hundred dollars in July of
1958 to throw acid in a woman’s face. Mrs. Duncan had not
mentioned the woman’s name but promised the witness to
have her son Frank “doped up” so (Continued on page 43)

41


sii Sie aa an

Speriner = epee wih

ee

“GUILTY OF MURDER IN THE FIRST DEGREE...”

Sense of shock is visible on the faces of Elizabeth Duncan's attorney, Ward Sullivan, left and her son Frank, right, as the
jury’s dread verdict is spoken. Now the fight to save her from the gas chamber starts in earnest. It's a losing battle.

“Who did she have murdered?” she was asked.

“Her daughter-in-law,” the old woman answered. “She
pawned her diamond ring and paid two men to kill her.
She told me herself.” ;

Mrs. Martin didn’t know the names of the men, but she
said Mrs. Duncan met them through Marie Cortes, wife
of a jailed cafe owner.

Mrs. Cortes was frightened, too. She didn’t want to talk,
but police’ pressed her until she admitted introducing Eliz-~
abeth Duncan to two customers—Luis Moya and Augus-
tine Baldonado. Mrs. Cortes said Mrs. Duncan wanted the
men to do a job for her.

“What else do you know?”

“Nothing. Nothing,” the woman said.

“Do you know what the job was?”

Her eyes wide with terror, the woman waited a long mo-
ment before answering. “They borrowed a car and came
back here late one night,” she whispered. “Luis said, ‘We
did Mrs. Duncan’s job. They'll never find that witch. Her
body is behind a pipe.’ Gus said, ‘the witch sure screamed.’ ”

Moxa and Baldonado were immediately picked up and
jailed on suspicion. Both refused to talk.

Elizabeth Duncan was booked in the Ventura County jail
on a complaint issued by Roy Gustafson, charging her with
perjury, bribery, forgery and falsifying a court document in

40

the case of the phoney annulment she had obtained. She
seemed ‘completely unconcerned. She laughed and admitted
her part in the annulment, but denied knowing anything
about her daughter-in-law’s disappearance.

Still laughing and joking, she was arraigned on the fraud
charges on December 17th.

Despite the combined efforts of Ventura and Santa Bar-
bara authorities, no trace of Olga Duncan could be found.
But Gustafson, with or without a body, went after the trio
he believed had murdered the missing nurse. He had the
bail on each of them raised to one hundred thousand dollars.

Frank Duncan branded the D.A.’s action as “ridiculous.”
His mother, he said, could not possibly have had any part

‘in Olga’s disappearance. She was with him the entire night

of November ninth.
But two days, later, the investigation broke wide open
when Gus Baldonado confessed.

ALDONADO said Mrs. Duncan had hired him and Luis
Moya to kill Olga Duncan for the price of six thousand
dollars. They had left the nurse’s body, he said, in a shallow
grave dug in a desolate spot off Casitas Pass Road. Baldonado
claimed.only $250 had been paid to them by Elizabeth Dun-
can, and that when he and Moya asked for more, Mrs. Dun-
can had threatened them with prison.
Baldonado described in detail how the men had lured

CRIME DETECTIVE

STILL

Elizabeth Dunc
cell. Next day

the young, pre
her into a car.
he led the lav
Olga’s body.
Luis Moya
Then he, too,
sneered at her
“Those two
would say.
On Decemt
indicted the tr

RANK Di
the charg
the trial date «
to light, he cor
I just don’t kn
District Att
emphatically s
guilty, and ad
“Nothing sho)
ting penalty,”
Mrs. Dunc
entered two rf
insanity.
Under Cali

CRIME DETECTIV


iple’s frequent
ere attempts to
s constant ha-

. Mother Dun-
down,” Olga
s. “T just hope
ind us until af-
unhappy bride
- husband still
aother’s house.
ie had told her

2ws, the police
much the com-
-old Elizabeth
illy fond of her
on were often
he courtroom,
of that fact that
en went to hear
‘hen he won a
> loudly. If he
es bawl out the
on, who had an
pediment, was
en his mother
t another attor-
| calling her son
‘abbit,”” a name
ed around the
iother had been
30-year-old son
saying she did
Id do if he ever

zabeth Duncan
o the woman he
nce, to make a
ith her son, she
-eping pills and
tbara’s Cottage
<, then 29 years
ses.

y popular with
and the patients
th Duncan, who
king glances at
ed nurse as she
d the hospital
rt.

opposition, the
ng, and in May
regnant. When
couple planned
2d Olga and ac-
‘ity. “I will kill
try my son,” she

‘very next day.

, the groom was
'. Using his con-
ise, he persuaded
he usual waiting
unty clerk not to

publicize the marriage in the news-
papers. On his wedding night, the
groom went home to mama. He would
later say, ‘‘For a while I was going back
and forth like a yoyo.”

Two weeks after Olga’s disap-
pearance, Santa Barbara sleuths ar-
ranged to interview the woman they had
come to view as “the mother-in-law
from hell.”

Surprisingly, Elizabeth Duncan
turned out to be an intelligent soft-spo-
ken woman who seemed genuinely wor-
ried about what had become of her
daughter-in-law. The prim, well-
dressed, well-coiffed matron admitted
that at first, she had opposed her son’s
marriage but was now looking forward
to the birth of her grandchild. After con-
firming that her son was with her on the
night of his wife’s disappearance, Mrs.
Duncan blurted out, “I think my son is
the one they were really after!”

When the surprised detectives asked
who ‘‘they” might be, Elizabeth said
that she was being ‘“‘blackmailed by two
Mexicans who are threatening to kill me
and my son if I ‘don’t give them mon-
ey.” She claimed to have already paid
$300 in extortion money to two men
whose names she did nét know.

_ After scrutinizing a collection of po-

lice mugshots, Elizabeth Duncan de-
clared herself unable to positively
identify the two blackmailers. She did,
however, look closely at the photo of an
ex-convict named Luis Moya Jr., and
say, ‘‘One of them looked something
like this.” On December 4th, the cops
picked up Moya, charged him with sus-
pected blackmail, and placed him in the
daily lineup of suspects to be identified.
Elizabeth still couldn’t be sure. When
Moya left the police station, an alert'cop
observed him whispering to Mother
Duncan on the outside steps.

District Attorney Roy Gustafson later
said that it was unlikely that the police
would have connected the ex-con with
the apparently respectable matron if she:
herself had not established the link. Ap-
parently, Elizabeth Duncan had once
again proved to be her own worst ene-
my. ”
Up to this point, the cops, impressed
by Elizabeth’s gentle demeanor, had’
been inclined to dismiss the meddling
mother-in-law stories as irrelevant to the
mystery of Olga’s disappearance. Now,
they suspected that the whispered ex-
change outside the police station had
something to dd with the missing wom-
an. Digging into Elizabeth Duncan’s
past, sleuths uncovered a different facet
of the matron’s personality.

Elizabeth Duncan’s other face, worn

infrequently but effectively, was dis-:

played only to a select few. Intimates
said that she was endowed with an iron
will. Things went her way—or else.
Whenever she was challenged, her gen-

tle features would contort into an angry —

grimace, her blue eyes flashed like klieg

‘lights, and her thin-lipped little mouth

spouted obscenities. In today’s psycho-
babble, Mother Duncan would be la-
belled a “control freak.”

Among those privileged to view Eliz-
abeth’s second face was a close-knit
clique of faithful cronies, most of them
elderly women, who admired what they
regarded as her forceful personality. It
would turn out that more than one of
these highly respectable women would

go to fantastic lengths to keep Elizabeth:

Duncan’s ire from being turned in her
direction.

Police learned that Sophie Davis, a
pensioner in her 70s, witnessed Eliz-
abeth’s rage the day she found out that
her son had taken a bride. ‘I can't lose
him,” Elizabeth had ranted over and
over, finally shouting, ““She’s not going
to have him. I will kill her if it’s the last
thing I do.”

According to the elderly woman,
Elizabeth Duncan had immediately
started plotting to get rid of her daugh-
ter-in-law. “She asked me to invite Olga
to my place and get her to sit down in a
chair in front of the closet,’’ Sophie
Davis said. ‘‘Elizabeth was going to
hide in the closet, then quietly open the
door, put a rope around Olga’s neck and
choke her.”

When Davis politely declined to lure
Olga to her death, Elizabeth turned to
another friend who was instructed to
buy two cans of lye. This woman was to
inveigle her way into Olga’s apartment,
knock her over the head, throw her in
the bathtub, and sprinkle the lye over
her. Incredibly, the woman, who later
said that Elizabeth’s manner was so de-
cisive it compelled others to obey, actu-
ally followed instructions to the point of
buying the lye and knocking on Olga’s
door. But when Olga opened the door,
both women reacted with happy sur-
prisé. Olga had once been the woman’s
nurse in a British Columbia hospital!
The two had a friendly chat and that was
all.

When this plan was thwarted, the
vengeful mother-in-law began shopping
for a professional killer. Finding some-
one who would slay for pay turned out
to be a relatively easy, if somewhat
risky, chore. Elizabeth simply began in-
quiring of friends and acquaintances if

they knew anyone who would do the
dastardly deed.

Investigators following her trail
found eight people who had known that
Elizabeth Duncan sentenced her daugh-
ter-in-law to death and was actively
shopping for an executioner. The sleuths
found it notable that not one of these
“respectable’’ men and women consid-
ered notifying authorities of her search
for an executioner. Nor did any of them
see fit to warn Olga Duncan that her life
was in danger. One woman did say, “To
tell you the truth, I never crossed Eliz-
abeth. She was very forceful. Whoever
she talked to would listen.”

During much of the summer and ear-
ly fall of 1958, Elizabeth's recruiting ef-
forts lagged. Presumably she was too
busy harassing her son's wife with daily
visits and telephone calls. But cventu-
ally a killer-for-hire was found. Less
than two weeks after Olga had been
tracked to her last address, an obliging
female acquaintance, a restaurant own-
er, introduced Elizabeth to ‘‘two boys
who might be interested in making
some extra money.”

The two ‘‘boys’’—Luis Moya Jr..
then 21 years old, and his buddy and
constant companion, 26-year-old
““Gus”’ Baldonado—were ex-cons who
did odd jobs for the restaurant owner in
exchange for meals. At 2:45 p.m. on
November 13th, the two men met with
Elizabeth Duncan in a back booth of the
cafe. Duncan’s closest friend, the elder-
ly Sophie Davis, was present at the job
interview.

Davis would later testify that after a
brief period of ‘‘fecling the boys out,”
Duncan agreed to pay them $6,000 to
kidnap Olga. ‘‘They were to take her
across the border and get rid of her in
Tijuana,” Davis said. The police would
learn that Duncan ever volunteered the
use of her own automobile.

But Luis Moya, the obvious leader of
the two would-be killers, declined the
offer. He explained that it was important
not to create physical evidence linking
the employer, who had the murder mo-
tive, with the employees, who had no
motive and had presumably never met
the employer. This lesson in logic so im-
pressed Duncan that she immediately
clinched the deal by making a down
payment of $300 with a promise to pay
the ‘balance when the job was com-
pleted.

Investigator Tom Osborne would lat-
er say, “If she had paid off, we’d have
never heard another word about it. It
would have been just another myste-
rious disappearance.”

True Detective 59

>

ae

ducted and possibly murdered. Once
this concept was reached, the investiga-
tion intensified.

A check into Olga’s background ‘re-
vealed a seemingly unblemished past.
The administrators of Cottage Hospital
said she had been a pleasant and hard-

working employee. She was described .

by friends as a sweet and sensitive
woman who was very much in love with
her husband. It -was the general consen-
sus that Olga did not have an enemy in
the world. One friend amended that per-
ception to say, “‘The only thing Olga
ever did wrong in her life was to acquire
Elizabeth Duncan as her mother-in-
law!”

a

Olga Kupezyk Duncan nursed a suicidal Elizabeth

This friend was one of the visitors to
whom Olga had confided her marital
woes on the night she vanished. The
woman gave police a revealing account
of Olga’s state of mind just prior to her
disappearance.

‘Olga told me that her husband’s
mother just wouldn’t leave them alone,”
the friend said. “She said that both be-
fore and after her marriage, her mother-
in-law had waged an unceasing cam-
paign to-separate the couple.”’ Olga had
lamented that the older Mrs. Duncan
would telephone or drop by daily to ac-
cuse her of:sluttish behavior and to in-
sist that Olga had deliberately become
pregnant to trap her son into marriage. It

Lad

back to health, a deed Elizabeth

conveniently forgot when she arranged to have Olga kidnapped and executed.

58 True Detective

turned out the young couple’s frequent
moves to new lodgings were attempts to
escape the older woman’s constant ha-
rassment.

“Every time we move, Mother Dun-
can manages to track u8 down,”’ Olga
had wailed to her friends. “I just hope
that this time she won’t find us until af-
ter the baby comes.” The unhappy bride
had complained that her husband still
spent most nights at his mother’s house.
**He’s with her now,” she had told her
visitors.

“ Through other interviews, the police

learned that it was pretty much the com-
mon view that 54-year-old Elizabeth
Duncan seemed unnaturally fond of her
son. The mother and son were often
seen holding hands in the courtroom,
where Elizabeth, proud of that fact that
her son.was a lawyer, often went to hear
him argue his-cases. When he won a
verdict, she would clap loudly. If he
lost, she would sometimes baw! out the
prosecutor. Elizabeth’s son, who had an
unfortunate speech impediment, was
once embarrassed when his mother
launched a tirade against another attor-
ney whom she overheard calling her son
“The Wicked Wascal Wabbit,” a name
he was commonly called around the
courthouse. The proud mother had been
known to describe her 30-year-old son
as ‘“‘Mama’s little boy,” saying she did
not know what she would do if he ever
got married.

Ironically, it was Elizabeth Duncan
herself who led her son to the woman he
chose for his bride. Once, to make a
point in an argument with her son, she
took an overdose of sleeping pills and
was rushed to Santa Barbara’s Cottage
Hospital. Olga Kupcezyk, then 29 years
old, was one of her nurses.

Olga was extremely popular with
both the medical staff and the patients
she tended, but Elizabeth Duncan, who
observed her son sneaking glances at
the attractive dark-haired nurse as she
moved quietly around the hospital
room, hated her on sight.

Despite Elizabeth’s opposition, the
couple were soon dating, and in May
1958, Olga became pregnant. When
Elizabeth found out the couple planned

, to marry, she telephoned Olga and ac-

cused her of promiscuity. ‘‘I will kill
you before you ever marry my son,”’ she
reportedly told her.

Olga got married the very next day.

Despite this bold act, the groom was
afraid to tell his mother. Using his con-
nections at the courthouse, he persuaded
a local judge to waive the usual waiting
period and asked the county clerk not to

publicize the n
papers. On his
groom went hor
later say, ‘‘For a
and forth like a

Two weeks
pearance, Sant
ranged to intervi
come to view <
from hell.”

Surprising]:
turned out to be
ken woman who
tied about wh:
daughter-in-l<
dressed, well-cx
that at first, she
marriage but wa
to the birth of he
firming that her
night of his wif
Duncan blurted
the one they we

When the sur
who ‘‘they”” m
that she was bei:
Mexicans who a
and my son if |
ey.”’ She claim
$300 in extorti
whose names st
_ After scrutini
lice mugshots,
clared herself
identify the twc
however, look c
ex-convict nam
say, ‘“One of t!
like this.’’ On [
picked up Moya
pected blackmai
daily lineup of s
Elizabeth still
Moya left the pc
observed him
Duncan on the «

District Attor
said that it was
would have con
the apparently r
herself had not «
parently, Eliza!
again proved to
my.

Up to this po
by Elizabeth's
been inclined t
mother-in-law si
mystery of Olg:
they suspected
change outside
something to do
an. Digging in
past, sleuths unc
of the matron’s

—_

But, Elizabeth Duncan had tried to
cheat her employees.
Sophie Davis, whose story broke the
case open, was present on two occasions
when her friend stalled on the final pay-
ment. Davis said Duncan focused on
Luis Moya as “‘possibly’’ one of her
‘“‘blackmailers’’ in the hope that the
spotlight of police attention would stop
the ex-con from trying to collect the bal-
ance of the blood money he was owed.
On December 4, 1958, District Attor-
ney Gustafson ordered Luis Moya and
Gus Baldonado picked up for question-
ing in connection with the abduction of
Olga Duncan. D.A. Investigator
Clarence Henderson and Deputy Sheriff
Ray Higgins interrogated the two men.
Using the usual technique of investi-
gators, the sleuths concentrated their
main efforts on the man they deemed
the weaker of the two suspects. For
hours, Henderson and Higgins alter-
nately threatened and cajoled Baldona-
do. Hinting that they already had

_— as Me
ebb
* : Ca %

r ;
ee

Luis Moya Jr. agreed to “do a job” for Elizabeth for $6,000, but when he and a pal

enough evidence to convict, they told
Baldonado that since he would wind up
in the gas chamber anyway, he ought to
help the authorities find Olga Duncan so
she and her unborn child could be de-
cently buried. Finally, Baldonado con-
fessed and agreed to lead the district
attorney’s men to the “‘nice little spot”
where he and Luis Moya had buried
Olga Duncan.

In a detailed statement, Baldonado
told how Moya lured Olga downstairs
where Baldonado pulled her into the car.
After Moya pistol-whipped the scream-
ing woman into silence, the pair drove
into the mountainous Ojai region south
of Santa Barbara. Just across the Ven-
tura County line, they stopped and
dragged Olga, who was still alive, into a

-culvert. “Luis tried to shoot her, but the

pistol was broken from hitting her on
the head,” Baldonado said. ‘‘We took
turns strangling her and also hit her over
the head with a rock to make sure she
was dead.” ‘

got only $300 for their pains, the two disgruntled employees began to grumble.

60 True Detective

The confessed killer agreed to take
the investigators to Olga’s grave on the
condition that he did not have to watch
while they dug up the body. The condi-
tion. was accepted. A party of lawmen
drove off to the mountains where they
looked at three culverts before a weep-
ing Baldonado said, ‘‘This is it. She
won’t be too deep. We dug the grave
with our hands.”” He did not watch the
digging.

When, confronted with his partner’s
confession, Luis Moya admitted his part
in the murder-for-hire. The cops were.
now ready for Elizabeth Duncan.

A probe of her murky past uncovered
the fact that Elizabeth Duncan had used
her soft-spoken, respectable persona to
lure anywhere from 11 to 20 men into
marriage. Most of the marriages were
bigamous; she had divorced only two of
her many husbands but had come away
from each marriage with substantial
sums of money. She had mercilessly
cleaned out joint checking accounts,
then charged expensive items, such as
jewelry and cars, to the husbands she de-
serted. Surprisingly, considering her
possessive devotion to her son, she had
also abandoned three of her natural chil-
dren along the way. At one point, Eliz-
abeth had owned a massage parlor in
San Francisco and was convicted of op-
erating a house of prostitution. At her
trial for murder, her own attorney admit-
ted, “There is nothing good that can be
said about Elizabeth Duncan.”

Elizabeth Duncan denied everything,
right up to the day she was sentenced to
death. Her cooperation was unnecess-
ary. Sophie Davis and the restaurant
owner who had recruited the killers told
their tawdry tales in exchange for im-
munity from prosecution. Luis Moya
and Gus Baldonado testified freely
about Elizabeth’s involvement in the
crime. She was found guilty and her ap-
peals were denied.

At 10:12 p.m. on Wednesday, August
8, 1962, the mother-in-law from hell
died in the gas chamber at San Quentin.

- At 1:05 p.m. that same day, Luis
Moya and Gus Baldonado were
strapped into two death chairs equipped
for simultaneous executions. Cyanide
pellets released into a vat of acid emit-
ted their deadly fumes. Ten minutes lat-
er Moya and Baldonado, too, were
pronounced dead. 004

EDITOR’S NOTE:

Sophie Davis is not the real name of
the person so named in the foregoing
story. A fictitious name has been used
because there is no reason for public in-
terest in the identity of this person.

=

=.

by D

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are called

the uniform
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For the mos!
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income derives
shadowy needs

The motels’
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Justice swift

for suspects in
1880s San Jose

BY JOANNE GRANT
Mercury News Staff Writer

O.J. Simpson may be involved in the “trial of the
century,” but if he had faced the speedy justice
system in the last century, he either would be free,
dead or convicted and adjusting to life in prison by
now.

Take the 1883 trials of John Showers, Joseph
Jewell and Lloyd Majors for the slayings of William
P. Renowden and Archie Mcintyre. Jewell, who was.
condemned to hang, was arrested, tried, convicted
and sentenced within three months of the crime.

The interest in the case was intense. But in those
pre-TV days, curious people would hang out by the
jail, hoping to catch a glimpse of the suspects. One
day, the three were put on exhibition and 2,500
people visited the jail between 10 a.m. and 3:30 p.m.

Court sessions drew huge crowds, packing the
courtroom and the halls lead-

ing to it. Even without televi-
“gion, word of spectacular tes-

timony spread like wildfire
and the crowds grew.

The San Jose Mercury cov-
OUT OF THE ered everything, in sometimes
excruciating detail. On some

PAST days, up to half the news
space in the four-page paper
was devoted to the trial.

‘Even when reporters were banned from the
courtroom, the Mercury never missed a beat. During
a joint preliminary hearing, for example, the attor-
ney for Majors demanded that the press and public
be excluded. Finally, the judge agreed.

Showers’ representatives

- The next morning, the press corps (four report-
ers) appeared as legal representatives for Showers.
Each freely conceded that they were reporters, but
insisted that they were appearing for Showers. Of
course; each wrote a story covering the day’s pro-
ceedings. Majors’ attorney once again appealed to
the judge.

| This time, the reporters were excluded altogeth-
er, but they were prepared. After all, as the Mercu-
ry’s reporter wrote: “The people are deeply inter-
ested. in this case and will bitterly resent any reck-
less attempts to suppress, even temporarily, any
facts connected with these foul murders.”

‘The reporters sat ensconced in a cozy place under
the courthouse dome, equipped with opera glasses
and a ‘‘secret telephone communication.”’ They
wrote complete reports.

“The editors backed the effort to get the news. An
editorial in the Mercury stated that if their report-
er’s hiding place was discovered, “we have about 29
other methods that will work just as well.”

i The question was moot, however. By the next
day, the ‘judge had decided there was enough evi-
dence'to warrant holding the trio for trial.

«What they
about 35, in Renowden’s cabin above the tiny
on March 11, 1883. Lexington

was the first mountain community south of Los

_——

1 mt

9 RE WD

TR Sri ig)

did was.kill Renowden, 64, and MclIn- .

apie et ky ae

MERCURY NEWS FILE PHOTOGRAPH

Joseph Jewell was arrested, tried, convicted and
sentenced to hang within 3 months of the crime.

evidence the slaying suspects got any. In fact, there
was speculation that the men had merely gone up to
rob Renowden, and, finding no cash, became frus-
trated and killed the two friends. The cabin was
burned.

Lloyd Majors offered information implicating
Jewell and Showers, and Showers was quickly ar-
rested in Gilroy. Jewell was captured in Fresno.
Showers made a confession, pinpointing Majors as
the instigator of the plot. Majors joined the other
two men in Santa Clara County Jail.

The three had a joint preliminary examination,
but managed to win separate trials. They were
scheduled a week apart in May, but the dates didn’t
stand. Jewell’s trial was first and it took an amaz-
ing, unexpected two days to choose the jury. By the
time it was Showers’ turn to have his trial, most of
the evidence had been presented and, apparently,
people were getting tired of it. The trial took only a
day from jury selection through verdict.

Life for Showers

Since Showers had helped convict the other two,
people weren’t upset when he was sentenced to life
in prison. The feeling about Majors being sentenced
to life instead of death was “disgust,” however. The
Mercury called him “the chief criminal in the trans-
action,” named the jury and decried his lesser pen-

ee

ey susie
iste Bi a Paek ¢
yy ie pai

Mayor
@ MAYOR :
from Page 1B

ation of a panel of
advise her on how t
programs and expan
tax base. The panel’
business and labor le;
borhood activists an¢

“People are look
government to solve
day problems,” Han
an interview Mond
want to characteriz
effort to raise city
something that will
if there is a conse
should happen.” ..

While Hammer car
specifics, there has
back-room talk of i
ment tax, a restruch
tax or new levies on

Wet Fet

m@ WEATHER
from Page 1B
it still hasn’t come
January record of 4
1911. 2
With no rain exy
rest of the week, ?
just have to settld
-and no tie-breaker.
“A lot of rain ¢
more interesting if’
orologist,” said Mé
meteorologist with
Weather Service.)
have days off ar
things outside.”
Today should be
throughout the Bé
temperatures injth
60s, Strobin said. j
But as for Febru:
put those umbre
yet. 1 7
According to th
gion Climate Cel
which has been ke
rainfall records fo
fornia cities since
drippy January is
lowed by a fairly?
“Usually when j
patterns, they c

SETTING THE
RECORD STRI

Because of a Te}
story in the! Met
Thursday misstat
of ‘new full-time}
Alto city officials:
need to better mi
contract with th
tation Co’ The’
one new employe
go RP fc dR 4s i

ES

oa

at

acai


46

Warden James B. Holohan, above, was so
seriously injured in the San Quentin break of
January, 1935, thot he had to resign. Suc-
cessful in escaping from Lansing Prison on
Memorial Day of 1933, the outlaws took
Warden Kirk Prather, right, and a guard as
hostages, then released them two days later.

through. A flight northward over un-
known roads was halted in a few hours;
one of the convicts, Rudolph Straight,
was killed in a gun battle which followed
and the other three were captured and
later hanged.

Clyde Stevens and his pal, Albert
Kessel, who had just pulled a series of
daring bank raids in San Francisco, in
order to get funds with which to finance
the prison break and to build up a gang,
were immediately suspected of having
been the outside aid to the convicts, They
were located on Sherman Island, in the
owlands adjacent to San Francisco, and
aken into custody after some gun play
n which Stevens and Kessel were
wounded. The smuggled guns were traced
back to this pair and they were sentenced
to life in Folsom Prison, as confirmed
criminals.

Warden Holohan was so seriously in-
jured that he had to resign from the war-
denship and Court Smith was moved to
San Quentin to succeed him. Thus, as a
direct result of the plotting of Clyde
Stevens, Clarence Larkin now became war-
den at Folsom; Fred Barnes was transferred

from San Quentin to Folsom, also, shortly after

AMERICAN DETECTIVE

the break.
When Clyde Stevens reached Folsom, following an
attempt to escape from the automobile which was
transporting him there, he soon made friends with

“Dandy Ed” Davis, and the former Lansing con-
vict realized almost at once that the accomplice
he needed had at last arrived. Together they
began to plot an escape.

“We've got to have guns to get out of here,”
said Stevens out of the side of his mouth with
scarcely moving lips, as he sat alongside his new
friend in the recreation yard on one of those
rare occasions: when they found an opportunity
to converse.

“Those guards on the walls would pick us off
before we even got started,” countered Davis.
Then he asked a question: “What about that
Sunday morning line-up before the captain’s
office? Couldn’t we crash that and snatch the
warden ?”

Instantly Stevens agreed that the plan was a
good one though he thought a gun necessary to
the success of the plot; once again he sought
counsel from the record of his dead idol, Dil-
linger. Inside the walls of Folsom was a convict
who had previously whittled out a wooden pistol
in another prison which had fooled the guards.
This man, Vladimir Pruszinzki, a Russian, was
now enlisted in the plot; he whittled out two
replicas of automatics which were perfect. From
convicts who had been in the office of the captain
of the guard, consulting the warden on clemency,
a layout of the place was obtained as welk as the
manner in which the interviews were handled.

In the prison shops and on the edges of the
steel bunks, stolen files, case knives, long spikes,
and other pieces of metal were fashioned into
knives and sharpened to razor edges and fitted
with wooden handles; somewhere Davis secured

is coveted a
Pwhich tom:
twelve knives
of wire and a
plotters felt
» the break.
By this tin
‘Barnes, Benn
Pescapee fron
‘tiary, had bec
ber of the b:
“We need
Davis, and be
- and had been
© suspicion of
* convict in Sa
* non, a blond,
— disposition, w
sof the plotte
And finally,
e tough but wa
— interview on
© Wesley Eudy
| violator, was
© start the brea
© At last the
> master kidne
> who would
© fox; Kessel.
© karski, rat-li}
blood-lusting
cold-blooded,
> another had
© Folsom's — pr
| awaited their
- none were c:
» > they felt suri
© for that they
And _ behin«
> side the officc
» sat that gig
- who had sw
S warden ther
» Folsom.

EF I am «
the guard
reins, ‘‘and |
do not shoo
& job here for
F to regard my
EIt is your ch
a man to ¢
= every man |
it is my job
' we must do.
=’ So it was «
© would win?
- A case of
“to gain free
® willing to d
= pen; Eugen
© thing out of
~ Somehow
om stand close
11:45 foren
» eligible even
© in the unif:
- outfit he h
. Coarse, gra)
' prison-made
© had a knife,
piece-of wir
Wesley E1
“a knife. C
> karski, all h
© them one fo
© as a single
s seven betra
sthought or
sbetween the

-

48

In the lead he recognized Clyde Stevens
and behind him Davis and Kessel; Barnes,
Cannon and Kuckarski followed in a bunch.
He caught the glint of sunlight flashing on
drawn blades and in desperation he raised
his gun but it was too late; the convicts
had reached the portico before he could
get in a single shot. They had won the
first round.

ELPLESSLY, Joe Brady now stood
in the tower and awaited develop-
ments; they were not long coming.

Wesley Eudy had hesitated for a second
before entering the office door in order that
his pals might have time to join him and
the first intimation that anything was
wrong that Captain Ryan had was when
all seven of the men surged into the room
with weapons drawn, Richard Harrison,
a trusty, saw the men coming too and
flattened against the wall near the door;
the first rush carried the cons beyond him
and he managed to get outside and sound
the alarm.

Harrison’s voice carried across the yard
to Guard H. B. Trader, in a far tower; it
reached helpless Joe Brady too and he
stood fuming as he waited; Guard H. E.
Martin heard it also and began to mobilize
the guard.

Inside the office a bloody scene was being
enacted !

When Captain Ryan saw the seven men
come surging through the door, literally
armed to the teeth, for in such a manner
Ed Davis carried a long knife between his
lips while in his hands he bore his preci-
ous wire, the captain gave battle with his
loaded cane, the only weapon carried by
guards inside the walls of Folsom.

This was something which Ed Davis had
hardly anticipated; he figured on a repeti-
tion of what had happened at Lansing and
he was wild with anger at Ryan’s resis-
tance. But it was Cannon who rushed in
with a roar and an upraised knife; Ryan’s
cane smashed down on the blond youth’s
head but Cannon buried his knife to the
hilt in the elderly man’s side.

Eudy’s bludgeon had shattered the glass
partition at the first rush and while Kuc-
karski and Barnes went to Cannon’s assis-
tance, the others busied themselves with
subduing Warden Larkin. Powerful though
he was, the warden was no match for four
men armed as were these. Davis’ looped
wire settled over Larkin’s neck and was
drawn tight. Seeing what was happening
to Ryan and realizing the futility of it the
warden called out to him to stop fighting;
Ryan’s answer was to continue laying about
him with his cane until he was finally
pinioned by his antagonists.

It was with a smile of satisfaction that
“Dandy Ed” Davis tightened the wire loop
about the neck of Larkin; no doubt he

was recalling Memorial Day, 1933, and the.

success he had had with this method at that
time: but his smile was to be short-lived,
nevertheless.

“We're going out, Larkin,” hissed Davis,
“and you better obey orders if you don’t
want to die.”

“You can’t make it, boys,” answered the
warden. “The gates will never open; I
have given orders to shoot to kill even if
I am hit.”

“Yeah,” smiled Davis, grimly. “Tell Joe
Brady to throw down his gun.”

Warden Larkin thought fast.

%

He knew

AMERICAN DETECTIVE

there was no telephonic connection from
the office in which he sat to the tower but
he was sure the convicts were not aware
of this condition; he reached for the

phone.
“Hello Joe,” said Larkin and then
paused; he knew he had a direct

connection with his own office in which
his secretary Jack Whalen should be sit-
ting at a desk conducting the morning
business. Whalen was there and being a
keen-witted young man he knew the instant
he heard the word “Joe” that something
was wrong. Purposely, for a second or
so, Larkin delayed the conversation, leav-
ing the receiver off the hook so that
Whalen could hear.

“Go on, tell him to throw down that
gun,” hissed Davis.

Whalen heard those words over the wire
just as Larkin had hoped he would.

“The boys down here want you to hand
down your gun,” said the warden. “They
are going out.”

Now the warden laid the receiver on the
desk and began to argue.

“Cut out the palaver,” said Davis. “We
mean_ business.”

Again Whalen heard; now he hung up
the receiver and .telephoned the alarm
throughout the prison. And while the
guards were being hurriedly mobilized,
Warden Larkin tried again to get the men
to see the futility of their attempt.

“In the first place,” protested Larkin,
“Joe Brady won’t pay any attention to my
order to throw down his gun. If you take
me out in that yard the tower guards will
start shooting and you will all die and so
will I.”

“You're a cool customer, Larkin,” an-
swered Davis. “But this time your bluff
don’t work. Those guards won't shoot.
You'll die though, if you don’t do what we
tell you to do. We're going out of here.”

“Yes, Davis,” answered the warden,
“feet first.”

With a snarl Davis tightened the wire
around Larkin’s neck.

“Come on,” ordered the desperado,
we'll see.”

4“

and

LINKY Bob Cannon placed the point
of his long knife at the warden’s
throat; Davis struck his hand away.

“Cut it out, Cannon,” commanded
Davis. “We need this guy. Jesus, you
love to push on that shiv.”

Cannon. actually laughed and wiped the
blood of Captain Ryan on his gray sleeve.
Davis gave a jerk at the wire which
brought the warden to his feet. The sirens
were sounding now and the warning bells
had begun to ring.

As the convicts’ started to drag Larkin
outside Captain Ryan began struggling
again; Larkin tripped one of his captors
and tried to pull away from Davis; Can-
non struck again and again with his knife,
slashing first at the warden and then at
the guard. Out of the office and under
the portico, the wire now drawn tightly
about his throat, Larkin was half-carried,
half-dragged.

“I think he told us the truth about his
orders to shoot,” suggested Stevens. “I
got that straight; we'll have to be care-
ful.”

Stevens leaned out from the portico and
called up to Joe Brady.

“We've got the warden,” he said, “and

unless you throw down your gun we'll let

-him have it.” :

Joe Brady knew well what was expected
of him in such an emergency. The words
had rung in the ears of every guard in
the place since that day when the warden 4
had told them never to take his life into
consideration in the event of a break; he
knew he would have to shoot when he got}
a chance.

With these orders in mind Brady tried}
to temporize; he sparred for time in order
that the guards might be assembled and
reach the mad group beneath him. He
fought for seconds, just little seconds,
knowing that a few of them might mean
the difference between life and death for
his warden. :

“Step forward a little so that I can see
if you really have the warden,” Brady re-
quested. A cold, harsh laugh greeted his
suggestion.

“You know damn well we have him and
unless you throw down that gun we'll slit
his throat.” Davis was talking now.

For a moment Brady hesitated; he was
in a tough spot and if disobeying Warden
Larkin's orders would have saved his life
Brady might not have followed them to the
letter. As he stood debating with him

self as to what course to follow, he had }

it decided for him by others.

ROM across the prison yard, ten

guards, swinging canes, came at the
convict horde in a mad rush. Up on the
walls machine-gun muzzles appeared and
grumbling and growling the thousands of
prisoners who had had their holiday ruined
began to slowly file back into the cell
blocks at the command of the guards.

Bob Cannon saw the guards coming;
now was his time and the greedy light to
let blood flashed into his eyes. Gleefully,
again and again he sank his blade into
Warden Larkin’s flesh. Ed Davis was too
busy protecting himself to stop the blood-
crazed knifer now had he been so in
clined. Seeing the chances of escape were
going astray, Clyde Stevens took a few
vengeful slashes at the warden’s face and
head. All judgment had now fled from
the minds of the convicts and they slashed
about them like dervishes.

Fifty yards away Guard H. B. Trader,
official prison hangman, saw what was
happening as the convicts and guards
milled around and came out from beneath
the portico. A crack shot, Trader raised
his rifle to his shoulder and took aim. A
guard got in the way. of his sights and he
waited. Then the slim form of Clyde
Stevens appeared down the end of the
gun barrel. Trader pulled the trigger and
the “Dillinger of the West” went west for
certain. Shot through his warped brain,
the bloody knife slowly was withdrawn by
the death clutch and clattered to the
ground; Stevens body followed it.

Wesley Eudy saw what had happened;
stepping in he drove his knife with great
force at the warden’s head; by this time
all the guards available had reached the
scene of the conflict. Before the om
slaught of the loaded canes the convicts
retreated toward the office and some
entered the door; Guard H. E. Martin
followed close on the heels of the retreat:
ing men.

Wounded in many places, bleeding pro-
fusely, Clarence Larkin still managed to

» call a warning
The warden fe
assist Captain
another of his -

“Stay out of

' warden, but it
already at the

A knife flas!
sank deeply i:
steel point wen:
and over his
inside emerged
with a_ perfect
canes.

Across the «
portico, now
guards and _ the
the officials att:
ers into the op:
wielders gave
one by one th
blows or were
picked off by
the towers.

Benny Kuch
bullet; Fred B
through the c
turned over on
the cane of Gua
his skull; Cann
unconscious; |
toward the ce
spared; a bulle
him in the nec
face across the

ESLEY
his hand:
a gesture of th:
in the base of
of the conspirz
Folsom’s blo:
end, but the t
counted. Of
Kuckarski wer.
were seriously
ers, Guard H.
den Larkin h
Captain Ryan
and James Kea
in his arms as
the guard were
/ In their cells
prisoners revert
there was cor
Stevens yet it \
of these inmat
they’ knew what
break. After t
and the wounde
‘men were agaii
prison yard ar
made of their

«made knives we

evident that if
reached by the
have joined th
been a wholesz
“No matter
courageous Wz
been taken to a
am glad that -
am proud of m
ever been oper
most desperate
been freed and
people would h
were captured.

’ were able to stc

And_ while

,all the skill a


down your gun we'll let . 2

w well what was expected *
n emergency. The words -
- ears of every guard in]
hat day when the warden +
ever to take his life into

the event of a break; he |
have to shoot when he got @

cders in mind Brady tried 3
> sparred for time in order @
; might be assembled and a
group beneath him. He “a.
‘onds, just little seconds, © :
few of them might mean Gir.
between life and death for | :

da little so that I can see @ -
ave the warden,” Brady re- ip
ld, harsh laugh greeted his | re

jamn well we have him and @
sw down that gun we'll slit

Yavis was talking now. q
nt Brady hesitated; he was 4
‘t and if disobeying Warden
s would have saved his life

ot have followed them to the a.
. stood debating with him- 4 7
at course to follow, he had
him by others. q

oss the prison yard, ten 4
inging canes, came at the
in a mad rush. Up on the ©
e-gun muzzles appeared and
d growling the thousands of
, had had their holiday ruined - be
wly file back into the cell ‘
command of the guards. ‘ie
yn saw the guards coming ;
time and the greedy light to @e
shed into his eyes. Gleefully, ee
gain he sank his blade into i
<in’s flesh. Ed Davis was too”
ng himself to stop the blood- “4
r now had he been so in- ,
ag the chances of escape were
_ Clyde Stevens took a few
ches at the warden’s face and eg
judgment had now fled from :
; the convicts and they slashed
like dervishes. ‘
js away Guard H. B. Trader,:
on hangman, saw what was
as the convicts and guards
ad and came out from beneath
A crack shot, Trader raised
his shoulder and took aim. A
n the way of his sights and he |
hen the slim form of Clyde
peared down the end of the’
Trader pulled the trigger and
rer of the West” went west for
hot through his warped brain,
knife slowly was withdrawn by
clutch and clattered to the
tevens body followed it. 4
Eudy saw what had happened ;¥
. he drove his knife with great
ye warden’s head; by this time
ards available had reached the:
the conflict. Before the on-
the loaded canes the convicts
toward the office and some
ie door; Guard H. E. Martin
Jose on the heels of the retreat

id in many places, bleeding pros
arence Larkin still managed t@

s%

call a warning to the impetuous guard.
The warden felt that it was too. late to
assist Captain Ryan and he did not want
another of his men to meet a like fate.

“Stay out of there, Martin,” called the
warden, but it was useless; the guard was
already at the door.

A knife flashed and as it descended it

sank deeply into the guard’s chest; the
steel point went squarely through his heart
and over his stricken form the convicts
inside emerged from the office to be met
with a perfect rain of swinging leaded
canes.
_ Across the concrete space beneath the
portico, now slippery with blood, the
guards and the convicts again fought, as
the officials attempted to force the prison-
ers into the open. Foot by foot the knife
wielders gave way under the canes and
one by one they either went down from
blows or were driven from cover to be
picked off by the rifles of the guards in
the towers.

Benny Kuckarski fell dead from a
bullet; Fred Barnes dropped from a shot
through the chest; “Dandy Ed” Davis
turned over on his back when a blow from
the cane of Guard Benjamin Roni fractured
his skull; Cannon was beaten to the ground,
unconscious; Kessel broke into a run
toward the cell blocks, but he wasn’t
spared; a bullet from a guard tower hit
him in the neck and he sprawled on his
face across the white line.

ESLEY EUDY tried to throw up
his hands but it was far too late for
a gesture of that sort; a bullet struck him

in the base of the skull and thus the last ~

of the conspirators was stopped.
Folsom’s bloody break had reached an
end, but the terrific toll was yet to be
counted. Of the convicts, Stevens and
Kuckarski were dead and all the others
were seriously wounded. Of the defend-
ers, Guard H. E. Martin was dead; War-
den Larkin had twelve stab wounds;
Captain Ryan had seven serious wounds

i and James Kearns, a guard, had five stabs

in his arms and body. Many others of
the guard were also slightly wounded.

/ In their cells the angry growls of the
prisoners reverberated along the corridors ;
there was condemnation of Davis and
Stevens yet it was almost a certainty none
of these inmates would ever squawk if
they’knew what had happened prior to the
break. After the dead had been removed
and the wounded taken to the hospital the
men were again allowed to come into the

‘- ‘prison yard and a thorough search was

made of their cells. Several more prison-

F imade knives were found.so it seemed quite

F evident that if the gates had ever heen
. reached by the mad plotters, others would
© have joined them and there would have
been a wholesale delivery.
. “No matter what happens to me,” said
“courageous Warden Larkin after he had

> been taken to a hospital in Sacramento, “I
» am glad that the attempt was beaten; I

am proud of my men. If those gates had

ever been opened many hundreds of the

most desperate men in America would have

© been freed and there is no telling how many

people would have been killed before they

were captured. I am content that my men
* were able to stop them.”

- And while the surgeons fought with

all the skill at their command to save

iS

AMERICAN DETECTIVE

the life of the warden, they also attended
the men who had knifed and beaten him, as
District Attorney Otis Babcock opened an
inquiry to determine the extent of the guilt
of those involved and to ascertain if pos-
sible if they had had assistance from the
outside.

But the law of the prison world is very
tight and the convicts who had stood on
the white line in the prison yard had both
bad eyesight and bad memories; nothing
was learned from them. However, Trusty
Richard Harrison gave his version of what
had happened and members of the guard
were able to give sufficient evidence, along
with Warden Larkin’s deposition, to recon-
str'ct the happenings as they have been
cold here.

Days passed and Warden Larkin grew
weaker; blood transfusions followed one
upon the other; he fought gamely to live
but on the sixth day he died and amid a
profusion of flowers the like of which has
seldom been equalled, he was laid to rest
by his former comrades of the World War.

As this is written it seems that all the
other wounded will recover. And all who
participated in the prison break have been
indicted for first degree murder.  Cali-
fornia has just corppleted a lethal gas
chamber, having adopted that form of
capital punishment in preference to hang-
ing. One of these days,.in the not too
distant future, beyond any question of
doubt the five men still alive who were
responsible for the death of as just and
courageous a man as ever ruled a penal
institution will have to sit down and await
the sweet banana oil smell of the deadly
gas which will creep over them, Thus will
they pay the penalty for a life of misdeeds.

While across the bay, on “The Rock,”
the former pal of “Dandy Ed” Davis, “Old
Harvey” Bailey, his gray hair now almost
pure white, will reflect upon the Lansing
Prison break and the application of an
escape plan which seemed impregnable;
maybe someday he too will conclude that
there is truth in the old saw that “Crime
Does Not Pay.”

In the bay cities of San Francisco, Oak-
land and Berkeley, there is much argument
as to whether or not Warden Larkin
should have resisted to the point of sacri-
ficing his life; many say he should have
been content to allow the prisoners to es-
cape with the certainty that they would
later be recaptured. His own words as
recorded in this story probably furnish the
best answer to that moot question but even
his friends think he was too valuable a man
to be sacrificed in such a manner.

ALIFORNIA has now lost two war-

dens in two years by prison breaks, one
by resignation and the other by death.
Governor Frank Merriam of that state
thinks there should be an end of this;
under his instructions it is quite probable
that convicts will now be denied the
privilege of conversing with a warden ex-
cept through iron bars; that is probably
the proper answer to the question.

It is about time someone erected a fit-
ting monument to such men as Clarence
Larkin, and Public Hero No. 1 should be
carved upon it, as a token of appreciation
for the fact that in giving his own life he
probably saved many others, and that his
brave deed may never be forgotten.

Tur Enp

49

MAIL
CLERK } FR

Start $1260 to $2100
a Year—Many 1938
Appointments Expected

Railway Postal Clerks

Railway Postal Clerks get $1,900 the
first year regular, being paid on the first
and fifteenth of each month. ($79.17
each pay day.) Their pay is auto-
matically increased yearly to $2,450.
Advance may be had to Chief Clerk at
$2,700 a year. ($112.50 each pay day.)
RAILWAY POSTAL CLERK AT MINNEAPOLIS, MINN.
“I received my appointment as
Railway Postal Clerk and have been
working full time and some overtime.
Your training taught me what to do
and how to do it. To this training
must go 2 large share of the credit.”

a O. K. DOMHOLDT,
Minneapolis, Minn.

3 Days On—3 Days Off—Full Pay
Railway Postal Clerks on long runs
usually work 3 days and have 3 days off
duty or in the same proportion, During
this off duty their pay continues just as
though they were working. They travel
on a pass when on business. When they
grow old, they are retired with a pension.
City Mall Carriers, Post Office Clerks
Clerks and Carriers now get $1,700 the
first year on regular and automatically
increase $100 a year to $2,100 and $2,300.
MAIL CARRIER AT PHILADELPHIA, PA.
“As a result of your training I
stood 96.8 per cent and was ap-
pointed Mail Carrier soon after the
examination and am now working. I
was also offered a position as Rail-
way Postal Clerk.”
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som, following an
mobile which was
made friends with
irmer Lansing con-
that the accomplice
ed. Together they

to get out of here,”
of his mouth with
it alongside his new
-d on one of those
,und an opportunity

ls would pick us off
” countered Davis.

“What about that
efore the captain’s
that and snatch the

that the plan was a
t a gun necessary to
nee again he sought
i his dead idol, Dil-
folsom was a convict
| out a wooden pistol
id fooled the guards.
nzki, a Russian, was
he whittled out two
h were perfect. From
1e office of the captain
- warden on clemency,
ibtained as welk as the
rviews were handled.
| on the edges of the
se knives, long spikes,
| were fashioned into
razor edges and fitted
iewhere Davis secured

= tough but was nevertheless sure to get an

P his coveted and tried length of wire with
which to make a “come-along.” With
twelve knives, two wooden guns, the piece
of wire and a 20-pound steel bludgeon, the
plotters felt they were well equipped for
the break.

By this time, m addition to Kessel and
= Barnes, Benny Kuckarski, a lifer, and an
© escapee from Mississippi State Peniten-

tiary, had been accepted as the fifth mem-

ber of the band.
: “We need at Jeast seven men,” said
© Davis, and because he was a known knifer
and had been transferred to Folsom under
suspicion of having thus killed a fellow
convict in San Quentin, Robert Lee Can-
non, a blond, young burglar with a nasty
disposition, was taken into the confidence
of the plotters

And finally, because he was reputed to be

interview on clemency with the warden,
me Wesley Eudy, Pomona stick-up and parole
F \violator, was selected as the key man to
start the break.

At last the trails converged. Davis, the
master kidnapping-crash artist; Stevens
BS who would be a Dillinger; Barnes, the

fox: Kessel, who idolized Stevens ; Kuc-

karski, rat-like and cunning; Cannon, the
© blood-lusting kmife wielder, and Eudy,
© cold-blooded, mean, by one process and
Fs another had arrived at the white line on

Folsom'’s prisen yard. Silently they
awaited their turn to go into the office. If
© none were called among the original six
they felt sure Eudy would get his chance ;
>. for that they waited.
a And behind the thick glass partition in-
side the office of the captain of the guard,
sat that gigantic man, Clarence Larkin,
who had sworn that so long as he was
warden there would be no escapes from
Folsom.

si?
:
SS.

- "GF T am ever kidnapped,” he had told
: | the guards on the day he took over the
“reins, “and I tell you not to shoot and you
5 do not shoot anyway, there will be no
job here for you if I live. You are not
® to regard my orders in such an eventuality.
It is your duty to shoot rather than allow
= a man to escape. With few exceptions
© every man in this institution would kill;
rit is my job to keep them here and that
» we must do.”

So it was a case of steel meet steel! Who
would win? ,
A case of desperate criminals determined
to gain freedom at any cost; a warden
. willing to die rather than have that hap-
~ pen; Eugene O'Neill could make some-
+.thing out of that clash of human wills!
* Somehow the motley crew managed to
» stand close together as the zero hour of
- 11:45 forenoon approached. Stevens, in-
> eligible even to be in the line, was dressed
* in the uniform of Ray Budlong, whose
outfit he had “borrowed;” beneath the
coarse, gray shirt, a crude, but effective,
© prison-made knife tickled his belly. Davis
had a knife, a dummy gun and his precious
piece-of wire.
Wesley Eudy had the steel bludgeon and
a knife. Cannon, Barnes, Kessel, Kuc-
ekarski, all had at least one knife; some of
*them one for each hand. By not so much

AMERICAN DETECTIVE 47

for the supreme test arrived.
“Wesley Eudy,” called Captain Ryan.

line and keep it inviolate, saw Eudy pas>
out of sight beneath the roof and momen-

The thin-faced, dark-haired, tight-lipped tarily turned his eyes toward the ball

young criminal stepped over the white line
and approached the portico; six men’s
muscles grew taut as they watched his

every step.

game; upon such split-seconds are the
well-laid plans of men like Davis and
Stevens made. In that unguarded frac
tion of time, hell broke loose !

In the prison yard, as on that Memorial

Day of 1933, a ball game was in progress ;
criminal history was repeating itself. Guard
Joe Brady, in the tower above and back of
the office, whose duty it was to watch that

RADY turned his eyes back agam as
the sound of crunching heavy shoes on
the gravel reached his ears. He caught a
glance of men leaping toward the portico.

Cc. B.S. Evans, M.D.,
F.A.M.A., Member
White House Confer-
ence, Committee on
Maternal Care, Wash-

CONTENTS

Bride and Groom

Sexual Overtures

First Sexual Contact

Frequency of Sexual Relations

The Sexual Cycle

Sexual Response in Men and
Women: Timing

Woman’s Hygiene

The Cold Wife—Frigidity

Mental, Psychic and Physical
Barriers

Effects of Menstruation

Effects of Physical Develop-

a

ment
Effects of Early Parental
Training
The Clumsy Husband
Pseudo-Frigidity
Pseudo-Response
Sexual Underdevelopment
The Pleasure-motif in Sex

The Unsatisfied Wife

Effect upon Nerves

Fear of Pregnancy

The Acquiescent Wife

‘True and False Sexual Response
Happily Managing the Sex

et
Problems of Orgasm
The Satisfaction of Normal
Sexual Appetite
The Oversexed Wife

Married Courtship

Making Desires Known via the
Special Language of Sex
Tactics the Husband Should

Use

Tactics the Wife Should Use

Helpful Preliminaries to Sex-
ual Union

The Sensual Bppeel the Spir-
itual Appea

Secondary Sexual Centers

The Perfect Physical
Expression of Love

Positions in Intercourse: Fac-
tors in Determining Choice
Two Types of Orgasm in Wo-

men
Producing Simultaneous Cli-

max

The Mechanical Principles of
Sex Union

Sexual Stimulation

Sexual Adjustment

ington—intraduction by R. W. Holmes, M.D., F.A.
C.S., Professor of Obstetrics, Northwestern University
Medical School—Prefatory and other notes by Norman
Haire, Ch.M..M.B., Specializing Obstetrician, Gyne-
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* The membership of the American Medical Association consist«
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’

v

argument in
inden) trying
ot the tool-
en trying to
ould be now
d to throw

go!” finally

oped a red
the warden’s
which Davis
his feet and
Ortico,

in, Brady,”
t venturing
rch, “We've
throw down
a i

> the yard he

for a rush.
ve him?” he
where To can

tevens,

ted guards,
ce across the
Cannon saw

he snarled,
nto Larkin’s
! slashed at

*. guards
y effort
fullback
we Ough a
big warden
‘-veral of the
r the porch,
er 13 Guard
n anda dead
-de Stevens
At that dis-
see who the
dressed in a
by which he
rden's office
sulel see thraat
varden. dle
r when one
ne between
ader waited,
Ider.
in the con-
Vrader’s gun
ver. A red
m= Warden
mped to the
» the gravel
us lay dead,
Ss conniving
on criminal
a Kentucky.
warden the
convicts te-
ey retreated
1 was dead,
Martin who

he called.

dl. Captain
suld see that
inside the
tin) pressed
lowed. As
i long knife
utside could
“unt entered
tantly.
ed over
f canes
them
the convicts
inch, drove

at aa

The guns of the guards on the walls
began to bark. One by one the despera-
docs fell. In a few minutes it was over.

LYDE STEVENS and Benny Ku-

charski were dead, as was Captain
Martin. Warden Larkin had been stabbed
12 times; Captain Ryan had been knifed
seven times; Ed Davis had a fractured
skull; Robert Lee Cannon had been beat-
en into unconsciousness; Fred Barnes had
a bullet wound through his chest; Kessel
was shot through the neck, and Eudy had
a bullet in the base of his skull.

Warden Larkin lingered for six days,
during which time he expressed satis-
faction with the manner in which his
men had conducted themselves in pre-
venting the break.

“No matter what happens to me,” he
said, “I am proud of my men. I knew

Cen

“Yes, I remember him,” he answered,
and then gave us a description that tallied
with that of the murdered man.

“Know any of his friends?”

“Can't recall any of them by name,” he
replied, “and, with the yard closed down,
I don't know just how I could find out
who they were.”

“Did Burghardt come back looking for
his job?” I asked, noting that several
former employes had called while we
were talking, to inquire when the plant
would re-open.

“Seems to me he did for the first couple
of weeks,” answered the timekeeper, “but
he hasn't: been around here for some
time,”

Then I asked the timekeeper to ques-
tion the men who did come to the yard
to see if he could find some one who had
been friendly with Burghardt. It was
a long chance, but it was the only thing
we could do unless we undertook the
almost impossible task of checking off
the list of employes, one by one.

Two days later a gruff, Irish shipyard
worker breezed into headquarters and
said he understood that we wanted to talk
with someone who knew Frank Burg-
hardt.

“Well, I’m your man,” he said. “I
worked on the same shift with him, not
that I ever learned much about the man.
He was always quiet and attended to his
own business. A fine man, once you got
acquainted with his ways, but not many
did that. Talked mostly with Watson and
Miller, as I noticed.”

We asked for a description of Miller
and Watson, hoping that one or the other
would fit the man who had sometimes
called at the Terry street boarding house.
To our surprise, our caller described both
Watson and Miller as being tall and dark,
as had been Burghardt’s caller. Watson,
he said, was slightly the taller of the two.

The Irishman recalled that Watson had
once made a remark about living in a
rooming house on Fourth avenue and also
that he had stated he would probably go
to California if the strike was called.

Miller, he thought, had a house in West
Seattle,

what this job was when I took it, and I
am satisfied.”

A brave man to the last, he died despite
many blood transfusions for which con-
victs who liked and admired him were
the donors. There was no rejoicing in
Folsom the day when Clarence Larkin
passed,

But, in spite of their regard for him,
no prisoner except Richard Harrison,
who had already placed himself in danger
by sounding the alarm, wanted to testify
to what he had seen,

Nevertheless, District Attorney Otis
Babcock, from evidence given by Harri-
son and that of the guards, has filed first
degree murder charges against all the
convicts who participated in the break,
The convicted men will probably be the
first executed in the new lethal gas
chamber which California has substituted
for the gallows,

Seattle’s Horror Cottage

[Continued from page 49] ota ae

“When did you last see Burghardt?”
I queried.

“Three weeks ago. I met him on the
street. He said he was waiting fora West
Seattle car. He did a funny thing that
day, not like him at all. He pulled out a
roll of bills and told me there was $2,600
init. T asked him how he got so rich and
he said, ‘Not working at the shipyard,
Mike—you can’t get that much that
way.”

Knowledge that Burghardt had such a
large sum of money provided a definite
motive for his murder but it also raised
the question of where he had secured
such oa large amount of cash. DT won.
dered if he had received an inheritance
but I was more inclined to believe that
he was connected with some racket,
having taken it on after the yard closed.
Or, maybe he had had a racket all the
time, and had merely been working for
a blind.

Following out that latter line of rea-
soning, I assumed that the tall, dark man
who had visited Burghardt on Terry ave-
nue, might have been a partner in what-
ever was going on. If Watson had told
the truth, he was now in California. That
left Miller as the most likely person to
have been Burghardt's friend. This
checked with the Irishman’s story that
Burghardt had been waiting for a West
Seattle car when he was last seen.

AY? that brought to mind the door key
which we had found in the dead
man’s pocket. Did that key fit the lock of
some cottage on the other side of the
great bridge which connected Seattle
proper with the western portion of the
city?

It was a possibility but West Seattle
is a large place and we could hardly
o from house to house trying that key
in locks until we found one that it would
fit. Still, I reasoned, we could shorten
the field of endeavor by concentrating
on the names Burghardt and Miller, for
we had eliminated Watson through con-
nections he had retained with the Fourth
avenue rooming house, which conclus-
ively proved that he had gone to Cali-

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Determined to become the king of an underworld empire, his bloody orgy of killings, holdups
and bank robberies earned him the dreaded title of “Mad Dog” among his own vicious followers.

the light, his eyes shone a fiery blue against
his sunburned cheeks, “Yeah, I reckon I’ll
be top dog,” he drawled. “When I get the gang
together, I’ll be able to rule the whole Pacific
Coast. I used to admire Dillinger, but he'll
look like a pjker when I get through.” 2

The second man was beefy and powerful,.and as
fair as his companion was dark. He had slack lips,
squinty eyes, and his face looked as-if it had been
slapped together in a hurry. “I’m with you, Clyde,
but it’sounds funny to talk about it here.”

Clyde shrugged and both men were silent as a
San Quentin guard padded past their cell on his
regular rounds,

“By the end of October they'll spring us both,”
Clyde said. He nodded in the direction of San
Francisco across the bay. “Then there’l] be money,
booze, and blondes for us.”

The second man’s name was Al. His voice held a
note of worry when he spoke.

“We got big ideas, but making them come true
ain’t going to be easy,” he said. “There’ll be booze
and blondes, okay, but there’ll be plenty of hot
lead, too.”

“Maybe,” Clyde admitted. “But right now I’m
more interested in blondes, hot or cold.”

Hvete tall and rangy. When he turned to

AL KESSELL, the "Mad Dog's" right-hand

man whose career of banditry and murder
plagued the California police for years.

at COLD

"MAD DOG" CLYDE STEVENS: Icy-eyed,
sullen-lipped—a picture study which plainly
reveals him as every inch the killer he was.

By KARL GILBERT

WARDEN GLARENCE LARKIN seriously woun:

after crushout. His orders, Kill me too, if it's ne
sary, but don't let them get away!" were obey


HOT LEAD ana COLD BLONDES E

: continued

September, then October leafed by, and on No-
vember 10th the first job was pulled. It went off
like clockwork. Three men entered the American
Trust Bank at Haight and Fillmore Streets in San
Francisco at 11:55 a.m. At two minutes past noon,
the trio fled in a gray coupe. As he sped toward the
getaway vehicle, one of the felons-bumped into a
woman who later. gave a surprising description of
him.

“T only caught a glimpse’ of-the man, but I saw
that he was tall and handsome,” she said. “He had
shy, dreamy eyes with long lashes, and he sort of
reminded me of Rudolph Valentino.”

An hour later the police found the abandoned
coupe, which turned out to be a stolen car. No one
could identify the bandits and there were no clues.
The bank was simply $6,000 poorer; the gunmen
$6,000 richer. -

Veteran officers like Captain of Inspectors
Charles Dullea and’ Lieutenant Jim Malloy knew
from the facility of the operation and the swiftness
of the getaway that the criminals.were not novices.
Yet, there was little the sleuths.could do except sit
tight and await developments.

Five weeks passed without event. Then, on De-
cember 17th, two of the three criminals strode into
the Eighth and Market Streets branch of the Bank
of America, snatched over $1,200, and relieved
Police Lieutenant Bob Williams of. ‘his .38-caliber
service revolver. Williams, one of the bank’s cus-
tomers, saw that he was covered and realized the
futility of resisting.

This time, as before, the criminals escaped in an
automobile that had been parked nearby. Wil-
liams, who had followed them out of the bank, suc-
ceeded in getting their license number. Once more
the getaway. vehicle turned out to be a hot car.
Again, the police located it an hour after the crime.

The car had been stolen at the point of a gun
from a Sutter Street garage. The. attendant was
able to describe the bracé of thieves fully, and was
positive he could recognize their photos.

The detectives whisked him to headquarters.
There, after a brief perusal of the mug album, he
identified the bandits as Clyde Stevens and Albert
Kessell.

Kessell had a long record for auto thefts and
was known as an all-around tough guy. Stevens,
who originally hailed from Kentucky, had recently
been released from San Quentin: where he had
been sent for robbing a San Francisco grocery store
on Fillmore Street.

The third man who had participated in the

American Trust robbery could not yet be iden-
tified. ;

“I never credited Al Kessell with enough gray
matter to pull a successful bank job, but I guess
{ was wrong,’
‘oy. “He must run the outfit, too. It’s a cinch a
aardened felon like him wouldn’t take orders
‘rom a raw, Kentucky kid like Stevens.”

Detective Inspector Dullea grimaced and lit a
cigarette.

“Maybe Clyde Stevens isn’t quite so raw as we
hink,” he said drily.

Weeks passed. While efforts were pushed to
rap the bandits through routine channels, Dullea
ind Malloy labored on a scheme of their own.
\l Kessell’ had been knocking up against the
»olice department since his teen-age days so that
iis habits and character were more than slightly
‘amiliar to the detectives. It was known that he
was girl-crazy in general, and that he had a
yenchant for blonde. chorines in particular. With
iis share of the loot burning a hole in his pocket,
t seemed likely that’ he might be tossing green-
vacks to some of the faded blonde cuties who

? mused Detective Lieutenant Mal-:

sg GDF sa ete
CN Bi! 3s)

' DISTRICT ATTORNEY AL BAGSHAW displays gun he
used to kill leader of escaping Sn Quentin convicts.

went through their bumps and grinds in the Ten-
derloin night spots.

The sleuths pressed a series of discreet inquiries
and learned that Kessell had been lavishing his
usual care on the opposite sex. The girls were all
kind and affectionate, and if they accepted ex-
pensive lingerie and other gifts from the rugged
gangster now and then, that was more a sign of
their devotion than of their costliness. Or so, at any
rate, the girls maintained.

Clyde Stevens,. the “shy-eyed” gunman from
the Kentucky mountains, had also been having his
fling at the bright lights. But Clyde, it appeared,
had diminished his bankroll by very little. The
powdered Tenderloin lovelies just couldn’t bear
spending his money.

“He’s so young and gentle,” they insisted.

Since he and Kessell had vanished from the
Tenderloin before Dullea and Malloy started their
investigation there, however, this information was
of little value. More important was the fact that
both men had been particularly friendly with a
cab driver during their spree. The cabby, indeed,
had driven the bandits practically everywhere
they: went. ;

“He must know where they are now,” said
Malloy. ‘‘All we have to do is locate him.”

The task proved more difficult than it sounded.
Although the sleuths knew the taxi driver was
middle-aged and that he went: in for bow-ties and
suede shoes, they did not know his name. Nor did
they know anyone who could aid them in con-
tacting him.

Their first move was to alert the entire police
department for the cabby. This done, Dullea began
making the rounds of the city’s numerous taxi
companies while Malloy went to San Quentin and
scanned the records of the letters and visitors
Stevens and Kessell had received in prison.

Then, on January 8th, the bandits brutally
beat a garage attendant at the swank Fairmont
Hotel on Nob Hill and stole a brown Ford coupe.
Remembering that stolen cars had been used in

both of the bank holdups, the police reasoned that
the criminals were planning to pull another job.
A call was put out for the missing Ford although
there was but little hope that it could be picked up.

“They: probably switched the license plates as
soon as they got away with the car,” groaned In-
spector William McMahon.

Other measures, however, could be taken. Two
policemen were dispatched to every bank in San
Francisco. These officers had orders to shoot
Kessel and Stevens on sight, and to kill them if
they offered resistance.

Although the felons must have known that the
law’ was playing for keeps, they were apparently

one of the cons

LITTLE BENNY KUCHARSKI,
killed in Folsom Prison break, claimed to have
cached $300,000 worth of jewelry in Hollywood.


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Gustafson was the first to admit that
Baldonado’s story was full of holes and if
the case went to the grand jury in its
present condition there was some doubt
that indictments would be returned.

The point that puzzled Gustafson was
how a complete stranger, and a rough
looking one at that, was able to lure Mrs.
Olga Duncan from the safety of her apart-
ment in her flimsy nightclothes.

It didn’t seem likely that a sensible
woman like Olga, who lived in constant
fear of her mother-in-law would go out
into the night with a stranger under those
conditions.

Higgins talked to Baldonado again and
the latter said he stayed in the car and
didn’t know how Moya persuaded Mrs.
Duncan to leave the apartment.

Said Baldonado, “I couldn’t even see
the front door. I don’t know whether any-
body was with Moya or not. The first
thing I knew, the nurse was looking
through the window and Moya hit her on

_the head with the gun.”

During Higgins’ second talk with Bal-
donado, the killer described two meet-
ings with Mrs. Duncan at Mrs. Andova’s
night club. At the first meeting on No-
vember 12, he said, Mrs. Andova intro-
duced Moya and Baldonado to Mrs. Dun-
can.

He quoted Mrs. Duncan as asking them
if they would be interested in “getting
rid of a woman who is giving me trouble.”
And according to Baldonado he replied,
“We're just interested in how much
money we'll get.”

At another meeting two nights later,
said Baldonado, the price was set at
$6,000.

And so on Christmas day there was a
grave doubt that the grand jury would
indict the three principal suspects in the
case. But when Gustafson showed up the
next morning he had an ace up his sleeve.

In a dramatic midnight statement, Luis
Moya reportedly told of his part in the
grisly plot. On Christmas night, Moya
asked to see the Rev. Lloyd Gresset of the
Avenue Community Church. Then he
sent for detectives and told them, “I have
confessed to God and asked forgiveness.”

Higgins, who obtained the statement
from Baldonado, took the story from
Moya alone. And it explained how Olga
Duncan had been lured from her apart-
ment in the middle of the night.

Moya was quoted as saying, “I knocked
on the door and I told Olga that Frank
had passed out in a bar. That he was
drunk and that he was downstairs in a
car parked in front of her apartment. “I
told her he had a lot of money on him
and that I needed help in getting him up-
stairs,

“She came down to the car and bent
over and looked in the window where
Baldonado was lying on the floor pre-
tending to be Frank. It was then I hit
her from behind.”

The rest of the story was substantially
the same as Baldonado’s. It was a cold
blooded tale of murder for hire or worse
yet, murder on credit.

The next day, December 26, a parade of
15 witnesses filed into the jury hearing
room. Among the last to be called was
Frank Duncan himself. He was on the
witness stand for 105 minutes.

During the time he waited to be called,
he told reporters, “I will testify and I will
take no sides. I will answer all questions.”

Asked if he believed his mother guilty
of murder, Duncan hung his head and re-
pee, ORE: “That is for a jury to de-
cide.

Then he added, “You know, I never re-
call my mother being cruel in the physical
sense. She has never been able to hurt

anyone or anything. It is difficult to be-
lieve she could have done the things she
is accused of. She would have to be in-
sane.”

Asked about reports that his mother
had “shopped around” for a hired killer,
Duncan replied, “She approached a for-
mer client of mine. I was appointed by
the court to’be his lawyer in a sale of
marijuana case.”

Asked how he knew this, Duncan said a
police officer had told him about it. This
man was among the witnesses who testi-
fied before the grand jury and reportedly
told the grand jury that Mrs. Duncan had
offered him $2,500 to do away with her
daughter-in-law.

He was quoted as saying Mrs. Duncan
wanted him to kill Olga in her own apart-
ment, put the body in a bathtub, and pour
lye over it to dispose of it. He had refused
to have any part in the plot.

Asked if he will stand by his mother,
Duncan replied, “I just don’t feel that the
district attorney is the temple of all wis-
dom. I haven’t heard any evidence of any

‘kind against my mother.

“What Moya and Baldonado said or did
not say is something I don’t know. When
I do hear, perhaps I would know better
about future plans. But for the moment
she is still my mother.”

Duncan said he had learned from a
radio news broadcast that his wife’s body
had been found. “My feeling then,” he
continued, “was that I could do nothing.
My wife was dead. I could be of no help or
assistance and I didn’t want to talk to
anyone. So I left Santa Barbara.”

he young lawyer confirmed that he
had Moya arrested when he thought the
see was forcing his mother to pay black-
mail.

“We even took pains to mark the
money,” Duncan said. “At first mother did
not identify him but a few minutes later
she did.” :

Asked why Moya was not prosecuted
at the time, Duncan said, “I cannot an-
swer that.”

The grand jury heard testimony from
9:30 a.m. until the last witness was ex-
cused at 5:35 p.m. Then they deliberated
until 5:50 p.m. and returned murder in-
dictments against Mrs. Elizabeth Duncan,
Baldonado and Moya.

The indictment also charged Mrs. Dun-
can with four crimes in connection with
the fraudulent annulment. She was ac-
cused of bribing her accomplice, Ralph
Frank Winterstein, soliciting him to com-
mit perjury, preparing a false document,
and forgery.

Winterstein who is still at large, was
charged with perjury, forgery and receiv-
ing a bribe.

After the grand jury returned the in-
dictments, Gustafson announced that he
will seek the death penalty for Mrs.
Elizabeth Duncan, Baldonado and Moya.

“This crime,” he declared, “is one of the
most vicious and horrible in the annals of
modern justice. Each new fact uncovered
throughout the investigation has been
eee disgusting and shocking than the

ast.

“Nothing short of death could possibly
be considered a just or a fitting penalty
for the perpetrators of this crime against
an innocent young mother-to-be.”

Only time will tell whether a Superior
Court jury will share District Attorney
Gustafson’s feelings in the case.

On January 6, Mrs. Elizabeth Duncan
pleaded innocent and innocent by reason
of insanity to charges she “masterminded”
the death of her son’s wife.

(The name Maria Andova is fictitious to pro-
tect the identity of a person indirectly involved
in the investigation.—The Editor)

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Name...... we seersib:sieise 40's @euene'e r
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te 87

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sur word.”
uted Fee-

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Aathy re-

the lives
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told that
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the rebel
way out,
was the

hostages. Their safety, their very lives,
depended on his decision or that of his
followers. So far, they were unharmed,
Feeney said. But Warden Gavin was not
ready to accept his say-so for that. He
realized, however, that Feeney’s plans had
struck a real snag.

“Feeney has booted the ball,” declared
Warden Gavin. “I’m going to have a first-
hand look at this.”

His hearers could hardly believe it at
first. The intrepid warden was literally
planning to lay his life on the line. He
was gambling on the chance that his
authority, the highest to which the rebels
could at present appeal, would bring them
to their senses and squash their suicidal
schemes of vengeance.

“I’m going in alone,” Warden Gavin
told Deputy Wells. “If I don’t come back
in 30 minutes, move in and take them by
force, whether we get killed or not.”

His clear cut instructions meant only
one thing—attack the rebel convicts’
stronghold. The men, the material, all
were available. All that held the troopers
back was the safety of those hostages.
Warden Gavin could have given the word’
for attack right then, but he wouldn’t.

Instead, he was counting on ending thig
stalemate himself and, if that failed,
was willing to accept the same fate/as
the helpless men whose own lives
upon his order.

Few moments have been as dramatic
as those which followed. Across the pfri
yard where rebellious convicts had
a wild dash for freedom, then had
treated, taking their hostages with the

through an area now covered by dozens™

of guns that symbolized authority, one
man walked alone.

r
That man was Warden Gavin. Lis
steady, confident stride could we!! become
a death march when he reached the door
of the machine shop. He announced him-
self and the door was opened. Gavin took
one step that carried him from the realm
of the law into the hands of the lawiess.
The rebels swarmed about (
They gave him the same roug!
as they had the other hostages. Uncer
the threat of knives, he was shoved to
a chair. His hands were bound «1c
thinner was poured over his

clothes.
They produced their versio u
“Molotov cocktail,” jars filled wit! >

inflammable fluid, which would ignite and
explode from heat or concussion. ‘These
they put in the pockets of the bound
hostages, whose hands and necks already
were feeling the biting, burning effect of
the paint thinner.

Warden Gavin had come here for what
he termed a “first-hand look” and he was
getting it. Everything was as Feeney had
described it; perhaps worse in some re-
spects. But the setting was as the prison
officials had pictured it, the sort where a
swift, split-second attack would serve as
a last resort.

In deliberately placing bimsclf in the

| power of six hardened criminals, the
warden had hoped to divert them from
their crazed plan of escape and thus ease
’ the tension that was mounting to a point
as explosive as the inflammable stuff that
the rebels had poured over their hostages.

But there was only one thought in the
minds of the six maddened inmates now
that they had gone this far. That thought,
more than ever, was escape.

Warden Gavin knew the mentalities as
well as the records of all six convicts. So
did Deputies Scafati and Thompson, who
had pegged most of them as chronic
‘ trouble makers. Father Hartigan, without
| doubt, had deeper insight into the work-

ing of those frenzied minds than any of
the other hostages who were now taking
verbal as well as physical abuse from the
frantic men trying to find a mad way out
of the dilemma which they themselves had
created.

Martin P. Feeney, the long-faced, heavy
jawed, 43-year-old spokesman for the
hard-core.crew had been sent up for 12
to 15 years for an armed robbery in 1949.
His subsequent record as a notorious,
never-give-up escape artist had certainly
not recommended Feeney to the parole
board.

Russell T. Halliday, 30 years old, famil-

FLASHES
on

BLACK ANGEL OF SANTA
BARBARA (April 1959)--A Ven-
tura, Cal., court jury has found Mrs.
Elizabeth Duncan guilty of. first de-
gree murder for hiring two men to
murder her daughter-in-law, Olga
Duncan, November 18, 1958. Her son,
Frank, had testified during the 20-
day trial that she was innocent. The
two men accused as “killers for
‘hire’ have not yet been tried.

MASSACRE I E AFTER-_
NOON (April 1959)—Car a]
16-year-old runaway from Ironde-
quoit, N. Y¥., has pleaded guilty to
slaying an El Cajon, Cal., mother,
Mrs. Lois Pendergast, and her four
children, last December.

SLASHED BEAUTY IN THE
DESERT (March 1959)—Jack
Rainsberger of Huntington Park,
Nev., was sentenced to death for the
“human sacrifice” slaying of Erline
Folker, last November. Rainsberger,
who received the first Nevada death
sentence in five years, said he was
compelled by voices to slash the di-
vorcee to death. He picked her as a
victim at random.

TRACKING DOWN THE COP
KILLERS (September 1958)--Two
brothers, Eugene and Paul Fitzsim-
mons, have each been sentenced to
life in prison after they were con-
victed of first degree murder in the
slaying of Passaic, N. J., Policeman
Robert Strone on May 8, 1958.

iarly known as “Red,” was also serviny
12 to 15 years for the shooting: of «a Water

town policeman during a drug store
holdup. He had received another 20 years
for kidnaping a guard during a Norfolk
Prison Colony escape in 1954.

Robert J. Savage, who looked older than
his age of 29, was somewhat baldish and
smooth of manner. Though his record
went back to his juvenile days, his pres:
ent imprisonment dated from September,
1957, when he was sentenced for a holdup
attempt in Medfield, where he had mas-
queraded as a priest. Savage, too, had
figured as a jail breaker, adding more
years to the eight to ten that he was
serving.

Kenneth FE. Abramson had also been

imprisoned in September, 1957, being

vced to 12 to 15 years for the armed
cobbery of a Chelsea bank. Though only
25 and a member of a respectable family,
Abramson had a record of robbery, car
thefts and breaking into schools and
garages,

George T. Harrison, 25 years old, was
in his third year of a life sentence for
second degree murder in the sex slaying
of a 4-year-old girl in Boston’s South
End. He had made attempts at escapes,
but all had been futile.

Robert Howard, also 25, was the most
youthful looking member of the group,
but his record matched the others. He
was doing two concurrent seven to nine-
year terms for armed robbery in 1953.
Along with earlier convictions for knife
attacks and robberies, Howard had figured
in the 1954 revolt in the Cherry Hill
section of the old Charlestown State
Prison.

It was in such hands that Warden
Gavin had placed his life, exactly as
Father Hartigan and Deputy Warden
Scafati had done earlier. Now the rebels
were focussing their attention on the
warden, hoping to use him as a wedge

They wouldn’t take Gavin’s advice to
call it\quits. He was promising them
nothing,\ but simply showing them, by
his own\example, that taking hostages
was doing them no good. The warden’s
utter refusal to admit any weakness
seemed to make an impression on some
of the hardened sextet.

Individually, some of the rebels might
have eéme to their senses, but collectively,
they“remained as hard-core as ever. Only
Momentarily did they show any waverings
toward the warden’s way of thinking.
Then, the very notion that time might be
running out, roused them to a new pitch
of fury.

As they clamored for Feeney to do
something, he nodded that he would.

“Gavin wants to talk us out of here,”
jeered the ringleader. “All right, we'll let
him do it—our way. Take him to the
telephone.”

In the warden’s office, Deputy Wells was
talking over battle plans with Major
O’Leary of the state police when the phone
call came through from the machine shop.
Over the wire, Wells heard Gavin’s voice,
strained, yet with a note of firmness.

“They've got a knife at my throat,” the
warden stated. “They’re going to kill
father Hartigan, too. Open the vehicle
vate for them.”

Anything more that Warden Gavin said

« lost to the listener at the other end
the line in the triumphant babble of
4c convicts. There, Feeney was hanging
up the telephone, gesturing for his fol-
ers to peer through the closed blinds
watch for a signal from the gate.
“hey aren’t opening up,” one rebel told
ey, “Wells isn’t going through with
lice Gavin told him to.”
Fhoere was a reason for that. In the
arden's office, Wells, at that: very mo-
ut, was explaining it to O'Leary.
Refore Warden Gavin left,” declared
‘ls, “he said that if he wasn’t back in
an hour, we were to come in and
hem. He knows that I cannot counter-
nel his original order.”
Nhat statement was promptly  cor-
cborated by Deputy Melvin Farnsworth,
cond in command to Deputy Wells.
“te said ‘Move in and take them by
vee, whether we get killed or not, ”
‘aoted Farnsworth, “and he expects us

_ follow that order to a T.”

“That talk about opening the gates,”
added Wells, grimly, “is just another way

> 55


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Highway in the pre-dawn darkness Olga

Duncan put up a fierce struggle for her

life. Baldonado told how he was forced to

— and slug her repeatedly to keep
er quiet.

At Carpenteria the car turned inland
up Highway 150 into the Casitas Pass
area and headed for Ojai in Ventura
County. About ten miles north of Oak
View at the site of a road fill project Moya
drove off the road. Moya, Baldonado said,
held the struggling woman while he
climbed down into a ditch and scooped out
a shallow grave with his bare hands.

The plan was to shoot her and put her
in the grave. But, according to Baldo-
nado’s statement, when he returned to
Moya he found his companion unable to
restrain the woman so he began clubbing
her with the borrowed gun. The blows
were so severe that the gun shattered,
making it useless.

So, Baldonado’s story went on, he and
his companion took turns strangling the
pretty nurse until the body went limp.
Then they dumped her into the shallow
grave, threw a few handfuls of dirt over
her and fled.

Baldonado added, “Maybe she was alive
when we put her in the ground, I don’t
know. We strangled her and I think we
killed her before we buried her.”

Baldonado wrote his statement in long
hand and then guided officers to the grave.
There they found the thinly clad body of
the pregnant bride. The body was stilt in
good condition and bore the marks of the
brutal beating suffered at the hands of
the two hired assassins.

An autopsy by Dr. Gordon Johnston
at Ventura County Hospital revealed that
Olga Duncan had died of asphyxia, either
through strangulation or being buried
alive. There were nine lacerations on her
head and her nose had been broken. Her
skull had not been fractured and there
was no evidence of a criminal attack.

With Baldonado’s statement in hand,
the detectives and the district attorney’s
investigators turned their attention to
Moya. Santa Barbara Sheriff John Ross
said that when told Baldonado had impli-
cated him in the crime, Moya was visibly
shaken.

“Moya put his hand to his head,” said
Ross, “and said, ‘How could he say that?
I don’t see why he would say I had any-
thing to do with it. Believe me! Believe
me!’”

And in the Ventura County Jail where
she was told that her daughter-in-law’s
body had been found, Mrs. Elizabeth
Duncan took the news calmly and told
newsmen, “I feel terrible about it.”

Asked if she liked Olga, she said, “Yes,

- I did and I believe she liked me. But

there was no love between us.”

When told that Baldonado had accused
her of hiring him and Moya to kill Olga
Duncan, Mrs. Duncan smiled and said,
“Those two men were trying to black-
mail me. Their story is a lie, of course. I
gave them money but it was what they
were blackmailing me for.”

Then the motherly looking woman
smiled sweetly and went on to explain,
“My son, Frank, defended Maria Andova
(the Santa Barbara night clubowner
whom police said introduced Mrs. Dun-
can to the hired killers) and her husband
when they were charged with receiving
stolen guns.

“Frank accepted $500 as his fee. Maria
was set free but her husband went to

rison. Maria threatened me and said I

d better give back the money because
Pages had said he could get them both
orm.

“She threatened to hurt Frank, too.
Those two men were just collecting for
her. That’s why I paid them the money.”

SRS rare IRE Cy A

Santa Barbara police revealed that five
days before Olga Duncan disappeared, her
mother-in-law pawned her diamond
rings for $175 and gave the money to Bal-
donado and Moya.

Later she cashed a $200 check on her
son’s account and gave the money to the
two men. And still later she reportedly
left some money in an envelope in a Santa
Barbara cafe for Baldonado and Moya.

Police also revealed that in December,
Duncan had learned that his mother had
been paying money to Moya and had him
arrested on suspicion of extortion. But
when Mrs. Duncan viewed him in the
lineup, police said she refused to identify
him and the case was dropped.

After Baldonado made i statement,
Santa Barbara police revealed they had
known of.the murder of Mrs. Olga Dun-
can since December 13 when they first
talked to the 84-year-old Mrs. Short and
gave her the lie detector test.

Carefully constructed questions indi-
cated that the elderly woman had heard
Mrs. Duncan and the two men discussing
the plot and had heard them mention
Mrs. Andova’s name, police said.

During the questioning of Mrs. Andova,
police said, she revealed that the two men
came to her home on the morning of the
killing. She said while they were chang-
ing their bloodstained clothing she heard
them say, “We’ve done Mrs. Duncan's
job. They'll never find her. The body is
behind a pipe.”

She added that Baldonado said, “I had
to hit that woman.”

So from the very beginning, law en-
forcement authorities had evidence indi-
cating that Mrs. Olga Duncan had been
murdered and that Mrs. Elizabeth Dun-
can, driven by jealousy, had hired two
assassins to do the job.

But they had no idea where the body
was located and were forced to count
heavily on one of the principal suspects
cracking under questioning. That break
came with Baldonado.

But the authorities were faced with
still another problem. According to the
law, the admissions of one participant in
a crime cannot be used against others
without corroboration. The testimony of
another member of the trio was needed
to clinch the prosecution’s case.

In the meantime Frank Duncan, hus-
band of the slain woman, dropped out of
sight after retaining a Los Angeles attor-
ney, S. Ward Sullivan, to represent his
mother.

Authorities-expressed no concern over
Duncan’s disappearance and assumed he
had gone into hiding to avoid publicity.
Meanwhile, Sergeant Higgins directed his
attention to Moya.

But after an extended period of inter-
rogation, Higgins declared, “He’s the cold-
est man I ever talked to. Frankly I think
he’ll go all the way without talking. No-
body can get close to him. He’s the type
who lives only for today.”

Higgins said Moya, a native of San
Angelo, Tex., is “real proud of his prison
record.” He spent eight of the last nine
Christmases in jail and served a year and
a day in prison for possession of narcotics.
He was on parole for that offense when
he was arrested in connection with the
Duncan case.

Gustafson went ahead with his plans to
bring the complicated Duncan murder
before the grand jury on December 26.
He issued a subpoena for the murdered
woman’s husband to appear at the grand
jury hearing. Located Christmas night in
a small apartment in the heart of Holly-
wood, Duncan accepted service of the
subpoena and promised to appear in Ven-
tura the next morning.

Gustafson was th
Baldonado’s story w:
the case went to th:
present condition the
that indictments wou

The point that puz
how a complete str
looking one at that, \
Olga Duncan from the
ment in her flimsy n

It didn’t seem lik
woman like Olga, w}
fear of her mother-}:
into the night with :
conditions,

Higgins talked to }
the latter said he st:
didn’t know how M
Duncan to leave the

Said Baldonado, “!
the front door. I don’t
body was with Moy
thing I knew, the
through the window

the head with the gu:

During Higgins’ se:
donado, the killer d:
ings with Mrs. Dunc:
night club. At the fiz
vember 12, he said, !
duced Moya and Bald
can.

He quoted Mrs. Du
if they would be in:
rid of a woman who i
And according to B:
“We’re just interes
money we'll get.”

At another mee:
said Baldonado, th:
$6,000.

And so on Christn
grave doubt hat th:
indict the three princ
case. But when Gust:
next morning he had

In a dramatic mid
Moya reportedly told
grisly plot. On Chri
asked to see the Rev. |
Avenue Community
sent for detectives an:
confessed to God and

Higgins, who obtai:
from Baldonado, too
Moya alone. And it «
Duncan had been lur
ment in the middle «

Moya was quoted a
on the door and I to!
had passed out in a
drunk and that he w:
car parked in front of
told her he had a lot
and that I needed hel;
stairs.

“She came down t
over and looked in ¢
Baldonado was lying
tending to be Frank
her from behind.”

The rest of the stor
the same as Baldona
blooded tale of murx
yet, murder on credit

The next day, Decer
15 witnesses filed int
room. Among the
Frank Duncan hims:
witness stand for 105

During the time he
he told reporters, “I wi
take no sides. I will ans

Asked if he believ:
of murder, Duncan hu:
plied soberly, “That ;
cide.”

Then he added, “Yo
call my mother being .
sense. She has neve

tured only after an

r son, Mrs. Duncan

he reporters as she

! pending payment

was quite talkative
ith the press since
roke. He said his
i him she had ob-
annulment and
by the authorities.”
ted no divorce. I
I wanted to live
thought his young
“Tl truly believe
my hope.”
that nothing
ier than to be able
. his wife. He said
ntest idea why his
fraudulent annul-
id questioned her
1s disappearance.
‘. ““T’m an excellent
gave her the most
‘tion possible. She
But she told me
ely that she had
id I believe her,”
f their investiga-
that Mrs. Elizabeth
ried at least five

i in 1932 in San
1. How this mar-
but information
thorities indicates
inca, North Africa,

later marriages
in their 20s. An-
e 25-year-old law
son. All three of
din annulments.
ra man obtained
on the grounds
! 44 and that she
le to bear chil-

ind na tangled
vere unable to
1ess for her son.
-es with other

o her son for

ira County Dis-
announced that
tity of the man
innulment with

ne 84-year-old
o had furnished
on, was spirited
and kept under

e role of Frank
proceedings had
Frank Winter-
was a Skid Row
en paid $60 for

on the part of
and Tom Os-
rney’s office led
tion. Mrs. Short,
yver’s office with
panion said she
Ralph. But she
ned that he had
bara cafe and
having to sup-

‘ed through the
on failure to
a Ralph and
name of Ralph
i Maria.

e, they learned
1 arrested on a

vagrancy charge and thus had been
mugged and fingerprinted. They showed
his photo to Mrs. Short and she identified
him at once.

Gustafson immediately issued com-
plaints against Winterstein charging him
with two counts of erjury and one count
of forgery. But at this writing he has not
been located.

By now the tangled and bizarre case
began picking up a little speed. Santa
Barbara Captain Wade revealed that a car
registered to a Santa Barbara woman had
been found three blocks from Olga Dun-
can’s apartment on December 13.

Some of the upholstery had been ripped
out. Los Angeles Police Chemist Ray
Pinker went to Santa Barbara the follow-
ing day and reportedly found human
bloodstains in the car.

During the investigation Duncan was
unable to raise bail for his mother and
she remained in the county jail and on
Friday, December 19, the booking on Mrs.
Duncan and the two men, Baldonado and
Moya, was suddenly changed to con-
spiracy to kidnap and murder Olga Dun-
can,

Santa Barbara Police Chief R. W.
Cooley called a press conference Satur-
day and declared, “Questioning of wit-
nesses in this case has given us a picture
of the grave in which Mrs. Duncan’s body
may be found.”

Making no mention of the three per-
sons in custody, he continued, “We must
have further information, possibly from
persons whom we have not yet contacted
if we are to make further progress.”

Continued Cooley, “The body was dis-
posed of during the early morning hours
of November 18, probably between 12:30
a.m. and 5 a.m.”

Refusing to divulge the source of his
information Cooley continued, “It was
placed—you will note I didn’t say buried
—I am not sure of that—beside or under
a pipe. This pipe may have been loose and
it was located near a post of some kind.

“The pipe is somewhere near a road
and at the time the body was being dis-
posed of another car drove by. The car
used to dispose of the body was a 1948
Chevrolet, faded, dirty beige, four-door.
It had blue primer on the hood.”

Cooley said he was interested in talking
to the driver of the car who drove past
just as the body of Mrs. Olga Duncan was
being disposed of. The police chief was
joined in this appeal by FBI Agent Brown
who expanded somewhat and explained
that Baldonado had reportedly told the
night club proprietor, Mrs. Maria An-
dova, one of the two women given lie de-
tector tests in Los Angeles before Mrs.
Duncan’s arrest, that he “put her (Olga)
behind a pipe.”

Baldonado had been working in Mrs.
Andova’s cafe as a janitor. The chief indi-
cated that most of his information had
come from the lie detector tests given
Mrs. Short and the night club proprietor,

Brown said, “There were about 40 open
ditches in Santa Barbara at the time of
the crime and Olga Duncan might have
been buried in any one of them.”

He said Baldonado had a severe case of
poison oak about the time Olga disap-

rs. Duncan might be in an area overrun
with that plant,
__ The police and the FBI were still play-
ing their cards close to their vests, giving
out only what information they felt would
help their Investigation. Both agencies
agreed that under intensive questioning
Mrs. Duncan, Baldonado and Moya de-
nied having anything to do with Olga

=

issued throughout the newspapers and
radio, Cecil Lambert, 62, of Summerland
in Ventura County called the sheriff's
office and said he remembered seeing two
men acting suspiciously in the Casitas
Dam area on the morning of November
18

He said it was shortly before dawn that
he saw two men emerging from a ditch
as he drove by and that one of them
looked like the pictures of Baldonado he
had seen in the newspapers.

However, Lambert was unable to pin
point the exact spot for the officers. But
the way things began to break that wasn’t
necessary.

On that Saturday District Attorney
Gustafson said, “I’m tired of waiting for
somebody to do something with this case.
So I’m ordering my men to question Bal-
donado.”

Taking part in the questioning were
Henderson, Osborne, Sheriff's Detective
Ray Higgins and Lt. Bill Woodward.

Henderson said he showed Baldonado a
copy of the Saturday newspapers that
carried the appeal of Chief Cooley and
told him that they had solid evidence that
he was linked to the slaying of Mrs. Dun-
can.

Higgins had known Baldonado for four
or five years and had arrested him sev-
eral times on minor charges, so he took
over the bulk of the questioning.

Higgins said he went to Baldonado’s
cell and talked to him for about an hour,
telling him that the authorities had a
strong case to show that Mrs, Duncan had
hired him and Moya to kill the nurse and
dispose of her y.

Said Higgins, “All of a sudden Baldo-
nado threw up his hands and said, ‘All
right. All right. I'll tell you everything,’ ”

Then, according to the detective, Bal-
donado poured out the grisly story of how
he and Moya agreed to kill the nurse for
Mrs. Elizabeth Duncan for $6,000.

Baldonado was not only scared, he was
bitter. He said that although Mrs. Dun-
can had offered him and Moya $6,000, she
only paid them $250 and that he didn’t
even get any of that. Baldonado was
quoted by police as saying that he and
Moya first met Mrs. Duncan in the cafe
operated by Mrs. Andova.

When the lawyer’s mother told them
she wanted someone “put out of the Way,”
she reportedly explained that: she had
some acid and pills to do the job.

“She wanted us to use the acid on the
nurse’s face and said this would destroy
her dental work so she couldn’t be identi-
fied,” Baldonado explained.

However, according to Baldonado, he
and Moya decided to shoot the woman.
In the grisly tale that followed, Baldo-
nado explained how that plan went awry.
According to the police, here is the story
told by Baldonado:

e two men rented a car for $25 and

“borrowed a .22 caliber pistol from a pal.

They drove to Mrs, Olga Duncan’s apart-
ment between 11:30 p.m. November 17
and 2 a.m. on the 18th. Baldonado said
he stretched out on the back seat of the
car while Moya went up to the apartment.

He said Moya told Mrs. Olga Duncan
that neighbors had told him she was a
nurse and asked her to look at an injured
man in his car. Mrs. Duncan was clad
only in a nightgown at the time. She threw
on a robe and hurried downstairs to the
battered car at the curb.

Said Baldonado, “When she opened the
door, I grabbed her and Moya slugged
her with the gun.”

Moya drove and when Mrs. Duncan re-
gained her senses and began struggling
again, Baldonado said, he clubbed her
with a wrench to quiet her,

As the car roared down Pacific Coast

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enced Cynthia
‘ar-old Corinna
32, an ex-con-
ity for another

woman to die in a
nber.

stably, claimed she
participating with
he met in a Bar-
he was visiting a
rved a sentence for
ze Turner made no
2 stood by stating,
ing up to the hilt,
t up to the last min-

in, clearly, is no
lizabeth Ann Dun-
nia’s tranquil and
a Barbara. Not for
cop-out, the whin-
-cusations. Mama
ianipulator, a born

Convicted murderess Elizabeth Ann
’ “Duncan with her son, Frank.

conspirator and, ultimately, a mur-
deress who paid in full in San Quen-
tin’s gas chamber for a monstrous
crime. Duncan took with her a pair of
cronies who were just as much vic-
tims of Mama’s Machiavellian talents
as was Olga Duncan, the trio’s pa-
thetic quarry. =
Imperious when she wanted to be,
bespectacled, loquacious and, at 54,
at her zenith as master contriver, Dun-
can heard herself described by her
court-appointed psychiatrist as a “pa-
thological liar.” She had half-a-dozen
different birth years depending upon
whom she tried to con—and why.
She claimed to have been born Hazel
Nigh in Kansas City but no birth cer-

tificate ever surfaced.

In the marriage stakes, blue-eyed
Mama Duncan really excelled. Be-
ginning at the tender age of 14, Mama
married at least eleven and possibly
twenty times; she herself couldn’t
come up with the precise figure. Nev-

*-er the fastidious one for bothersome —

divorces, several of her ‘“‘marriages”
were invalid.

In 1928 Elizabeth became Mrs.
Frank Low and her only son, also
named Frank, was born 14 weeks af-
ter the ceremony. Low died in 1932
and, by that time, his erstwhile wife
had “married” a man named Duncan
and young Frank acquired the sur-
name that figured so prominently in

the drama yet to come.

From birth, Frank Duncan could do
no wrong in his mother’s eyes. With
his shock of hair, prim manner and
faint lisp that earned him the nick-
name “Wicked Wascal Wabbit” in
court circles, according to Peter Wy-
den in his gripping account of the
Duncan case in his book “The Hired
Killer,” Frank easily held his place as
mother’s favorite offspring. Elizabeth
never could recall just how many si-
blings she’d produced, but she figured
on about six.

Although ostensibly the very epit-
ome of doting motherhood with her
upper crust veneer and coterie of

(continued on next page)
25

argument with
tal was Manito-
k’s first position
aursing school.
» like a woman
>an, quite famil-
c words of En-
am Congreve in
“The Old Bach-
1 little inkling of
r’s fury when he
id she accepted.
Kupezyk, mar-
dapper Frank
jeeply loved and
place in Santa
a passport from
bia. Besides,
been a model pa-
d awfully friend-
lady, really! De-
a blameless life,
of the cruel fate
*n she made her
marriage to Eliza-
yus son Frank.
future mother-in-
or the nuptial knot
»phoned a shaken
nk summoned his
eserve of fortitude
t he was going to
rse whether mama
ima called Olga a
er” and accused
around. Then she
ot marry my Frank
you first!”
signed her death
e of a marriage li-
1958, as Frank
away to a wedding
id, understandably,
ief ceremony in a
ind told nobody of
on. He’d also been
10 notice should ap-
To further keep his
id away from the
he and his new
e, he continued to
ile remaining quiet

uptials secret from
(led for the touch of
and the sorely trou-
y qualified. When
, through her lab-
itic cronies, that she
Duncan” appellation

ipezyk Duncan.

» mother’s mur-
ous ire.

with another woman, she turned on
at full blast the simmering rage that

surfaced .each time .she_ thought ‘of

Frank and his wife. - : alae
The hate campaign began with a

series of telephone calls to a thor- ff

oughly intimidated Olga in one of.
which mother-in-law threatened to
“kill you unless you get back where
you came from and leave my son alo-
ne.” The deluge of menacing calls
was a preamble to several incredible
incidents’ engineered by Elizabeth
Duncan with, seemingly, the cooper-
ation of both local civi¢ authorities
and of shadowy figures surfacing

long enough to listen to Mama’s re- »

lentless schemes to be rid of her
daughter-in-law and, just as prompt-
ly, sidle back into the Santa Barbara
milieu.

On August 8, 1958, effortlessly en-
listing the aid of an ex-convict
named Ralph Winterstein, another in
a bevy occupying Mama’s bottomless
pit of willing dupes, the pair, posing
as Olga and Frank, obtained an annul-
ment of the marriage. Winterstein lat-
er found himself back in jail on per-
jury charges.

Frank Duncan, unaware that his
marriage had been officially “termina-
ted,” made a futile go at diverting his
mother’s ‘incessant stream of tele-
phone invective at Olga by moving
his now pregnant wife across town.
Santa Barbara, though, simply
wasn’t big enough.

Making no effort to draw a tacit
veil over her hatred of Olga nor of her
desire to see the younger woman
dead, Mama Duncan set about the
task of making her Frank a widower.
To her beautician, to a waitress, to a
bus driver and to others whom she
encountered in her daily jaunts around
town, she vilified, Olga as a merce-
nary who’d married Frank for his
money and who was actually plan-
ning to kill her dear old mother-in-
law. “She won’t get a chance to,
though, because she’s living on bor-
rowed time, that one.”

Pad
It speaks volumes for Mama Dun- :

can’s compelling personna that no-
body seemed prompted to call police:
“Hey, there’s this crazy old woman
going around looking for recruits to
murder her daughter-in-law.”

Mama’s search for a hired hand at
first fell upon stony ground. Rudol-
pho Romero, husband of one of her
admirers, turned down an offer of
dinner plus $2,500, which Mama

didn’t have anyway, to do the job.
Others approached by the now ob-
sessed matriarch firmly declined or
just stalled, but none made the move
that would have saved the life of Olga
Kupezyk Duncan. Not one person re-
ported a possible execution in their
midst.

Through the female owner of a
‘working class cafe whom Mama
Duncan, an occasional customer, had
impressed with a totally fictional tale
of a handsome inheritance in the
works, vindictive and _ hate-filled
Elizabeth hit paydirt.

“Sure, I know a couple of boys.
I’ll talk with them, if you like,” of-
fered the illegal alien innkeeper,
anxious to be of service to this rich
American lady who just might come
in handy if the Immigration Depart-
ment folks got too pushy.

While the life of Olga Duncan hung
in the balance, a jury pondered upon a
verdict in the Starkweather-Fugate
case. Charles Starkweather, a spec-
tacled and semi-illiterate teenager
braggart, together with 15-year-old
Caril Fugate, had been arrested in
Douglas, Wyoming, ending a 10-vic-
tim murder spree across America’s
heartland, The unlamented Stark-
weather finished up in Nebraska’s

Augustine Baldonado (left) and Luis Moya, the two hit-men.

gas chamber on June 25, 1959, while
Fugate, too young for the death penal-
ty many indignant Americans felt she
so richly deserved, served almost 20
years before being paroled in 1977 to
vanish into obscurity via a midwes-
tern nursing position.

The two “boys” whom the Tropi-
cal Cafe’s proprietor recommended to
reckless Mama Duncan were a couple
of losers, indolent and itinerant mis-
fits just loafing and waiting around
Santa Barbara’s nether regions for
something to emerge to keep them
well supplied with drugs, cigarettes,
beer and chicks.

Augustine Baldonado, aged 25,
over six feet and with an IQ of 73,
tops, was a natural drifter holding a
tenuous dishwasher job at the Tropi-
cal but “Gus” planned to quit soon be-
cause those mountains of dirty plates
with encrusted chili sauce were real
downers. ;

A native of Camarillo, California,
and a petty criminal since age nine

when he got busted for burglary and

hit Juvenile Hall for the first but not
the only time, gangling, clowning
Baldonado had actually served time in
the United States Army. The Army,
in appealing for “a few good men”
(continued on page 45)

27

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‘| Heard You Pay For Bodies’

(continued from page 43)

steady stream of informants who sup-
plied him with information had given
him a juicy tidbit. He said he could
point out personal belongings of the
second murder victim Belinda Jo
Stark and a gun used in another un-
solved murder. The price for the in-
formation was $200. Del Carlo
agreed.

After collecting the cash, Maury
led Del Carlo to Happy Valley and
pointed out a purse that was about 50
feet from the edge of the road. “That’s
hers,” he said.

The purse was taken to the lab. In-
side, they found several envelopes
with prints on them. Lab technicians
identified the prints as Maury’s.

The print was Maury’s undoing.
He was arrested on November 6 at his
Palisades Avenue home and booked
on charges in connection with the
murders of Belinda Jo Stark, Dawn
Marie Berryhill and Averill Weeden.

Bail was set at $750,000. Additio-
nally, Redding’s big mouth murder
suspect was also charged with the
rape of Belinda Stark and the rape of
another Redding woman.

The rape victim identified Maury
as the man she met at a lake on June
20th and who later gave her a ride to
a friend’s house. She said she later
bumped into Maury that evening, and
decided to go with him to a party af-
ter Maury convinced her that a mutual
friend would be there.

Instead, the woman claimed
Maury took her to Hidden Valley, put
a noose around her neck and raped
her. She did not initially report the
rape and decided to do so after she
spotted Maury in a liquor store and
told her boyfriend, who was with
her, “That is the man who raped me.”

The arrest was announced at a
press conference November 7. In
classic understatement, Police Chief
Robert Whitmer told reporters that
“We’ve got something really unusual
here.”

Authorities emphasized that the in-
tegrity of the Secret Witness Program
had not been jeopardized and that the
suspect had been connected to the
killings through an independent inves-
tigation.

“The Secret Witness Program was
never compromised,” Sheriff Phil
Eoff said. “They never told us his

name, if they even knew it.”

Eoff, Whitmer and Carlton
couldn’t explain why an alleged kill-
er would call authorities to tell them
where his victims were located. “The
workings of his mind are foreign ‘to
me,” Carlton said.

During his arraignment, Maury
banged his fist and shouted, “I’ll
walk out of these doors in eighty
days, not guilty. You better have
cause to get the real guy, ‘cause I’m
walking out a free man.”

Maury did not walk free. August
24, 1989, the 31-year-old former gar-
dener was convicted of three counts
of first-degree murder. He was also
convicted of one count of rape.

Prosecutors and detectives were
jubilant when the jury returned the
guilty verdict after almost two days
of deliberations.

“T feel the jury saw through the de-
fendant and appreciated the cruelty of
what he did to his victims,” said co-
prosecutor Jim Ruggiero. “The de-
fendant was crafty, but he didn’t out-
fox the jury.”

Detective Mundy met newsmen
outside the courtroom, a big smile on
his face. “We gave up summers and
four years,” he told them. “We gave
up everything for this case. It feels
great.”

He estimated about 60 percent of
the information they had gathered in
the case had been used in the prosecu-
tion and said they worried at some
point during the trial that they might
not have gotten enough information to
the jury.

“Maury kept saying in all our con-
versations, “Prove it.’” Mundy said,
beaming. “It looks like we did.”

Maury showed little expression as
the verdicts were read except for
shaking his head. But as he was led
back to his jail cell he smiled at the
crowd and called out, “I will try not
to disappoint you.”

The surprise came during the pen-
alty phase when, against his attor-
neys’ wishes, Maury took the wit-
ness stand.

Turning toward the jury box, he
stunned jurors and spectators alike
when, instead of pleading for his life,
he urged that they end it.

“T feel the only penalty you can
consider is the death penalty,” he said

ears:

in an even voice. “If you think I’m
guilty, give me the death penalty.”

Jurors did just that. After two days
of deliberations, they voted Septem-
ber 8 that the defendant should die in
the gas chamber at San Quentin.

Ever polite, Maury nodded toward
jurors after the recommendation was
read and said, “Thank you.”

Maury’s date with death was set
for October 6, 1989. The case was
automatically appealed to the state
Supreme Courf. A ruling is expected
in not less than 10 years. In the mean-
time, the 31-year-old landscaper re-
sides on San Quentin’s Death Row.

‘M’ Is For
Murder...Mother

(continued from page 27)

got no such thing in the person of Gus
Baldonado even though, to the end,
he remained inordinately proud of his
Army service which included a stint
in the Medical Corps in Korea as a
first aid techician. Gus’s soldier-boy
bubble burst when he was arrested
and sentenced to a term in a stateside
military prison for dispensing heroin
to fellow GIs.

Once again a mere civilian, alone
and shorn of his uniformed security
blanket, indelibly shiftless Gus Bal-
donado left his wife, Carmen, and the
couple’s three young children and did
what he did best—he drifted, to sur-
face in Santa Barbara, northwest of
Camarillo, where a succession of me-
nial jobs led to the Tropical Cafe,
mounds of a soiled dishes—and to
Luis Moya.

Moya, 22, was as astute as Baldo-
nado was crass. Cherubic of features
and genial of disposition, Moya was
another juvenile offender with a
criminal record from age 12 when
he’d spent burglary proceeds on drugs
and prostitutes in a Mexican bor-
dertown across from his west Texas
birthplace of San Angelo.

As a respected member of a youth-
ful gang of burglars, young Luis
served time in jails in both Texas and
Mexico. A whim landed Moya in
Santa Barbara in December, 1957,
where his dishwasher assignment at
the Blue Onion restaurant led to an
appointment as night manager super-
vising eight employes and _ trusted

(continued on next page)

45


Sor
wi

+ er oe

ae

faithful admirers, the shell proved
thin indeed whenever her rigid will
was flexed or when her Frank, an
up-and-coming young lawyer, faced
defeat in court. She’d been known to

castigate her son’s courtroom oppo-

nents as well as applaud when he
won a case.

Hints of an uncommonly close rela-
tionship of mother and son had tabloid
muckrakers chortling after Mama
confided in two fellow inmates of the
jail where she awaited trial that she
could crawl into bed with Frank to
ward off the chill of Santa Barbara
winter nights. “Nothing wrong with
that,” she insisted. Frank Duncan de-
nied sharing a bed with his mother.
Mama’s transparent adoration of her
sophisticated lad was quite bound-
less: “Isn’t he just beautiful?”

The chilling realization that one

day she would lose her Frank in mat-
rimony occurred to Mama Duncan
more than once but she dismissed the
unspeakable even after her physician
counselled her that Frank, as an adult,
could jolly-well do as he pleased.

“He wouldn’t dare to leave me,”
she gritted. “He just wouldn’t dare!”
Mama made no attempt to minimize
the depths she was prepared to de-
scend should Frank ever take a wife.
“I'd get rid of her somehow,” She
confided to a casual acquaintance

Early in 1958 Frank Duncan had

met pretty, dark-haired Olga Kupc-

zyk, a 29-year-old Canadian surgical
nurse just one year out of Vancouver,
British Columbia. Duncan had ad-

mired Olga when she attended to his »

mother in Santa Barbara’s Cottage
Hospital where Mama had been
rushed after an overdose of sleeping

pills following an argument with
Frank. Cottage Hospital was Manito-
ba-born Olga Kupcezyk’s first position
after graduation from nursing school.

“nor hell a fury like a woman
scorned.” Frank Duncan, quite famil-
iar with the prophetic words of En-
glish dramatist William Congreve in
the 17th century play “The Old Bach-
elor,” could have had little inkling of
the hell of his mother’s fury when he
proposed to Olga and she accepted.
To unworldly Olga Kupczyk, mar-
riage to glamorous, dapper Frank
Duncan, a man she deeply loved and
admired, ensured a place in Santa
Barbara society and a passport from
Vancouver’s suburbia. Besides,
Frank’s mother had been a model pa-
tient and had seemed awfully friend-
ly. Quite a nice old lady, really! De-
mure Olga had led a blameless life,
totally undeserving of the cruel fate
that befell her when she made her
lifetime’s blunder—marriage to Eliza-
beth Duncan’s precious son Frank.

Olga’s seething future mother-in-
law couldn’t wait for the nuptial knot
to be tied. She telephoned a shaken
Olga right after Frank summoned his
not inconsiderable reserve of fortitude
and told mama that he was going to
marry his pretty nurse whether mama
liked it or not. Mama called Olga a
“worthless foreigner’ and accused
the girl of sleeping around. Then she
got mad. “You’ll not marry my Frank
even if I have to kill you first!”

Olga Kupczyk signed her death
warrant under guise of a marriage li-
cense in June, 1958, as Frank
whisked his bride away to a wedding
chapel. Duncan had, understandably,
enshrouded the brief ceremony in a
cloak of secrecy and told nobody of
the chapel’s location. He’d also been
busy making sure no notice should ap-
pear in the press. To further keep his
mother at bay and away from the
apartment where he and his new
wife set up house, he continued to
visit her daily while remaining quiet
about his marriage.

Keeping the nuptials secret from
Mama Duncan called for the touch of
a master schemer and the sorely trou-
bled Frank hardly qualified. When
Mama found out, through her lab-
yrinth of sycophantic cronies, that she
shared the “Mrs. Duncan” appellation

Victim Olga Kupezyk Duncan.

raised a mother’s mur-
derous ire.

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HE GAVE HIS LIFE TO SMASH
FOLSOM’S BLOODY BREAK

For years Clyde Stevens (below) pursued
his mad dog career both in and out of pris-
on—but he finally reached a crimson finish
in the Folsom yard (right) when sharp-
shooting guards opened fire. (Far right)
Folsom’s fearless Warden, Clarence Larkin,
as he was removed, fatally wounded, after
the bloody riot which claimed four lives

Fe i y .

HERMAN ISLAND is a desolate, ,cteepy of bi
place. It lies off the winding, muddy tawd
banks of the San Joaquin in California, a blon:
lonely, forbidding piece of land where twirl:

crickets croak in mournful chorus, and the night fore,
wind plays ghostly caterwauls on marshgrass +. Bu
strings. It is a place to hush men’s voices and It
still their laughter, and bring to mind’s eye face:
strange visions of unholy things spying on in- and s
truders. behind the rotting trunks of ancient shore
trees. had
And yet tonight it was a bacchanal. miles
Shrill cries echoed over the swamp, the clink . Coun
of glasses muffled the insect chirps and the wail. of th:
of the wind was lost in a thumping cadence of of M
jazz, blaring from a portable radio in a sprawl- Th
ing cabin two hundred yards from shore. black
Clyde Stevens, California’s No. 1 Rat, was parol
giving a party to celebrate his latest carnival Fran:

BY D

[a ee


desolate, creepy
vinding, muddy
: in California, a
of land where
is, and the night
on marshgrass
nen’s voices and

to mind’s eye
<s spying on in-
unks of ancient

‘chanal.

vamp, the clink
rps and the wail
iping cadence of
idio in a sprawl-
‘rom shore.

No. 1 Rat, was
- latest carnival

BY

of blood qnd crime. It was a sordid, shoddy affair, ribald and
tawdry as befits the gangster cloak, with pinched and faded
blondes lolling in rickety chairs while their sneering host
twirled his guns and boasted and forgot the law that was
forever at his heels.

But the law was not forgetting him—or his kind.

It was a little after midnight when a posse of sixteen grim-
faced men, crossing the river in rowboats, reached the island
and sloshed through the oozing, stagnant mud that fringes the
shore line. Some of them, led by Captain Charles Dullea,
had come from Police Headquarters at San Francisco, sixty
miles north; others, with Sheriff John Miller of Contra Costa
County in charge, were deputies familiar wi) ‘he labyrinth
of the delta lands. All of them had one pu the capture
of Mad Dog Stevens and his murderous band.

Three months before, laughing and promising reform,
black-haired, handsome’ Clyde Stevens had been granted a
parole from San Quentin Prison. He went straight to San
Francisco, joined his pal Albert Kessell, also an ex-convict,

DEAN S.

and launched a reign of terror that was climaxed with a dozen
bank robberies in broad daylight. And then, while every
policeman in California was at his heels, an incredible event
took place in the great prison from which he had been freed.

Four snarling convicts, armed with automatics, burst into
the home of Warden James B. Holohan, high on a hill over-
looking the green crescent of San Francisco Bay, and in full
view of the bristling machine gun towers that circle the
prison. They slugged and beat Holohan unmercifully, com-
mandeered a state car at gunpoint and kidnaped the secretary

- and three members of the California State Prison Board, who

were lunching at the Warden’s house.
Finally, roaring through the prison gate past guards who
dared not. shoot, the convicts began a flight that ended

JENNINGS

LL A

EE MRO TRE RS See eh ee Ae a ee RMON CL EE TAM ON RU ET OO RI MM hae Bee Me

ee

6 Lrue Detective Mysteries

hours later, as the car, with its tires bullet-riddled, crashed
into a barn in a little town six miles from'the sea coast.

Rudolph Straight, leader of the group, was shot to death
by pursuing police when he stumbled: out of the wrecked
machine and tried to run. The others, whimpering and plead-
ing for life, were disarmed and brought back to the prison
where, after an all-night grilling, they. cracked and ‘told an
astonishing tale. Ohey

Clyde Stevens had been the “brains” of’ the plot.

Clyde Stevens, fresh from prison and flushed with the
success of his bank raids, had smuggled’ those four ‘deadly
automatics into San Quentin as a favor to his former cell-
mate, Rudolph. Straight. There was only one slight mis-
calculation in the infamous plan. Straight had ‘not counted
on the courage of the kidnaped officials who, facing swift
death on that agonizing ride, had made no effort to bargain
for their lives and: prevent pursuit.

HE break had failed—and Stevens knew now that Straight

would not keep the appointment they had made weeks
before, Seething with the fury of frustration, the hunted
desperado gathered Kessell and the other rats of his pack,
and fled from San Francisco to the river: refuge he had
used before.

But he would go no further.

His sullen, smouldering eyes stared from the pages of every
newspaper within two hundred miles; teletype machines in a
dozen counties ¢chattered out. a description of his slim, dark
figure; an army of officers throughout the state heard the
command: “Get Stevens!”

So we come to the night of January 16th, 1935, when
Captain Dullea, running down an underworld tip, joined
Sheriff Miller’s squad and crossed the river to lonely Sherman
Island on the trail of the Mad Dog. Moving silently across
the marshy fields with drawn guns, the manhunters soon

“ eters

1 tn heh Meme

spotted the tiny cabin, with its glowing lights and echoes.

of wild carousing.

Captain Dullea, creeping ahead, straightened up cautiously
and peered through the steamed window panes for a moment.
Then, ‘satisfied with what he saw, the veteran detective
signaled the others with a wive of his arm, and they sur-
rounded the shack like a human chain.

Dullea, standing tensely in the shadows, beckoned to
Inspector James Johnson, veteran detective whose dangerous
and tireless work in the San’ ‘Francisco underworld had un-
earthed the tip that brought them to the gangster’s island
refuge.

“All set, Jim?” Dullea whispered.

“You ‘bet I am, Captain,” Johnson snapped. “And I’m
going to get Stevens myself!”

Captain Dullea grinned.

“Okay, Jim. It’s your party. Go ahead—and good luck!”

There was a breathless second of delay and then, with
Inspector Johnson hurling himself through the flimsy door,
the posse burst into the cabin like a surge of water from a
broken dam, engulfing the startled celebrants in a flurry of
flailing fists. Clyde Stevens, dazed and staring open-mouthed

at the raiders, reached for his gun, but Johnson’s rocketing:
fist dropped him writhing and cursing to the floor. (Eprror’s

Nore: Inspector Johnson subsequently was awarded the
San Francisco Police Department’s annual medal for bravery,
for his work and courage during the Sherman Island raid.)

Five minutes later, with his wrists linked by steel, the
snarling outlaw was slumped in a corner beneath the frowning
muzzle of a deputy’s gun, while Captain Dullea, Lieutenant
James Malloy, Inspectors Johnson, Hughes and Van Maitre,
and other members of the posse raced across the island
searching for Kessell. They found him waiting in another
shack'a quarter of a mile distant, with his guns spitting lead
and his thin lips mouthing rage.

The one-sided duel lasted only a minute.

A well-aimed shot shattered Kessell’s wrist and his smok-
ing gun dropped to the ground. The officers seized him,
shackled his wrists, and brought him back to join his partner
in crime. The two ex-convicts, followed by several other
prisoners and three hysterical women, were herded into the
boats and rowed back to the mainland. The group headed
for the near-by town of Antioch, the county seat, where an
additional squad of officers was waiting for the posse’s return.

‘Suddenly, whirling like a rabbit, Stevens broke away from
the group and bounded down the main street of Antioch in

(Left) Office of Captain of the Yard, where
the battle started, with a guard looking
through the smashed door. (Below) An air
view of Folsom Prison where California’s most
notorious and infamous criminals are confined

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ights and echoes.

ied up cautiously
.es for a moment.
‘eteran detective
n, and they sur-

vs, beckoned to
whose dangerous
lerworld had un-
gangster’s island

yped. “And I’m

-and good luck!”
and then, with
the flimsy door,
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ts in a flurry of
ig open-mouthed
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most
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The Heroic Story of Warden Larkin—He Gave His Life to Smash Folsom's Bloody Break 7

mad flight. One of the deputies, raising his gun, was about
to fire when Captain Dullea interfered.

“Don’t shoot!” he snapped. “I'll get him.”

The detective raced over the pavement, slowly gaining
ground. At that moment, dashing into a vacant lot on the
left side of the street, Stevens ran head-on into a barbed
wire fence. He cried out in pain and was backing away
with his coat in tatters when Dullea, spinning him around,

brought up his right hand in a terrific smash to the

bandit’s jaw.
Stevens buckled up and pitched to the ground, white and

stunned, and offered no further resistance for the remainder

of the night.

A week later, after pleading guilty to bank robbery, the
desperado was sentenced to Folsom. Prison for a term of
thirty-five years to life, and Deputies Mike Jordan and
Martin Swan were assigned to deliver him to the penitentiary.

They had driven perhaps fifty miles when Stevens, huddled
on the back seat with Swan, suddenly turned into a raging
beast. He lifted his foot, aimed a smashing kick at Jordan’s
head, and at the same time brought his handcuffed fists down
on Swan’s neck with a piston-like sweep.

Jordan, jamming on the brakes, stopped the car and went
to Swan’s aid.

Stevens fought like a maniac, blaspheming the two. deputies
and twisting like a reptile until Swan brought: up his club and
swung it against the prisoner’s skull. Finally, panting and ex-
hausted, they were able to truss up the dazed bandit and
continue the journey to the prison. ;

Thus concludes the prologue in this amazing chronicle of
blood and death.

Cc STEVENS, a black panther whose narrowed shift-
ing eyes mirrored a mind distorted with hate for the law,
went to the city of numbered men with venom dripping
from his lips. “8

“Listen, Jordan,” he rasped. “Lemme tell you one thing
more before you go. They can’t keep me here—get it? And
one of these days I'll be back to even up things with you
and that tough guy, Dullea. Keep it in mind...”

Jordan, watching him vanish behind the great stone walls,
turned to a guard at the gate.

“Keep an eye on him,” he said quietly. “He means it.”

“Aw, they all talk like that,” the guard said dryly.

Jordan shrugged.

“Maybe so—but this one’s different. So long—”

(Below) Jack Whelan, secretary to Warden
Larkin, with a collection of murderous weapons
confiscated from prisoners. It was Whelan
who, listening in on a prison phone, heard
the Warden issuing instructions to guards

Months later, when Clyde Stevens’ brain erupted and
spilled an appalling plot that rocked California with its
ferocity, its loss of life and tragic pitch, they would remember
that ominous prophecy on the night of January 22nd, 1935.

* &

Folsom is a forgotten citadel of despair.

It sprawls in the heart of California’s Sacramento Valley,
a city of piled granite, clinging. to the rocky banks of the
swirling American River that. rushes down from the canyons
of the Sierras. In the summer months the stinging sun dries
up the earth; and men’s eyes and throats fill with dust when
they walk. And when winter comes. the river runs to a white

froth, and the mountain wind lashes the skin like a whip.

Folsom—last outpost of men who sin.

Twenty-eight hundred convicts live behind its unyielding
walls, the most vicious, incorrigible criminals in the state—
recidivists whose black records have long since barred them
from the comparative respectability of San Quentin, Cali-
fornia’s other big house. Folsom houses the chronic killers,
the stick-up men, big time safe crackers, kidnapers—the
scum of the underworld.

And all of them, from the newest “fish” to the lifers who
have grown old in their cells, want “out”—want freedom so
desperately that reason and logic are blurred and tottering
in their minds,

For that reason the great leather-bound records of the
prison are studded with amazing episodes relating the deeds
of men who sought escape—men inoculated with the dregs
of melancholia and embracing any risk to forget the unending,
never-changing crawl of the days and weeks and years.

There was Claude Kohl, who tried to steer a home-made
pulley trapeze across a cable high above the river, only to
smash to bloody oblivion on the knife-like rocks of the quarry
below. There. was Johnny Burke, who traded places with

As Warden of one of the toughest prisons
in America, Clarence Larkin (above) per-
formed his duty fearlessly and fairly—and
gave his life in his determination not to
permit the escape of convict mad dogs


a)

directed. ‘Tell them to let us through
the gates.”

Larkin floundered to the telephone.
His face was knotted with agony and
blood streamed down his cheeks. In-
stead of calling the tower, he con-
tacted his secretary. -

“Tt’s a crush!” he yelled. “They
have knives and wooden guns. Don’t
forget my orders—kill me if neces-
sary, but get the cons!”

Kessell cursed with hatred. He
yanked the wire so tight that Larkin
slumped against the desk, sobbing
for air. The warden’s face turned
purple. As the wire bit deeper and
deeper into his throat he clawed wild-
ly at it with his fingernails.

Guard H. E. Martin, attracted by
the sounds of the struggle, rushed
through the door. Before he could aid
Larkin he was wantonly stabbed to
death.

Now, with the prison sirens scream-
ing in their ears, Stevehs and his
mobsters decided to make a run for
it. They sprinted into the main yard,
dragging Larkin behind them by the
wire noose. More than a dozen guards
were waiting for them. There was an
electric silence as guards and cons
faced each other. Seeing that Larkin
was a hostage, the guards hesitated.

Then, through a feat of tremendous
will and courage, the Iron Warden
gathered enough strength to shout a
command:

“Get them!”

. His voice-rang out like a clarion.
The guards surged forward ‘in an

‘overwhelming wave. Guards and. con-

victs alike were locked in titanic
struggle. Then, inch by inch, the

felons began to give ground. Stevens, .

half crazed with blood lust, whirled
and drove his knife into Warden Lar-

feeling strangely like a wet, limp dish
rag. Jules handed me a cigarette,
holding his lighter until I’d taken a
puff or two. ;

“Ts he dead?”

There was no inflection in my
voice. It was drained of all emotion.-

Jules shook his head. “No, he'll
come around in a few minutes and it’d

be better if you weren’t here. Let me _

meet you at your apartment when I’m
through.”
The cold air was so bracing, I

" turned and walked in the direction of-

my place without bothering about a

taxi. I guess I didn’t think too much

about what’d just happened. I was.
still in a state of shock. That’s why I

didn’t see Jules get out of a cab when

I reached home. He was at my side-
as I entered the foyer. ‘Nothing like

a stiff twenty minute walk, is there?”

he quipped.

“That and a stiff drink,” I agreed,
throwing my hat and coat down and
heading for the kitchenette. When I
came back with a tray of bottles and
ice, Jules put it on the, tea table.

“I owe you my life, Jacqueline,”

_he said. “I’ll never forget it, believe

me.”

Then, somehow, I was in his arms.
After a minute, I wanted to stay
there forever. This was the man for
me. I was sure of that, and it wasn’t
a case of first love, because I’d been
made love to before. Jules must have
felt the same way. He looked at me
incredulously, delightedly and then
hugged me to him..

We were having our drinks before
I had time to ask him about the man
with the gun.

“His name is Kurtz,” he began
slowly, “and he smuggled a few things
into this country for me when I didn’t
have the money to pay for them. I
had to put him off so many times, he
thought I was stalling. I wasn’t.
Today is. the first time I’ve had
enough to square accounts.”

“Then he’s satisfied?”’ I could still
see the business end of that gun.

42

“Yes,” Jules continued, “com-
pletely. You know, you’ll meet a few
of these characters if you work with
me. Right now, Europe is like a vast
warehouse that’s been looted. My
contacts in Paris have access to all
these treasures. Here in your country,
there is a market. You can open it up
and reap the fruits with me.”

“By selling what you get?” That
would be a cinch. .

“Not always. Sometimes you might
have to meet a ship and bring the
stuff ashore.” He smiled. “I can see
you waltzing past those Customs men.
When you do that, we share equally.”

I didn’t smile at the picture of me
waltzing past any guards. Trying to
get by with a bottle of perfume’ was

one thing. Jewelry and the like was ;

another. But then, maybe it wasn’t.
In either case, the letter and principle
of the law was being broken. I’d
chance it; I was smart enough to fool
those old guards any day in the week.

But how had Jules ever picked me
out to work for him? And how had he
known so much about me? I asked
him.

He wasn’t at all hesitant about
answering. “Jacqueline, a girl with
your contacts can do what it would
take me years and years to achieve:
reach the moneyed people as a friend.
So I began looking for someone and
learned about you. When I found you
had neither family entanglements or
money, I decided to meet you. Are
you glad?”

That last, I answered with a kiss.

HE big luxury liners, were begin-

ning to make regular runs between
European ports and New York, carry-
ing passengers and freight. It was the
passengers who provided me with an
excuse to get aboard ship. There were
the same old farewell parties and I
managed to get invited to those I
wanted to attend.

When the ‘‘all ashore’’ call
sounded, I’d walk down the gang-

_ plank with some lug or giggling girl,

kin again and again. Little Benny
Kucharski, who no one had ever
picked for a killer, aided in the
slaughter. Larkin wavered, toppled

‘into the dust. An instant later

Kucharski joined him with a guard’s
bullet lodged in his brain.

Other bullets spun the remaining
gangsters into the dirt until Stevens
alone still stood. The Kentuckian was
dripping with blood. Snarling, with
his lips twisted back over his teeth
and his black hair plastered with per-
spiration to his forehead, he made
one last insane charge ’on his massed
attackers.

As the Mad Dog lunged forward,
Guard H. N. Trader leveled his
sights on the killer from Tower 13.
A shot cracked through the air. Clyde
Stevens drew himself up to his full
height, glanced about him with a

Continued from page 28

waving goodbye to those aboard.
When the lines were cast off and the
ship nosed out into mid-stream, we'd
surrender our visitor’s passes to the
guards and leave the pier. I’d take a
taxi to Jules’ shop or meet him at the
apartment. .

What actually happened when I
was aboard ship is another story. The
staterooms and suites are so tiny that
four or five people about fill them up.
With a dozen or more milling around,
it was simple for me to slip out,
wander down to a designated point
in the corridor and meet one of the
pursers or stewards. He’d hand me a
small package, sometimes two, open
the door to an empty room and stand
guard while I hid the contents about
my person. Then I’d rejoin the crowd,
have a drink and stay with the gang.

If we’d had to do a strip tease act
to get past the Customs guards, I’d
have been in the soup. I sewed rein-
forced bits of tape around the waist-
line of all my slips for safety pins.
Tearing open the packages, I’d attach
the jewelry to the safety pins. A
wriggle or two and my clothes were
back in place and the jewelry safely
hidden.

There was nothing suspiciously
bulky about my clothes. I wore
dresses that were pleated on sides or
front to give the skirts that full
swishy effect. And if my friends had
any suspicions about the source of
things I offered them, they were never
voiced. Most of them thought it was
“too wonderful” of me to give them
a chance to buy.

Things were going along so well
that Jules got over-optimistic. It
could have been that he let Robert
Wiggins’ greedy enthusiasm color his
judgment. Wiggins, a cockney, was a
steward on one of the big boats. He
and Boris Fromm, a purser, were our

principal carriers. On this particular -

trip, Wiggins had brought more stuff
than I could possibly carry ashore.
I loaded up with as much as I could

and handed the rest back. It hap- -

cool, dispassionate curiosity in, his
blue eyes, and then, almost as an
afterthought, he dropped his knife
and slid to the earth.

Later, when they had rounded up
the other prisoners and taken them
to the hospital for treatment of their
wounds, they found that Stevens had
a bullet clean through his skull.

That was the end of Bloody Sun-
day. Larkin, the Iron Warden, fought
bravely for his life, but died a few
days later. Already dead were Guard
Martin, Stevens, and Kucharski.

The other members of the mob—
Kessell, Barnes, Eudy, Cannon, and
Davis—were convicted of murder in
short order. On December 2, 1938,
Cannon and Kessell were executed in
the new lethal gas chamber at San
Quentin. Barnes, Davis and Eudy fol-
lowed them on December 7th.

subnets cca a
EASY MONEY GIRL

ee

pened to be a packet of unmounted
gems.

A longshoremen’s strike delayed
the ship’s sailing for about two weeks.
Wiggins knew I had no excuse to
board ship, so he proposed that Jules
hire three of the ship’s crew to do it.
His cockney accent was so thick, I
could hardly tell what he was saying,
but Jules explained the deal this way:
The sailors were to get $500 cash
each. If caught, they were to get
double their wages for any time they
might be sentenced to serve.

I thought the terms were too harsh,
and got Jules to give it up. We were
in each other’s arms when he prom-
ised and that’s why I couldn’t under-
stand his excitement when’he rushed
in while I was having breakfast a
couple of mornings later. He had a
newspaper in his hand and he was so
excited he couldn’t talk without sput-
tering.

“Look at this,” he shouted. “The
fools! I warned Wiggins and yet he
let them go ashore together.”

I took the paper and read the ac-
count that had caused his tirade. It
told of the arrest of three crew mem-
bers for attempting to smuggle cut
gems into the country without paying
Customs duty in the sum of $25,000.
One of the gang accidentally dropped
a book while surrendering his shore-
leave card at the Customs desk. An
agent stooped to pick it up, but the
sailor pushed him aside so hard he
fell, Guards stepped in and took the
book.

That ended it. An examination
showed the pages had been cut out
to form a hollow nest for a package
of géms. His companions were
grabbed and searched. The second
sailor had a cigar that was nothing
more than a glass tube. It was filled
with stones. The third one foolishly
made a break. He was stopped quick,
but they didn’t find anything on him
until they came to his shoes. He’d
taken the heel off his right shoe and


LE

plished, Stevens had hoped to aid in
further prison breaks, thus gaining
more and more allies. Eventually the
mob was to contain over a hundred
members. These desperate criminals
were to be specialists in every branch
of crime from forgery to murder.

And it was Stevens who had se-
lected himself as the man most suited
to lead this army of vengeance thirsty
pillagers.

It was a fantastic plan, yet Stevens
had barely missed getting it started.
Next time he might succeed. There
was only one solution. The police had
to get him.

At this point, the captured convicts
became silent. Their psychology was
peculiar. Because Clyde was already
hot, their ethics permitted them to
finger him as their leader. But they
would not reveal where he and Kes-
sell were hiding.

“We just don’t know,” they pro-
fessed.

N San Francisco, Dullea, Malloy,

McCann and McMahon kept the
cabby’s oceanside bungalow under
surveillance with renewed interest.
Their efforts were rewarded on that
same night by the return of the taxi
driver. The cabby was promptly
taken into custody. At headquarters
he admitted having sheltered and
aided Stevens and Kessell, but
claimed he had done so because they
had threatened his life.

“Yesterday afternoon they made
me drive them up to a spot near
Sherman Island in the Sacramento
River. When I was driving home to-
day, I heard about the-San Quentin
crush and I knew why Clyde and Al
had gone up to the river,” said the
taxi driver: “They meant to join with
them escaped cons on the island. I
think they had a couple of boats
‘igged up to ferry them across the
‘iver,””

A posse headed by Dullea and
Malloy promptly set out for Sherman
‘sland. On their way the officers
vicked up a local councilman and
voating enthusiast who knew the
‘iver as well as he knew the back of
lis hand.

Then, in two unlighted launches,
he posse silently glided through the

og and anchored in the marsh grass

t the edge of the island.

The officers slid over the sides of
he boats and waded to shore. Inch by
nch they crept across the wet ground
intil at last the yellow lights of a
ut winked through the dense mist.
‘he hut was surrounded then rushed.
‘wo men, playing cards at a greasy
able, surrendered. But the third man,
cessell, bolted through the rear door.
‘lectric torches blazed through the
arkness, spotlighting his figure. The
angster raised his gun, but before
e could fire a police revolver had
arked out. Kessell spun around, then
ll into the mud with a bullet deeply
»dged in his lower forearm.

The huge bandit maintained a
irly silence when the officers yanked
im to his feet. The other two men,.

owever, were innocent residents of .

re island who had been held captives
y the gangsters. They disclosed that
tevens was in a second cabin about
quarter of a mile away.

Dullea, Malloy, and their squad
approached the cabin stealthily. The
men were deployed in a circle around
the building. At a given signal from
Dullea they snapped on their torches.

“We're coming in to get you,
Stevens,” shouted Malloy. “Don’t
make a run for it or we'll cut you
down!”

When the police crashed into the
cabin they found that Stevens was
apparently in no condition to run.
The would-be crime czar seemed dead
drunk, and he sat on a divan holding
a pretty blonde in his arms. He did
not resist arrest, nor even show signs
of realizing the spot he was in.

“Who is the woman?” asked
Dullea.

Stevens blinked slowly, then
scratched his head. “Who? This cold
tomato? I reckon she’s one of those
other guys’ wives,” he said. “I don’t
recollect off-hand which guy, though.”

The criminals were loaded into a
boat, and from there transferred to
waiting automobiles. Stevens’ slept a
good portion of the trip back to San
Francisco, and while he slept Malloy
had the opportunity of watching him.
Stevens didn’t look much like a kid
any more. Physically, he was lean and
hardened, and his jaw was stubbled
with a harsh beard. His coarse work-
shirt was saturated with the smell of
liquor and his boots were caked with
mud. Even in sleep, with his coal-
black hair falling over his forehead,
his flinty eyebrows were knitted with
a habitual and desperate determina-
tion. .

Somewhere along the way he must
have awakened. Probably he had been
acting more intoxicated than he ac-
tually was from the beginning to
throw the officers off-guard. Whatever
effects the alcohol had initially had
on him were worked off during his
nap. Now, as the car entered Oak-
land, he made his bid for freedom.
He snapped upright, lurched for

‘ Malloy’s .38-caliber Colt and at the

same time flung open the car door.
It was a clever move and a swift one,
but it wasn’t either clever or swift
enough, Dullea,. sitting in the front
seat, twisted and landed a terrific
right uppercut on Stevens’ chin. The
blow slammed the criminal back into
the automobile.

It was about five minutes before
Stevens regained consciousness. He
shook his head, made a nasty asper-
sion about cops in general, but neg-
lected to make any further attempts
at resistance.

Back at headquarters, he and Kes-
sell confessed to the bank holdups
and admitted their part in the San
Quentin break. While they were being
held, Dominic Parella was fingered as
the third man who had participated in
the Haight-Fillmore bank job. Par-
ella, who had just been convicted of
a Los Angeles burglary, was sent to
San Francisco where he drew a five
years to life sentence for the bank
robbery. He was promptly shipped
to Folsom.

Stevens himself played it smart by
pleading guilty to three counts of
armed robbery. He was meted three
consecutive terms of from ten years
to life.

Kessell, on the other hand, decided

to stand trial, While in jail he made a
tight spot even tighter by boasting
that he would yet live to “fill Baby
Face Nelson’s shoes.” The jury found
him guilty, and the judge promptly
sentenced him to from 70 years to life
on seven counts of robbery.

“What a rap!” sadly ruminated
Kessell.

N March 6th of that same year,
1935, Stevens and Kessell were
transported to Folson Prison under
one of the heaviest guards ever assem-
bled for any two criminals in the state
of California. Less than a mile from
the penitentiary gates, Stevens pulled
a fake fainting act. A deputy who
tried to revive him was rewarded with
a stunning butt of the convict’s head.
Stevens simultaneously threw his
weight against the other deputy in the
rear seat, leaned backwards, and
knocked out one of the two officers in
the front with a violent kick behind
the ear. As the officer slumped, Stev-
ens hurled himself over the seat and
fumbled for his revolver.

The driver was not caught napping.
When Stevens bent forward the offi-
cer continued to drive with one hand,
and rapped the felon over the skull
with a billy with the other hand. By
the time Stevens regained his senses
he was inside Folsom—the dreaded
Big House for hardened criminals.

Stevens’ and Kessell’s new boss
was Clarence Larkin, a six foot six
inch giant of a man who never car-
ried a weapon and yet was feared
by the hundreds of murderers and
cutthroats under his command. Lar-
kin, known as the “Iron Warden,”
interviewed Stevens at an early date.

“Don’t try anything here, Clyde,”
he said, clenching an enormous fist.
“I’m giving you fair warning.”

“Sure now, that’s right nice of you,
Warden,” said Stevens. “You won’t
get no trouble from me.”

Larkin wasn’t so certain of that.
He consequently renewed the orders
he had given when he became warden.

“Tf I’m ever held hostage by escap-
ing convicts, don’t hesitate,” he told
the guards. “If you have to, kill me,
but get them, too!”

peor in Marin County,
District Attorney Bagshaw, who
had been instrumental in capturing
the San Quentin escapees, was now
busy prosecuting these same crimi-
nals,

Because Fred Landers had inter-
vened on behalf of Warden Holohan,
and had shown less viciousness than
his companions, he was allowed to
plead guilty to escape. On March 31,
1935, he was sentenced to life im-
prisonment.

Joe Kristy and Alex MacKay,
however, were convicted for violation
of the Lindbergh Law on April 4th.
On May 23rd of the following year, in
accordance with their sentences, they
were hanged.

That just about broke up, Stevens’
gang, and law enforcement agencies
throughout California were able to
draw their first deep breath in a long,
long time. They would -have been
considerably Jess easy had they
known that Clyde was energetically
recruiting a new mob.

a

The mob's members, of course,
were drawn from the ranks of the
Folsom cons, This pleased the Ken-
tuckian because he generally found
that the desperate criminals he

knocked around with were better:

material to work with than the less
hardened felons at San Quentin.

Nevertheless, he went about his
recruiting slowly and meticulously.
When he was finished, he had gath-
ered about himself as vicious a pack
of gangsters as ever stood in a police
line-up.

Al Kessell, stronger and more sul-
len than ever, was naturally a char-
ter member. Next in line came “‘Shiv-
ering” Ed Davis. Davis, one-time
consort of Pretty Boy Floyd, still
basked in the notoriety he had
achieved when he went over the walls
of the Kansas State Prison in the
Memorial Day riot of 1933.

Also included in the mob were Fred
Barnes, the former crime czar of Los
Angeles; Wesley Eudy, _ kidnap-
robber; Robert Lee Cannon, ace-
high second story man; and tiny
Benny Kucharski. Kucharski, not
held in any great esteem by him com-
rades, had been admitted simply be-
cause he claimed to have $300,000
worth of stolen jewels safely cached
in Hollywood.

What Stevens intended was to use
the gang to help him realize his old
ambition of becoming the kingpin
criminal on the Pacific Coast. Before
the reign of ‘terror could begin,
though, the mob had to crash the
prison walls. The plans for the break
took plenty of figuring and patience,
but on Sunday, September 19, 1937,
Clyde and his pals were ready to
make the big crush.

On that morning Larkin was sit-
ting in the office of Captain of the
Guard William Ryan, directly off the
main yard. Larkin, observing the
Sunday morning custom which he
had followed for two years, was
granting interviews to any convicts
who asked for them. The felons slated
for conferences were Stevens and his
consorts.

Eudy was the first man called in
from the adjoining waiting room. As
he entered he flung open the door and
snatched a knife from his shirt. Stev-
ens and his other henchmen piled
through the opening and Folsom sud-
denly exploded into a nightmare of
horror.

Captain Ryan was nearest the
door. No sooner had he begun to
resist than he was sent reeling to the
floor in a pool of his own blood by a
dozen knife slashes.

The huge Larkin hurled himself
into the fray. His mallet-like fists bat-
tered the convicts mercilessly, slam-
ming them against the walls and
smashing the furniture. It was then
that Stevens leaped on the warden
from behind and grounded him with
a rabbit punch.

Larkin, stumbling blindly to his
feet, received three knife slashes
across the face and shoulders. Once
more he sank to his knees. As he did
so, Ed Davis slipped a wire: noose
around his neck. Then, with the aid
of Kessell, Davis tightened the noose
and yanked Larkin to his feet.

“Phone the guard tower,” Stevens

Siemens aa


aaa ae a LS

.

had in every ‘single instance been ob-
tained, and bus, railroad, steamship
offices were kept under constant
scrutiny by thousands of city, state
and county officials.

The United States is a big and
sprawling vastness, but to the pur-
sued William Herder it became the
eye of a needle!

Still he managed to elude his track-
ers. ,

It was learned that Herder had
been a machinist. Also a sailor. Port
authorities on every coast were fur-
nished with .the Russian’s description
and fingerprints.

Machinists’ unions were likewise
circularized.

From a relative, information was
obtained that the ex-con had often
spoken of his interest in aviation.
On the strength of this slim lead,
circulars were sent to every school of
aviation listed by the United States
Department of Commerce!

It was rumored that he had fled
to Australia; the Police Commissioner
of that country was asked to be on
the lookout for him.

His partner-in-crime, Peter Straff,
had meanwhile pleaded guilty to the
robbery of the Willow Creek Post
Office. A four time loser, he was sub-

ject to the California Habitual Crim-
inal Act, and was sentenced to serve
a life term in the San Quentin Peni-
tentiary.

One dead, one imprisoned for life,
one to gol ;

-In early 1933, nearly five years
after Dave Harton had heard the
muffled thud outside his bedroom
window, the bitter and prolonged
manhunt, one of the most extensive
in all Federal police history, seemed
at last about to draw to a close.

The meticulously  criss-crossed
snares that had been laid for the
slippery killer now were ready to close
jaws of steel.on the quarry. From

_ the German Seaman’s Home, at Ho-

boken, New Jersey, came word that
a man answering the fugitive’s de-
scription, had stayed there recently
under the name of Edward Peterson.

From the Seamen’s Institute at
Philadelphia, came similar informa-
tion. .

Post Office Inspectors swooped
down upon those two places: ‘‘Peter-
son” had fled. His handwriting in
which he had’ registered was com-
pared. There was little question but
that Peterson and Herder were one
and the same. :

The trail was warm!

in double-time; and armed planes
were dispatched from the Army air-
base at Hamilton Field to scour the
countryside.

By now the' convicts were burning
rubber on a lonely back road. Be-
cause the sedan was overcrowded they
threw out Noon and Doose and sped
on, As they reached the coast, their
trail was picked up by Sonoma Coun-
ty Sheriff Harry Patterson and a
regiment of deputies. The chase was
reaching its zenith, when District At-
torney Albert Bagshaw and Under-
sheriff Ed Blum of Marin County
received word at the town of Tomales
that the cons were headed their way.

Bagshaw and Blum hastened to the
designated road. No sooner had they
reached it than the black sedan roared
past. The officials cut loose with their
shotguns and blasted one of the
sedan’s ‘rear tires to ribbons. As the
convict-loaded vehicle careened out

of sight, Sheriff Patterson’s fleet of |

cars came into view. Bagshaw and
Blum leaped on Patterson’s running
board and plummeted onwards.
When they rounded the first curve
they spied Guard Jones lying by the
roadside. where he had been thrown
by the cons to gain time. The officials
picked up the dazed and badly
bruised guard, then raced after the
convicts again. Soon they narrowed
the distance between them and the
black sedan. Bagshaw hookéd an arm
around the wind-wing and sprayed
the other rear tire of the warden’s ve-
hicle with buckshot. The getaway
car swerved like a stricken animal
and smashed into a creamery shed.
At that moment, an over-excited

38

deputy in one of the cars started to
pump lead into the warden’s auto.
Before he.could be restrained, one of
his bullets had ripped through Board
Member Stephens’ side and struck
Chairman of the Board Sykes in the
hip. A dime in Sykes’ pocket miracu-
lously deflected the bullet and saved
his life.

The convicts leaped from the sedan
and scurried for the shelter of a
nearby shed of corrugated iron. Once

the fugitives were in the shed, the

officers aided the remaining hostages
from the sedan and got them out of
harm’s way.

A cordon of expert shots was im-
mediately thrown around the struc-
ture and the officers settled to the
grim task of blasting out the cons.
For a quarter of an hour a fever-
pitched gun duel raged in all its fury.

Suddenly District Attorney Bag-
shaw heard a shout of warning. He
wheeled, glimpsed one of the cons
leveling an automatic at him through
a side door, and whipped his own
shotgun to his shoulder.

* The two weapons thundered lethal
fire. Then, while the surrounding hills
caught the echo and tossed it back
and forth, the convict slowly sank to
the earth. Half of his face had been
smeared to a pulp by the shotgun’s
discharge and when he hit the dirt
one last moan of hideous anguish
bubbled to his lips.

By the time the officers reached
him he was dead.

That was enough for the other con-
victs. They dropped their pistols and
trooped out of the shed with their
hands ‘in the air. Terror was written

But the fugitive had left no for-
warding address. He had made no
friends at either of the two seamen’s
houses.

A special watch was placed for
Herder at the Seamen’s Institutes in
New York, Hoboken and Philadel-
phia. It was believed that the killer
would return, at least to pick up
mail, and the clerks at the General
Delivery windows were shown pic-
tures of the wanted man and in-
structed to study every single feature.

A month passed and another. Ten
whole weeks slipped by. The old
familiar pattern of frustration was
again beginning to emerge.

But on April 2, 1933, a stocky,
hesitant figure walked up to the Gen-
eral Delivery window at the Sea-
men’s Institute Post Office in New
York City.

“Any mail for Edward Peterson?”
he asked. ,

A trained postal clerk was on duty.
His heart did a sudden flip-flop as
he heard the long awaited name “Pet-
erson.” But not by so much as the
twitching of a muscle did the clever
postal employee betray his excite-
ment. :

He looked casually at the man.
There was no mistaking the cold

Continued from page 19

across their faces, and they whined
for mercy.

“We'll give you more than mercy,”
said Bagshaw. “We'll give you jus-
tice.”

Convicts and hostages alike were
sped to the San Quentin Hospital.
All. eventually recovered, including
Warden Holohan, who had suffered. a
brain concussion.

The slain convict was identified as
Rudolph Straight, leader of the band
of escapees, and a Berkeley bank
robber. Two of the other men—Alex
MacKay and Fred Landers—were
also robbers. The third man, Joe
Kristy, had been sent up for kid-
napping. °

The police already knew the main

_ details of the escape. They also knew

that the convicts were, with the ex-
ception of Straight, privileged to
work ouside the inner walls. Because
of this, three of them had been able
to steal a car they were supposed to
be working on from the automobile
shop. They had concealed Straight
in the vehicle, then driven to the
warden’s house by handing a guard
a cleverly forged work pass.

The officers, however, still did not
know how the felons had gotten their
guns. Somehow, in the spasm of hys-
teria that had gripped the inmates of
San Quentin during the break, the
rumor had spread that Kessell and
Stevens were behind the crush. The
possibility that this might be true led
expert interrogators at the prison to
confine the would-be escapees to sep-
arate cells. The officers repeatedly
hammered at one major query:

snake-like eyes of William Herder,
the killer!

The postal clerk turned his back
or Herder. He examined the “P”
cubicle without haste. :

“Nope, not a thing for you,” he
said pleasantly.

The killer began to walk away. The
clerk nodded to an armed special offi-
cer at the door. He then left the win-
dow and walked quietly for a few
steps behind Herder. Then he acted!
His football tackle caught the sur-
prised murderer entirely unprepared.
Before he could recover his balance,
the officer thrust a gun in his ribs.

“This is it, Herder,” he said grimly.

Cursing at the courageous postal
clerk, Herder was led away.

The flight of the Russian killer was
ended. It had taken five years to catch
up with the man who had so wantonly
taken the life of a brave peace officer,
but the sequel of the law’s retribution
was now swift and decisive. Man-
acled, William Herder was taker back
to California. There, he was speedily
sentenced to life imprisonment at the
Folsom Penitentiary for the slaying
of Clarence W. Carpenter.

NOTE: The names Dave Harton, Abe
Polk and Bud Jackson are fictitious.

a

HOT LEAD AND COLD BLONDES

“What did Kessell and Stevens
have to do with the break?”

Soon the sweating prisoners wilted.
The story they told was at once amaz-
ing and chilling. They revealed to
the complete surprise of the police
that Clyde Stevens, the quiet, blue-
eyed Kentuckian, was more feared by
the prison inmates than any other
convict. Stevens, indeed, had earned
the sobriquet of “Mad Dog,” a title
usually reserved for notorious killers.

While Kessell had been of some
help, it was Stevens moreover who
had been the real brains behind the
break. He had mapped out the entire
campaign while still in San Quentin.
At his suggestion, Straight - had
months earlier raised some money
through a relative at. Port Chicago,
California. Upon his release, Stevens
had procured this cash and used it to
buy: an arsenal of weapons through a
shady San Francisco pawnbroker.

A small portion of these weapons
was used in the bank holdups. These
holdups, in turn, had been designed to
raise additional money for more guns,
hideouts, and fast cars.

The “singing” convicts also dis-
closed that it was Stevens himself
who had smuggled the weapons for
the break into the prison by taping
them under the floorboards of a truck
which regularly entered San Quentin.

Most terrifying of all, however, was
the fact that Stevens and Kessell were
to join forces with the prisoners once
they made good their getaway. It
was Stevens’ idea that the enlarged
gang should then commit more crimes
and establish hideouts up and down
the entire Pacific Coast. This accom-


unperturbed. On January flth, they sauntered
into the American Trust Bank at California and
Polk Streets during the rush hour. Stevens, wear-
ing a pair of sunglasses, trained a revolver which
he held in his coat pocket on the teller while
Kessell- started to scoop the brighter part of a
grand into a paper bag. The robbery began quietly
and efficiently, but then Kessell fumbled a handful
of $20 bills and stooped to pick them up.

Corporal Jack Cavanaugh, standing nearby,
spotted the motion. Perceiving the situation, he
sounded an alarm. Stevens and Kessell hightailed
it through the nearest exit with Cavanaugh and
Officer Oakley Burns breathing on their necks.
After an exchange of gunfire, the bandits reached
the Ford and hurtled down the street. Burns
flicked one futile shot through the coupe’s rear
window before the car was swallowed in the heavy
traffic.

About an hour later, the stolen vehicle was
found abandoned near the scene. The police in-
tensified their manhunt, but drew only blanks.
Lieutenant Malloy, meanwhile, was continuing his
search of the San Quentin records. When, on
January 15th, the sleuth identified one of Stevens’
regular visitors as a San Francisco cab driver
who lived near the ocean, he felt he had hit pay-
dirt.

He and Dullea rushed to the cabby’s bungalow
that evening, but found it empty. They waited
for eight hours. Still no one appeared. Inspectors
William McMahon and Frank McCann were
called in to relieve their consorts. ;

“We'll keep this house under constant sur-
veillance,” rapped out Dullea. “Sooner or later
the taxi driver will have to return.”

Although the bungalow was kept under secret
watch, the officers’ attention was diverted into a
different channel the next day by a terrifying
development in another direction.

At 1:35 p.m. on January 16th, Warden James
B. Holohan was holding a routine conference with
several members and attaches of the State Board

SAN QUENTIN PRISON where War

of Prison Terms and Paroles in his house near the
main buildings of San Quentin. Present were
Frank Sykes, Chairman of the Board; Attorney
Warren: Atherton; Board Secretary Mark Noon;
and Board Member Joseph Stephens.

Suddenly, four convicts burst into the room.

The instant Holohan saw their guns he leaped for’

the phone. Two of the felons overpowered him
before he could raise the instrument to his mouth.
While one of the cons pinned the warden’s arms
behind his back, the other viciously slashed him
across the head and face with his gun butt. Blood
spurted from a deep gash in Holohan’s scalp and
streamed down his face. With a groan of agony
the warden slumped to the floor. There he would
have been literally kicked to death had not one
of the convicts, Fred Landers, intervened on his
behalf.

“Leave him alone,” the con said. “We ain’t got
time to waste here.”

“Right,” snarled the leader of the mob. He

Capt. Charles Dullea, (left), and Lieut. James Malloy tangled with the killers and scored heavily.

whirled on Noon and ordered him to telephone
the guard tower. “Tell the screws to open the
gates. We’re going through in the warden’s car
and we'll have hostages.”

Noon had no choice but to obey. He, Sykes,
Atherton, and Stephens were then herded to the
warden’s black sedan. On the way, the convicts
grabbed Guards Harry Jones and Clarence Doose
on the threat of slaying the other hostages. Seconds
later the criminals were rocketing to. freedom.
Screaming behind them came a dozen prison cars,
all primed with guards, rifles, ammunition and

. Machiné guns. Yet, the pursuers had a late start

and it was ‘inevitable that they should eventually
lose their quarry. 1

Meanwhile, however, a riot warning had been
flashed to law enforcement agencies throughout
Northern California. The State Highway Patrol
threw its might into the manhunt; road blocks
were swiftly constructed on key arteries; posse
upon posse was assembled (Continued on page 38)


aw |
Nive. D
Ay y
VL iv ) f /

¥ LZ O

Quist asked. “Why would the guy want
to come here?”

Hall shrugged. “Maybe he lives
around here, or knows someone around
here.”

“You think we should wait and check
his description with some of the resi-
dents?”

Hall entertained the idea momentar-
ily, then decided against it. ‘“I’d rather
go on to Squaw Valley now and check
here on the way back.”

WHEN the investigators pulled up in

front of the Squaw Valley Trading
Post, the owner, Albert Ade, came out
to meet them before they were out of
their car. “You fellows up here about
that guy who killed the boy last night?”
he asked.

“How did you hear about it?” Quist

asked.
“Over the radio. That’s about all
that’s on the radio this morning. That
guy was around here yesterday, and I'd
bet on it. What’s more, he’s probably
the guy who stole the rifles out of my
place.”

Hall asked for an explanation. Ade
said that two .22-caliber rifles were
missing from his stock of guns and am-
munition. The weapons hadn't been
taken in a break-in burglary, as Ade
had discovered the theft before closing
his store.

“I figured at the time that guy had
taken them,” Ade said. “He came in
and hung around for awhile. He bought
some cigarettes and a couple of candy
bars. I didn’t pay much attention to
him because we get a lot of vacationers
who just wander around the place
looking for souvenirs.”

“You haven’t seen him around here
before?”

“Nope. I know everybody who lives
in these parts, but I didn’t know him.”

“How could he have gotten the gun:
out of the store?”

“You’ve got me there,” Ade said.

lives around here?’
“I'd give big odds on that.
said, I guess I know everybody
parts.”
If it was the killer Ade had

to return? And when he had returned,
what had made him change his mind
and decide to go to Orange Cove?

The questions left Hall and Quist
without even theoretical answers. The
actions were as senseless as the wanton
slaying of the boy and the vicious at-
tack upon the girl.

Returning to their car, they heard an
urgent call for Hall or Quist to contact
Headquarters. Hall answered and Sher-
iff Willmirth came on the air. “The
boys who went down to Avocado Lake
have located an abandoned car,” he
said. “It was stolen sometime yester-
day morning in McFarland.” McFar-
land is on Highway 99, 20 miles north
of Bakersfield and 90 miles south of
Fresno.

“Anything in the car?”

“Nothing. It’s out of gas. If the
killer used it to get to the lake, he may
have kidnaped the couple to get away
from there. The lab crew is on the way
out. If they can match prints from the
abandoned car with any from the boy’s
car, we'll know for sure.”

“Anything new on the search around
Reedley?”

“We've got about a dozen transients
in here now. I’m holding them all on
vagrancy charges until the girl has re-
covered enough to look them over in a
line-up. But I doubt if we’ve located
the right guy yet.”

Hall reported what they had learned
at the trading post in Squaw Valley,
and suggested it was possible the killer
had stolen the weapon used to slay the
youth. ‘We're heading back for Reed-
ley now,” Hall said. ‘“We’re going to
check at Orange Cove. I’m hoping we

can come up with something that will
tell us more about the guy than what
we have now.”

But the questioning of Orange Cove
residents produced no results. No one
recognized the description of the sus-
pected slayer.

The search continued around Reed-
ley, as volunteers joined the police offi-
cers in covering the orchards, vineyards
and farm buildings, checking into
every place they thought a man could
possibly hide. There were flurries of
excitement, as calls came in reporting
suspicious characters, but time after
time they were checked out without
producing anything solid.

Then a report came in that a car

a tough time picking up his trail,” Quist
added

“I don’t know,” Hall said, frowning.
“T think the guy is going to stay around
here. He may not even have left. We
had road blockades set up within a short
time after the crime was reported and
we had a pretty good description of the
guy. He’d have had a hard time getting
through.”

Hall pointed to the fact that it was
evident the killer knew the area from
Avocado Lake to Squaw Valley, It was
possible, even though he might have
stolen the car in Reedley, that he had
driven it only to some remote spot
where he could hide.

“TI think our best bet is to keep as

Up to the Minute

yj request of a convicted Oregon killer to die on the anniversary
of the deaths of his victims has been denied. LeRoy Sanford
McGahuey paid with his life on August 20, 1962, for the slaying
of two-year-old Rod Cameron Holt. McGahuey also was accused
of killing the child’s mother, Loris Mae Holt, in her Central Point
apartment, in March, 1961. The story of the double tragedy and
the detective investigation which resulted in’ McGahuey’s arrest,
appeared in the June, 1961, issue, “But Why Kill the Baby Too?”

Also doomed to die is Alvin Christopher, an eighteen-year-
old Marine, who has been sentenced to the gas chamber
for the holdup-slaying of Ralph Frye, 58-year-old service-sta-
tion attendant, in Hickory, North Carolina. The detective work

Victim.”

Open That Vault,” March, 1962).

w thé charges against Christopher was described-in———
= e September, 1962, issue, “Tragedy of the Pistol-Toting

TRS California woman who engineered her daughter-in-law’s
death, then impersonated her to obtain an annulment of her
son’s marriage, has paid with her life, along with the two men she
hired to do the actual killing of the pregnant young woman, Olga
Duncan. Mrs. Elizabeth Ann Duncan, herself married eleven times,
went to the San Quentin gas chamber still protesting her innocence
of the slaying. A few hours later the hired assassins, Luis Moya, 23,
and Augustine Baldonado, 28, entered the famous green room and
died as they chatted together. The triple execution brought to a
close a case that began back in 1958 and which was described under
the title, “Annulment From a Ghost,” in the March, 1959, issue. L

A SEATTLE jury recommended against the death penalty

when it presented its guilty verdict against 23-year-

Donald Jansen for the holdup slaying of Robert R.
om:

making him eligible for parole after thirteen years (“Shovels
and Slugs for Nifty Robert,” May, 1962).

ONVINCED that the “Federal Penitentiary is a particularly

ideal situation for further education,” a repentant bank robber
has started a 30-year course in a Nebraska prison. John Robert
Sawyer, 31, has been sentenced to 20 years on the bank robbery
charge and ten years on a charge of intimidation with a deadly
weapon, resulting from the fact that he and his accomplice held
Bank Manager John Wells and his wife captive in their Omaha
home the night before the robbery. The accomplice, John Vito
Moise, 37, is being held without bond in New York City following
an arrest for another robbery attempt (‘“‘You’re Captive Till You

r. As
e” sentence,

had been stolen from in front of a Reed-
ley home during the night. There was
no way to be certain that it had been
taken by the fleeing slayer, but it
seemed highly likely. A description of
the car and the license number were
broadcast throughout the state.

A call to the hospital revealed that
Constance Newlands was responding to
treatment and would survive the vicious
bludgeoning, although it would be some
time before she would be released.

By mid-afternoon, Hall and Quist re-
turned to Headquarters and reported
to Willmirth. Several transients, picked
up along the main highway, still were
being questioned.

“But I think our guy made it out of
Reedley in that stolen car,” Willmirth
said. “And if he did, he could be a long
way from here by now.”

“And if he drops the car, we'll have

many men and volunteers in the field
as possible,” Hall said. “And to ask the
radio. stations to continue to broadcast
the description of the suspect. If we’ve
got everyorie in the area looking for
him, and he’s still out there, sooner or
later somebody. is going to spot him.”

Hall contacted the newsmen with an
additional request. He told them that
since the suspect had been able to
escape detection so far, it was possible
he might have broken in some home
and stolen a change of clothing. ‘Ask
everyone to report every suspicious per-
son, regardless of what he looks like or
what he may be wearing,” Hall said.

But as the day wore on, even though
there was a steady flow of calls and an
almost constant parade of transients
being brought in for questioning, the
expectancy ‘of locating the slayer began
to diminish.

Early in the evening, Mrs. Robert
Bowman, living on a farm near the
small town of Pixley, about half way
between Fresno and Bakersfield, called
the sheriff’s substation in Pixley to re-
port she had seen a suspicious looking
man walking by. “I’ve been listening to
the radio about that man who killed
the boy up at Reedley,” she said. “This
man I saw is wearing a bright green
shirt and gray tweed trousers. I know
the man they’re looking for is supposed
to be wearing different clothes, but the
radio said to call in about anyone sus-
picious, even though he may be dressed
differently.”

“Where is the man now?’ Deputy
James E. Boren asked.

“He went by here just a few minutes
ago. You can’t miss him, with that
shirt he’s wearing. I hope I’m not
being silly, but the radio said .. .”

“You've done exactly right,’”’ Boren
assured her. “We want to check out
everyone.”

Boren hurried out. He located the
man and found him walking along the
highway shoulder.

Coming up behind the stranger,
Boren could see that he was carrying
something wrapped in a coat. It wasn’t
long enough to be a rifle, and was too
big to be a pistol—but a few inches of
what appeared to be a gun barrel was
e

xposed.

“Hold it, Mister!’”” Boren called.

The man turned around.

“What have you got there?” Boren
asked.

The man jerked the jacket away, ex-
posing a rifle barrel with only the firing
mechanism. The stock was missing.
The gun was pointed directly at Boren.

felt his scalp crawl. He felt he
was ¢lose to dying—but he had to act.
With a sudden dive, Boren snatched
the/gun barrel and twisted it from the
’s hand. A moment later, he hand-
ffed him and put him into the car.
The man protested that he was inno-
cent of any crime and said he had
found the gun in the ditch as he was
walking along the highway. “I picked
it up and thought maybe I could sell it
or something.”

At the substation, Boren reported the
arrest to Headquarters in Visalia and
was directed to take the man directly
to Fresno for further questioning.

The prisoner gave his name as Her-
man Yvonne Risenhoover. He flatly
denied being at Avocado Lake, kidnap-
ing the young couple, or knowing any-
thing about the slaying of Farina or
the bludgeoning of Constance New-
lands.

As the man was being questioned,
Sheriff Willmirth told him: “Look, your
face and your name is familiar. I can’t
quite place it, because whatever it was,
it happened quite some time ago. But
we can take out your fingerprints and
find out what it was, or you can save
us trouble by telling us now.”

Risenhoover smiled. “You've got a
pretty good memory,” he said. “It hap-
pened ten years ago and it was in Del-
ano. Remember, I’m the guy who
claimed he killed a fellow, only it was
just a story I made up. They had me in
the mental hospital at Mendocino and
I wanted to get out.”

This was enough to refresh the
memories of the officers. Risenhoover
had been arrested in Delano by the
Kern County sheriff’s officers for steal-
ing a truck. He had been found men-
tally deficient and sent to the state hos-
pital. While he was there, he had sent
a letter to the police in Delano confess-
ing that he had killed a hitchhiker and
had buried the body in a vineyard.

Risenhoover had stood by for three
days while the officers with a crew of
county jail prisoners dug up most of
the vineyard in a vain search for the
body. He finally told them that the
story was a hoax.

45

Gy.
lot) (Tb C_

Cc


ne: J

=

BALDONADO, DUNCAN and MOYA, California

&

Luis Moya, left, and Augus-
tine Baldonado teamed up
with the wrong woman. They
died for their — mistake.

CRIME DETECTIVE, April, 1965

Pretty nurse Olga Duncan found that
mother-in-law troubles are incurable.

HERE was

tura, Cal
sang, and cal
way through
at more tha
stand. It wa
of what eve
murder trial.

Inside the
there was a
people who

Te man §
papers,
He’s a met
vestigation 4
staunch ad
made it plai
A thirty-y
the defenda
He nervous
lawyer, but
more persot
on trial. She
The . third
surrounding
noticed. B
years of age
harlequin e
She turns a
her head ba
the room ca
ing for the
Then Jud
the prosecu
And so 1
For at least
a lifetime a
10, 1958,
missing by

TT fron
in Sant
looking ou
in a lonely.


by

ELIZABETH DUNCAN'S TORTURE TRAIL
ow i mawruns TO THE DEATH HOUSE

HERE was a real carnival atmosphere outside the Ven-

tura, California, county courthouse. People laughed,
sang, and called out to each other while a vendor made his
way through the crowd, selling cold drinks and hamburgers
at more than double the price they sell for at a nearby
stand. It was a holiday—a holiday of death. The first day
of what everyone knew was going to be a most sensational
murder trial.

Inside the ninety-nine seat, wood-paneled courtroom
there was a quiet tension. The spectators watched three
people who were the center of the drama about to unfold.
TT man standing before the bench, looking through his

papers, is county District Attorney Roy Gustafson.

He’s a methodical, calm, prosecutor who directed the in-

vestigation of this case almost from the. beginning. He’s a
staunch advocate of the death penalty. He has already

made it plain that he will insist on it in this case.
A thirty-year-old, handsome, dark-haired man sits behind
the defendant’s counsel table. His name is Frank Duncan.

He nervously adjusts his black-rimmed eyeglasses. He’s a
lawyer, but he’s not in court professionally. He has a much
more personal interest in this case. It’s his mother who’s
on trial. She is accused of killing his wife.

The third person is Mrs. Elizabeth Duncan, In other
surroundings, under other circumstances she might go un-
noticed. But not now. She’s the defendant. At fifty-four
years of age, she’s grey-haired and plump. She wears stylish
harlequin eyeglasses. Her face is lined, but she’s cheerful.
She turns and whispers something to her son and throws

her head back in a silent laugh. Her eyes wander around
the room casually, as if she’s in-a theatre seat, coolly wait-

ing for the performance to begin.
bs ie Then Judge Charles F, Blackstock takes his place, and
the prosecutor prepares to make his opening statement.
And so it begins . . . But it’s not really the beginning.
For at least one of the people involved, the beginning was
a lifetime ago. For the police, the beginning was November

10, 1958, when beautiful Nurse Olga Duncan was reported
missing by her husband, Frank.

Tr front door to the empty apartment on Garden Street
in Santa Barbara, was partly open. From windows
looking out on a small balcony, a cool breeze led the drapes
in a lonely, mute dance.

und that
acurable.

Incredible Elizabeth Duncan will
go dowh in crime history for her
outrageous, brutal passion murder.


a tment ee Sea

hie

OFFICIAL

DETECTIVE, July, 190

originally was from Eastern Canada and
had worked on a Springbank-area farm
several years before. The detective also
discovered that Morrison had been
spending a good deal of time in Winni-
peg in recent months and that he had a
girl-friend in the Manitoba capital.

At Perry’s request, police in Winni-
peg located the girl and arranged for
her to advise them if she heard from
Morrison or learned of his whereabouts.

Morrison’s description was circulated
across Canada and through the United
States, along with a pick-up order.
Police photographs of Morrison and his
description were given to various Al-
berta newspapers, and their editors
were asked to publish a plea for in-
formation about him.

Results were quick in coming; people
from Red Deer in the north to Card-
ston in the south, telephoned that they
had seen the hunted man in their town.

Perry and Ross had to enlist the aid
of a large number of other policemen
to follow up each bit of information
and track it down to the final assump-
tion—a case of mistaken identity.

THs seemingly endless succession of
false leads had been going on for
several days when a call came from
an eighteen-year-old Edmonton girl,
Frieda Kennedy, who had run away
from her home after an argument with
her boy-friend and parents. She had
taken a bus from Edmonton through
Calgary en route to Vancouver on the
West Coast. The bus had stopped in
Calgary on Sunday, the day after the
murder, to pick up several other passen-
gers.

Among these was a young man who
sat beside her and engaged her in con-
versation. He told her he was a model
and was on his way to Los Angeles to
work, she told Corporal Perry.

As they neared Fort Macleod, about
135 miles south of Calgary, the man had
introduced himself as Peter Morrison,
she continued.

In Macleod, the girl said, an RCMP
constable had stopped her as she got
off the bus with Morrison and asked
if she were Frieda Kennedy. Her par-
ents had become worried and had asked
the RCMP to locate her.

“This Morrison hung around while I
was in the car and talked to me. The
constable told him to go away—that it
was none of his concern. That was the
last I saw of him,” the girl said.

Perry's burst of anger cooled when
he remembered this had taken place on
the day after the murder, before Mor-
rison had become a suspect and even
before they had a description of him.
As far as the Fort Macleod policeman
knew then, Morrison was not wanted
for anything.

About the same time, a Springbank-
area resident turned an H and R .22
revolver over to police. He said his son
had found it in a ditch three miles east
of Calgary near the Municipal Golf
Course.

The gun was sent, with the bullet re-
covered from Yesney’s body and the
spent slug found in the ditch, to the
RCMP’s crime laboratories in Regina
for ballistics comparisons. However,
because the bullets were badly battered,
no positive comparison could be made,
the ballistics expert said, although he
did offer to testify that the marks on
new bullets fired from the gun were
similar to the markings he’d found on
the lethal bullets.

Then the investigation bogged down.

Perry had asked the Los Angeles au-
thorities to watch for Morrison and
had provided them with fingerprints,
photos and a complete description of
him, but so far nothing had resulted.

Then, one afternoon in late June,
Perry received an urgent message from
the Winnipeg police. Morrison’s girl had
heard from him. He had written to her
and given a Los Angeles address.

The United States Immigration de-

partment at Los Angeles was asked to
follow up the lead.

While Perry was making last-minute
preparations to go to Los Angeles and
assist in the investigation, the United
States inspectors visited the address
given in the letter. The landlady at the
rooming house was cooperative but of
little help. Morrison had stayed there,
she said, but had checked out suddenly
several days before, without leaving a
forwarding address.

The immigration men then ques-
tioned her regarding the wanted man’s
friends in the city. The only person she
knew of was a waitress in a nearby cafe
whom Morrison had spoken of.

The waitress was located and ad-
mitted having gone out with Morrison.
She said she hadn't heard from him
since*he had left Los Angeles, but gave
the Immigration men a street address
in Stockton, California, where she said
Morrison had told her to write him.

Without waiting for Perry, the Immi-
gration men went to: Stockton where
they located Morrison and returned him
to Los Angeles. Deportation proceed-
ings were instituted immediately and
Morrison was ordered back to Canada.

Finally, on July 15, Morrison was
turned over to Corporal Ross and other
Mounties at Blaine, Washington. Cor-
poral Perry soon joined his partner, and
they questioned Morrison, who readily
admitted crossing the border with Yes-
ney and riding with him as far as Fort
Macleod. There, however, he said, Yes-
ney had given him $50 to buy some
beer. Morrison had hidden the money
instead and left Yesney. Later he saw
Yesney drive away with an Indian girl
and a soldier.

“I caught a.bus to LA then,” Mor-
rison said.

Perry pointed out, however, that
Morrison had boarded the bus in Cal-
gary, not in Fort Macleod, according to
the testimony of the runaway girl.

MORRISON hung his head and re-
mained quiet for several minutes.
Then he said, “Start writing; it will be
the truth this time. Yes, Yesney and I
went to Calgary together. That night—
it was after midnight, but I don’t know
for sure what. time—we drove west of
the city on the old Banff Coach Road. I
was driving and Yesney was sitting be-
side me. We drove around in Spring-
bank for awhile, then stopped near Bill
Forrest’s farm. I knew the area because
I worked there once. We got out of the
car and when we did Yesney pulled a
gun on me.”

He claimed that. Yesney had made
an offensive proposal. “I said okay so
he would put the gun away. Then, when
he did put the gun in his belt, I flipped
him into the ditch, grabbed for the gun
and started shooting.

“Afterward I went back to the car
and got some tape. He wasn’t dead, so
I put some tape on his wrists. I don’t
think I tied them together, though.
Then I gagged him and took his wallet,
which had about fifty dollars in it.”

Morrison was taken back to Calgary,
where he appeared before a police court
magistrate and was remanded in cus-
tody to Lethbridge Provincial Gaol. His
trial started on November 7, 1955, and
nine days later the six-man jury
brought in a verdict of guilty.

Mr. Justice Boyd McBride of the
Alberta Supreme Court imposed the
severest of penalties—death by hang-
ing.

Morrison’s counsel appealed and lost,
received the customary reprieve, or stay
of sentence, and made every effort to
have the sentence quashed. But at 12:16
on the morning of July 17, 1956, more
than a year after the crime, Morrison
took the long, last walk to the gallows
in Lethbridge jail.

The names Harry Johnstone, Alex
Ferguson and Frieda Kennedy are ficti-
tious in this story.

Mrs. Elizabeth Duncan

A WOMAN who admitted
having had between ten
and sixteen husbands—she
couldn’t remember—but be-
grudged her son just one wife,
has been sentenced to die in
the California gas chamber.
Gray-haired Mrs. Elizabeth
Duncan, 54, was found guilty
of first-degree murder on a
charge of hiring two men to

kill her pregnant daughter-in- -

law, Olga Duncan, 30, in Santa
Barbara last November.

Olga’s husband, Frank, stuck
by his mother and asserted his
belief in her declarations of in-
nocence throughout the trial.
The members of the jury didn’t
agree with him, however, nor
did the judge who upheld their
verdict following a sanity hear-
ing. The case will go to the
California Supreme Court for
automatic review before the
death sentence is carried out.

he story of the macabre plot and the police work which

uncovered it appeared in the March, 1959, issue of OFFIcIAL
DETECTIVE STorIEs Magazine, under the title, “Annulment from
a Ghost,” the name stemming from an earlier maneuver of Mrs.

Duncan's to annul her son’s marriage by posing as his wife.

Death in a gas chamber also has been decreed for
ack Rainsberger, the Las Vegas, Nevada, “black magic”

killer, for the torture murder of Elaine Folker. Rains-
berger, who first said that “voices” directed him to kill

the pretty divorcee as a

“human sacrifice,” later

changed his story, admitting he stabbed her when she
resisted his robbery attempt. (“Las Vegas’ Ritual of

Death,” February, 1959.)

On the other side of the ledger, a Bronx County, New York.
jury has acquitted 28-year-old Marcelino Le Bron of first-degree
murder charges in the robbery slaying of Mrs. Maria Martus, a
68-year-old widow, last November. Le Bron was cleared by a
number of witnesses who placed him in a barroom eight blocks
away at the time of the slaying. (‘The Face of a Killer,”

March, 1959.)

Ivo Ivanic, the Great Lakes merchant seaman
accused of the holdup slaying of Kenosha, Wisconsin,
restaurateur Arthur Molinaro, has pleaded guilty to an
amended charge of third-degree murder and been sen-
tenced to a term in the state prison at Waupun of up to
45 years. “Kenosha’s Steak and Bullets Killing,” in the
April, 1959, issue, told how detectives followed a clue of
a half-eaten steak to Ivanic’s arrest.

Two other murderers have
been given life sentences. Carl
Alfred Eder, the sixteen-year-
old hitchhiker who repaid the
kindness of an El Cajon, Cali-
fornia, man by wiping out his
entire family, escaped the
death penalty because of his
youth. Still a Good Samaritan,
Tom Pendergast, who found
the bodies of his 37-year-old
wife and their four small chil-
dren after Eder’s brutal mas-
sacre, has vowed to spend the
rest of his life helping youths
like Eder. (‘‘The Good Samari-
tan Massacre,’”’ April, 1959.)
Floyd Robertson, kidnap slayer
of beautiful Marjorie Schnei-
der in Fort Collins, Colorado,
has been found guilty of first-
degree murder but likewise
escaped the death penalty.
(“Two Killers for Fort Col-
lins?” December, 1959.)

Carl Alfred Eder

43


The Mob Doesn’t Jell

Ww
ACKETEERING has reached its
lowest ea in New York city in
two decades. One of the surest

sjens of this is the scarcity of established
| well publicized crooks to be pointed

to gaping and awe-struck visitors
htly in the eafes and boulevards. No

6 the beetle-browed thugs such as
h Schultz, Legs Diamoad and
ney Madden strut the hot spots.

is is a healthy and refreshing con-
dition, brought about largely through the
eang-busting activities of New York

v's new district attorney, Thomas
E. Dewey. Dewey, as special rackets
prosecutor, went after the “big shots”
are now either in prison or have
suddenly migrated elsewhere.
lated at this turn in events
has all but eliminated the big time
‘ r, but we suggest that police and
Mr. Dewey use equally as much diligence
and force in breaking up bands of hood-
lums and street-corner thugs who raid
the establishments of small merchants.

Plea-Copping Condemned—

OPPING pleas by criminals and the

4 Jeniency of certain courts in’ dis-

sing of the cases of certain criminals

sJone been a thorn in the side of law
enforcement agencies.

In Brooklyn recently the record of

These felons will die in California’s
new lethal chamber for the murder
of the warden and a guard at Fol-
scm prison last September. Left to
right they are Albert Kessel,
Wesley Eudy, Fred Barnes,
Robert L. Cannon and Ed Davis.

T
to

Terry Roberts, 25 years old, accused as
a bandit-killer, impressed Magistrate
Brough so much that he directed the at-
tention of Assistant District Attorney
Max Weider to the list of charges
that had been reduced or discharged.
There was a burglary charge reduced to
petit larceny grand larceny reduced to
petit larceny; a burglary charge dis-
missed ; : eun toting charge ch: inged to
second degree burglary; a parole from
Sing Sing, after serving part of a short
sentence; and others. Then came the
murder charge.

But isn’t it about time that all district
attorneys and judges stopped permitting
old and frequent offenders to plead to
charges of much less degree than they
could be convicted under? We think so!

He Might Be Good—

nia °-R HELLIG, veteran Los
Angeles detective, — informed
Secretary of State Frank C Jordan, of
California, that he intends to seek the
Republican nomination for governor at
the August, 1938, primary election.

soem |

This brings to mind an_ interesting
angle on a question the answer to which
is being sought frantically in nearly every
state in the union, namely :

What should be done a bout the punish-
ment of criminals after conviction and
about the much-abused parole system
Now in vogue ~

Hellig, if eee in his campaign
to become the state’s chief executive,
would go to his new post with long, first-
hand and valuable experience in detect-
ing crime and capturing criminals. He
would know crooks and killers and how
to deal with them, justly, but without the
coddling so widespread at present. And
he pr obably would do a satisfactory job
in refusing to commute, parole and par-
don repeated offenders with the result
they would not be turned loose after serv-
ing short sentences to repeat their crimes
against society.

Too often the men in whose hands
rests the power to liberate caulk pe!
dangerous convicts are over supp lied
with humanitarian instincts and under
supplied with first-hand knowledge of the
criminals with whom they are dealing.

10-DAY FR!
history you
LESS Port:
Think of it!
built at the
Every atta:
equipments
LESS FEA
coupon tod:

WE PAY A
risk a penn
Portable di
DAYS’ FR
send it bac

With you
table w

the Tou s
typists. It

pletels }
simple as .
A little st
fascinated
give you wi
took the trou

Also under this
send you FRI
Noiseless Port:
sturdily built of
case is covere
The top is ren
to the base. T}
—on knees, iF
coupon for con


in shimmering
bidding stone
ng patches of
ind steel. The
: rose the sub-
ls of men who
yard, grasping
im of freedom.
nber 19, 1937,
nere the State
2,800 of its

ened criminal

lay that was
me of the bit-
in California

Warden Clar-
x-foot six-inch
ary, spoke to
d William J.

convicts want
‘aptain?” he

the list, war-
“and sixteen
Jd. Wesley E.
xt.”

ly in and I'll

had assumed
years before,
reer that saw
ranks of the
1 had devoted
sunday morn-
complaints of

‘r prison jobs,
smoted to the

'NSIDE

list of “trusties,” and others wanted information about
applying for parole. And so. that he might better under-
stand each individual case, Larkin talked with each of
them personally.

The warden conducted the interviews in Captain Ryan’s
office, adjacent to the big yard, and he sat behind a glass
enclosure while talking. Except for Ryan and a small
staff of “trusty” clerks in another part of the room, Larkin
and each convict were alone for the discussions.

As he waited for Eudy to enter, Warden Larkin
glanced at the large clock on. the wall. It was 11:30 a. M.

1] :30—and at that very moment a desperate escape plot
was approaching bloody fruition. Voices from outside
trickled faintly into the white-walled office. Everything
seemed normal. The clock’s second hand moved slowly
around in its arc, with no one suspecting that it measured
the final few moments of more than one man’s life.

Violence was not new in grim old Folsom. Not for-
gotten was the Thanksgiving Day riot of 1927, in which
nine convicts and two guards had been killed. It had
started when Tony Brown, an arch-desperado from San
Francisco, fired three shots over the heads of convicts in
the prison auditorium. Following this signal, Brown and
his fellow ringleaders, armed with knives, herded the 1200
other convicts together and marched from the auditorium
into a cell block, en route to the office of Court Smith,
then warden.

Met in the ‘corridor by guards, a furious battle followed.
The convicts fell back, but still maintained possession of
the entire cell block, and 300 National Guardsmen were
hastily summoned.

It was Clarence Larkin, then captain of the guard, who
led the attack which lasted for hours to the deadly drone
of machine guns before the embattled convicts surrendered.
Subsequently, the five henchmen who directed the plot
were hanged. ...

Summoned by a trusty, Convict Eudy now entered the
captain's office. Another trusty, Al Peterson, handed KEudy’s
record card to the warden. Then, like a bolt from the
blue, rebellion broke loose!

Eudy pushed Peterson aside, drew a knife from his shirt

STORY OF CALIFORNIA’S BLOODIEST CONVICT RIOT

and leaped toward the warden. Simultaneously six other
convicts rushed -in the door armed with hand-fashioned
knives, a twenty-pound steel bludgeon, and two real-looking
dummy automatics made of wood. The knives reeked with
the smell of onions, for it is a convict belief that an onion-

stained knife will-induce peritonitis. :

“We're going out, you s——!” hissed Eudy as he and
his cohorts closed in on Warden Larkin and Captain
Ryan.

Ryan and Larkin saw death in the eyes of the encircling
seven. They were, the officers well knew, among the worst
of the prison’s badmen. Besides Eudy, a thirty-three-year-
old Pomona robber and parole violator, there were:

Clyde “Mad Dog” Stevens, twenty-six, San Francisco
bank bandit serving seventy years. An utterly desperate
criminal, he was the brains of the sensational escape plot
in 1935 at San Quentin prison which resulted in the
slugging of Warden James B. Holohan, the kidnaping of
the State Parole Board, the slaying of one convict and the
execution of two others.

Albert Kessell, twerity-seven, San Francisco bank bandit
and Stevens’ partner in crime, serving seventy years.

Fred Barnes, thirty-nine, Los Angeles robber serving
thirty years.

Robert Lee Cannon, twenty-eight, Los Angeles burglar
serving twenty-five years.

Bennie Kucharski, thirty-one, Los Angeles hoodlum
serving five years—a man with a criminal record dating
back to his sixteenth year.

Ed Davis, forty, Oklahoma badman and former crime
associate of “Pretty Boy” Floyd and Wilbur Underhill,
southwest public enemies later slain, and of Harvey Bailey,
now in Alcatraz for kidnaping. Davis had béen sentenced
to a life term from Los Angeles for kidnaping and robbery.

LTOGETHER it was perhaps as hardened and con-
scienceless a group as ever banded together against
law and order—seven men fit to make the bravest officers
quail. Not so Ryan and Larkin.
“Drop those things and get the hell out of here!”
barked Captain Ryan.

$4 NE 5)

Jack Whelan (right), war-
den’s secretary, was in an
office nearby when seven
maddened convicts over-
powered the warden and
launched a desperate es-
cape plot. Mr. Whelan
describes in this story the
bloodshed and tragedy
that ensued.

Mi

By Warden's Secretary
Jack Whelan

Folsom Prison, California
AS TOLD TO HAROLD HEROUX

in “SLO E

(A070, ZOdsS, DAvls + Kisss

HE HEAT rose in shimmering
| waves from forbidding stone

walls, from burning patches of
sand, from concrete and steel. The
heat rose, and with it rose the sub-
dued voices of hundreds of men who
paced within the big yard, grasping
eagerly at that modicum of freedom.
It was Sunday, September 19, 1937,
at Folsom Prison, where the State
of California keeps 2,800 of its
toughest, most hardened criminal
“repeaters.” .

September 19—a day that was
soon to go down as one of the bit-
terest and bloodiest in California
prison annals.

In an office inside, Warden Clar-
ence A. Larkin, the six-foot six-inch
chief of the penitentiary, spoke to
Captain of the Guard William J.
Ryan.

“How many more convicts want
interviews today, Captain?” he
asked.

“There are thirty on the list, war-
den,” replied Ryan, “and sixteen
more to be interviewed. Wesley E.
Eudy, No. 19271, is next.”

“All right, send Eudy in and I'll
see what he has to say.”

Every week since he had assumed
the wardenship two years before,
climaxing a prison career that saw
him advance from the ranks of the
guards, Warden Larkin had devoted
a large part of his Sunday morn-
ings to listening to the complaints of
the inmates.

Some asked for better prison jobs,
some asked to be promoted to the

... THE INSIDE

D SLELTOVE

fauctoey / ra 3 x “

list of “tru
applying fo:
stand each
them perso:
The warc
office, adjac
enclosure \
staff of “tri
and each c:
As he \
glanced at t
1} :30—a:
was appro:
trickled fai
seemed not
around in i
the final fe
Violence
gotten was
nine convi:
started wh
Francisco,
the prison
his fellow
other conv
into a cell
then ward:
Met int
The convi:
the entire
hastily sur
It was (
led the att
of machin«
Subsequer
were hang
Summo:
captain's «
record ca
blue, rebe
Eudy p:

STO!


|

INSIDE DETECTIVE

ons all, these seven convicts staged Folsom’s

His words were useless. Four convicts sprang toward him,
knives upraised. Ryan grabbed his leaded cane—the only
weapon permitted guards who mingle among the convicts—
anid swung it at his adversaries.

It was an unequal battle. The knives flashed again and
again . . . Ryan’s cane clattered to the floor . ... and the
courageous captain slumped in a corner, blood spurting from
deep wounds.

From then on, events occurred as in some nightmare

- drama, some mad vision of violence.

The other three plotters broke into the glass enclosure and
descended on the unarmed warden. Trusty Peterson, who
had been catapulted to the floor by Eudy’s push, sought to
regain his feet. But another trusty, Richard Harrison, fleeing
pell-mell from the terror-filled room, stumbled over him.

Red-eyed with bloodlust, Kucharski, who hated trusties as
much as he hated guards, ‘slashed viciously at Peterson with
his knife—a knife already dripping with Captain Ryan’s
blood. Peterson warded off the first thrust, but would un-
doubtedly have been slashed had not Convict Cannon inter-
posed.

“Lay off him!” yelled Cannon.

As Kucharski turned to join the assault on the warden,
Peterson and Harrison fled from the room. Convict Davis,
smiling malevolently, took charge while the other six fell
upon Warden Larkin and pinned him down, menacing him
with knives.

“This prison can’t hold us!” said Davis to Larkin in a
voice deadly calm. “I’ve killed and I’ve escaped prison
before. And now you are going to do what I say. We're
going out, understand—even if I have to kill again!”

Warden Larkin well knew that Davis had killed and es-
caped before. Murder, kidnaping, robbery and jailbreak were
written on his record card in the warden’s office. As one of
a gang of eleven convicts, all murderers and robbers, Davis,
together with Wilbur Underhill and Harvey Bailey, led the
break on Memorial’ Day, 1933, from the Kansas State Prison
at Lansing. They kidnaped Warden Kirk Prather and two
guards there, and seized a woman and two girls on their mad
flight to freedom in a stolen automobile.

Before the Lansing break, Davis had escaped the Oklahoma
State Prison at McAlester, where he had been sentenced to a
life term for the murder of City Marshal J. R. Hill, who had
sought to arrest_ him following a bank holdup at Marlow,
Oklahoma.

“Boys, you can’t make it,” warned Warden Larkin. “If
you take me as a hostage, the guards will shoot—that’s their
orders. We'll all die together.”

“We'll make it, all right,” said Davis. “This joint ain’t

6

See tek ES

any harder to break out of than Lansing or McAlester !”

“Nor Jefferson City!” interjected Convict Bennie Ku-
charski.

Kucharski had escaped from the Missouri State Prison at
Jefferson City on May 12, 1928, by riding a freight car out
of the prison yards. He had been recaptured, then discharged
before he went to Los Angeles to again fall before the law.

With Captain Ryan groaning in the corner, and with re-
bellion and death staring him in the face, the warden kept
his head.

“T’ve prepared for just such a situation as this,” he said
slowly. “I knew that sooner or later some prison mob would
try to take me. But I warn you again—there’ll be shooting
the moment we step out of that door. Regardless of what
I say or do now, my men will pump lead!”

“We kfiow all about your damned orders!” shouted Con-
vict Stevens, ‘and your promise that if any con gets out it
will be over your dead body. Well—maybe it will be over
your dead body... .”

“We want out, and by G— we'll get out!” snarled Can-
non, as he and Eudy held their knives close to the war-
den’s throat.

Davis, standing to one side, his bitter eyes belying his cool
expression, drew a length of wire from his pocket. He
twisted the wire into a noose and placed it around Warden
Larkin’s neck. This was a method with wardens he had used
before. In the Kansas break, he had dragged the warden
with a wire looped around his neck until he and his pals got
out of the prison grounds and commandeered an automobile.

“You’re going to get the Davis treatment,” he said softly,
drawing the wire tight around Larkin’s neck. “If any bull
starts shooting when we go out, I’ll pull this wire so damned
tight that your head will fall off.”

Despite the pain, the warden kept silent. And in this tor-
ture, his brain was working furiously for some ruse, some
plan to outwit his captors and restore order in the prison.
Perhaps he could save the situation yet—but meanwhile, he
was forced outwardly to admit defeat. :

“You win, boys. The next move is up to you!” gasped
Larkin, well-riigh choked by the noose.

Tee HARD faces of the seven relaxed momentarily. So
far their plot had worked perfectly. They had secretly
made their weapons, formed their plans. They had
stormed the captain’s office and seized the warden. ... Now
they were one step closer to the freedom they were willing to
shed blood to attain, for the warden was ready to obey orders.

“All right!” snapped Ringleader Davis. “Lucky for you
you’re smart. Now do exactly what I tell you. First, tele-

phone that bull,
rifle to the gr

“As soon as
automobile and

gate.
“Now—phon

With the wo:
of agony cross«
only spurred |}
convicts were -

There ts no
the veteran Joc

Never a hint
wire noose, an:

“This is the
Brady in the c:

T. W. Nutci
by that request
moment before
storm the officc
alarming mess:

“Some cons
den’s in there!

Nutcher, kni
“Yes, Warden.

Then, quick
line ‘to the wa
unaware that
Nutcher’s voic:

“The. tower
have rushed t!
warden, using
Joe Brady!”

“Put the wa

“Hello—is tl

“Yes, this is

The warden,
knew that he \
the office with
get a picture o
captive by the
him. ...

“Joe,” said t!
who want to ¢
They want you

I realized th
and I tried to
endangering hi

“Have they

‘ers, guards
‘ith lead as
ody climax

e)
ack! C’mon,

ring sullenly
1en, yielding,
side the cell-
sed behind
guards next
: little office
ve ready for
erg, running
iz. was about
vhen he was

the gangster
ere we'll kill

to avoid
the guard.
ce, Solberg.
vurself killed.

backed away
st as he left,
» a squad of
uself blindly
! aimed his
‘ed figure in
ang at Mar-
dat him to
me too late.
and Martin,
in his abdo-
{ without a

down at the
nance,
lose, Warden,
Javis snarled.
and make it

2 inevitable,
d the clothes
don the coat
ind the War-
_ Wire noose
it taut until
! his throat
lded the War-

and turned ac-
» seven white-
gaze wavered
tthe last that
|!—whether he
no merey, he
uan rats whose
his hand.

“Tm ready.
ne more thing,
: prison today
ody!”
vy of flaming

ent forth to

> holocaust
urrounding
vard confident
a passport to
u's inexorable

orders regarding his own safety were only
a bluff. They might have known he
wouldn’t play that kind of game.

For instead of finding the yard clear of
men and guns, the prisoners were suddenly
engulfed by a squadron of avenging guards
swinging vicious clubs and canes. The
first blow felled Cannon just as he slashed
at Larkin’s chin with his knife. Davis, in
the lead, was sent spinning and spitting
blood with a terrific blow that thudded
against his jaw.

Eudy, foaming with rage and hate, saw
that his turn was next. Something snapped
in his twisted brain, some last link to the
bestial surging in his yellow veins, and it
turned him into a slavering thing with the
urge to kill. He grasped his long whetted
knife, turned the point up until it touched
Larkin’s shirt, and then threw this weight
behind a maniacal push that drove the steel
deep into the flesh. Warden Larkin gasped
once, plucked at the knife in his abdomen,
and sprawled to the ground in a cascade
of blood. Wesley Eudy had no time for
further contemplation, for even as his fist
unclenched, a bullet whined through the
air and struck his neck.

LYDE STEVENS, whose tremendous

ego had created all this bloody hell,
saw his mad dreams dissolving in flaming
guns and crushing, leaded canes, and now,
at the end, his canary spine began to crawl,
He started running, squealing like a caged
rat. He stumbled toward the wall as though
its stone breast would give him refuge,
and his knees buckled. He tried to crawl,
but stark fear chained his feet.

Escape .. . escape...» ESCAPE.

Guard Trader, raising his rifle, spotted
the bandit’s cringing form against the wall.
He raised the gun, brought up the muzzle
until Clyde Stevens’ black thatch of hair
took solid shape in the crotch of the sight.
Then, and only then, his finger tensed.
Clyde Stevens, the Mad Dog, will never
know what it was that seared and dead-
ened his brain.

There were only three now left of the
seven maniacs—Kessell, Barnes and Kueh-
arski. ;

Kucharski, running in circles frantically
seeking a hole, got his in a fountain of
lead that tattooed his egg-shaped skull
with little round holes. Barnes, still wield-
ing his knife against Guard James Kearns,
was shot through the chest, and Kessell
was stretched unconscious with a slug in
the neck.

Ten minutes .. . a veritable lifetime.

Ten minutes of carnage—and there were
three men dead, four more clinging to
life only by a miracle, and still others ser-
iously wounded.

Thus ended Black Sunday—almost ten
years to the day after that other ghastly
Folsom holiday, when caged men lost hu-
man perspectives and turned into beasts.
Warden Larkin, still alive, was rushed lo
the Sutter Hospital in near-by Sacramento,
the state capital, where four specialists be-
gan a heart-breaking fight for his life. But
it was a futile, discouraging task. For
Clarence Larkin regained consciousness
only once, whispering to his wife:

“T don’t care what happens to me. I
knew what I was up against when I took
the job, and the only thing that matters
is that the prisoners didn’t get away. . . _

It was his own epitaph, this pledge to
duty.

Clarence Larkin died at 1:05 o’clock on
the morning of September 24th—not many
hours after the announcement from the
State Prison Board that California’s new
lethal gas chambers were ready to be in-
stalled at Folsom and San Quentin. Lethal
gas—replacing the gallows on which, for
three score years, killers like Clyde Stev-
ens and Ed Davis have expiated their
crimes.

True Detective Mysteries

Captain Ryan, meanwhile, had been
taken to Mercy Hospital, also in Sacra-
mento, where he showed an amazing vi-
tality and resistance to death. At this
writing Ryan is on the road to recovery
and his name is being mentioned as pos-
sible successor to Warden Larkin’s grim
post.

Barnes, Eudy, Kessell, Davis and Can-
non—all wounded in the prison bedlam--
were taken to the Folsom Hospital where,
night and day, armed men stand on guard,
The Sacramento County grand jury, mean-
while, has voted first degree murder indict-
ments against all five, and they will soon
face trial.

There is an epilogue to this discourse of
death.

It began a few days after the Folsom
eruption when trouble burst almost simul-
taneously in rock-ribbed Alcatraz, the for-
bidding “devil’s isle” for Federal prison-
ers, in San Francisco Bay, and San Quen-
tin, Burton Phillips, a “stir-crazy” kid-
naper, attacked Warden James Johnston
of Alcatraz on the heels of a sit down
strike participated in by a hundred of the
nation’s most notorious felons. Two days
later, in the great yard at San Quentin,
where 5,000 men gather during recreation
hours, wall guards were forced to wound
fighting prisoners with carefully aimed
shots in the legs.

Perhaps there is some connection be-
tween these three volcanic rumblings be-
hind prison walls, one following the other
so closely. Perhaps not—but prison au-
thorities are convinced that the myster-
ious grapevine, which knows all things and
travels with the speed of light, passed a
message from Folsom that stirred unrest
and bitterness and trouble in the other
fortresses of numbered men.

You may well ask—what causes a pri-
son break?

Coarse food, abuse, temporary insanity,
monotonous routine?

No—it is none of these. Warden Court
Smith of San Quentin, who hurried to Fol-
som and took charge after the tragedy,
has what he knows is the only answer.
Listen:

. Fp leaves hope behind when he
enters the prison gate,” Smith said.
“When «a man leaves hope at the gate
.. when he faces five, six, even seven life
sentences . . . you can know that he will
stop at nothing to win freedom.

“Those fellows”—Smith waved his hand
to indicate the 2,800 or more felons behind
Folsom walls—“are doing lots of time.

“They want to escape.

“If you happen to get in their way,
they’ll take your life if they think liberty
is Just around the corner.

“Tt doesn’t matter who you are, they'll
kill you... if you alone bar their road to
freedom.

“Thon, if they're caught... their only
comment will be, ‘Well, L had to bump
him.’

“Tt doesn’t matter who runs the prison,
it doesn’t matter what precautions you
take, it doesn’t matter how humane and
generous and intelligent administration is,
there will always be attempts at breaks.

“There will be violence and there will
be brutal, deadly, futile attempts to, win
freedom, just as long as there are prisons
and just as long as men march behind
stone walls, leaving hope behind at the
gate.”

Clyde Stevens, therefore, was only 4a
symbol of “hope left behind at the gate.”

And as the months grow into years, |

and men go on marching into the oblivion
of the Folsom lifers’ army, there will al-
ways be guns on the stone walls—watching,
waiting for other, perhaps even more vic-
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vowing to kill or be killed.

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r


DANnKNLO + CANNON 5
CA (sacramento)

HERMAN
creepy pla
“muddy ba
California, a
land where c
chorus, and th
caterwauls on
‘a place to hi
| their laughter
s. Strange vision
»* on intruders
of ancient tre«
And yet ton
: Shrill cries
»). the clink of ;
» chirps and the
» in-a thumping
-. from a porta!
cabin two hun
Clyde Steve
One rat, was ¢
; his latest carr
-» It was a sordic
tawdry as befi'
pinched and
rickety chairs
twirled his gu
the law that w
But the law
or his kind.
It was a litt
-. posse of sixtee
ing the river
island and slo:

Mad Dogs-
but


H. B. Trader demonstrates on
another guard, A. J. Strong,
how rioters accosted warden

Office of Captain of the Guard,
where the battle started, shows
guard examining the torn screen

m Jack Whelan, secretary to Warden Larkin, looks over a collection of murderous
p weapons confiscated from some of the prisoners. It was Whelan who, listening
in on a prison telephone, heard the warden issuing instructions to the guards

ie

tration, the hunted desperado gathered
Kessell and the other rats of his pack,
and fled from San Francisco to the river
refuge he had used before.

But he would go no further.

His sullen, smouldering eyes stared
from the pages of every newspaper with-
in two hundred miles; teletype machines
in a dozen counties chattcred out a de-
scription of his slim, dark figure; an
army of officers throughout the state
heard the command: ‘‘Get Stevens!”

So we come to the night of January
16th, 1935,;when Captain Dullea, run-
ning down an underworld tip, joined
Sheriff Miller’s squad and crossed the
river to lonely Sherman Island on the
trail of the Mad Dog. Moving silently
across the marshy fields with drawn
guns, the manhunters soon spotted the
tiny cabin, with its glowing lights and
echoes of wild carousing.

Captain Dullea, creeping ahead,
straightened up cautiously and peered
through the steamed window panes for
a moment, Then, satisfied with what he
saw, the veteran detective signaled the
others with a wave of his arm, and they
surrounded the shack like a human
chain.

Dullea, standing tensely in the shad-
ows, beckoned to Inspector James John-

‘son, veteran detective whose dangerous

and tireless work in the San Francisco
underworld: had unearthed the tip that
brought’ them to the gangsters’ island
refuge. g

“All set, Jim?” Dullea whispered.

“You bet I am, Captain,” Johnson
snapped. And I’m going to get Stevens
myself!”

Captain Dullea grinned.

“Okay, Jim. It’s your party. Go ahead
—and good luck!”

There was a breathless second of de-
lay and then, with Inspector Johnson
hurling himself through the flimsy door,
the posse burst into the cabin like a
surge of water from a broken dam, en-
gulfing the startled celebrants in a flurry
of flailing fists. Clyde Stevens, dazed
and staring open-mouthed at the raiders,
reached for his gun, but Johnson’s
rocketing fist dropped him writhing and
cursing to the floor.

Five minutes later, with his wrists
linked by steel, the snarling outlaw was
slumped in a corner beneath the frown-
ing muzzle of a deputy’s gun, while Cap-
tain Dullea, Lieutenant James Malloy,
Inspectors ‘Johnson, Hughes and Van
Maitre, and other members of the posse,
raced across the island searching for
Kessell. They found him waiting in an-
other shack a quarter of a mile distant,
with his guns spitting lead and his thin
lips mouthing rage.

The one-sided duel lasted only a
minute,

A well-aimed shot shattered Kessell’s
wrist and his smoking gun dropped to
the ground, The officers seized him,
shackled his wrists, and brought him
back to join his partner in crime. The
two ex-convicts, followed by several
other prisoners and three hysterical
women, were herded into the boats and
rowed back to the mainland.

The group headed for the near-by
town of Antioch, the county seat, where
an additional squad of officers was

waiting fo
Suddenly,

Stevens brok«

bounded dow

'. tioch in mad f

raising his gu
Captain Dulle
“Don’t shoc
him.”
The detecti
ment, slowly

* moment, dask

the left side
head-on into
cried out in p
with his coat
spinning him
right hand ir
bandit’s jaw.
Stevens buc
ground, white
no further re
of the night.
A week lat
bank robbery
tenced to Fol
thirty-five ye
Mike Jordan :
signed to deli,
They had
when Stevens
with Swan, si
ing beast. H
smashing kick
the same tim
fists down on :

’ like sweep.

Jordan, ja
stopped the cé

Stevens fou
pheming the :
like a reptile :
club and swur
skull. Finall
they were ab
bandit and co
prison.

Thus concli
amazing chror

Clyde Steve
narrowed shii
distorted with
the city of m
dripping from

“Listen, Jor
tell you one 1
They can’t ke
one of these
up things wit!

-- Dullea. Keep

Jordan, wa

- the great ston

at the gate.
*“Keep an e}

“He means it
“Aw, they a

said dryly.
Jordan shru
“Maybe so.

._ So long.”

Months lat
brain erupted
plot that rock
rocity, its los
they would
prophecy on '
1935.

’ Folsom is

~ despair.

a

It sprawls :

~- Sacramento

am


creepy place. It lies off the winding,
muddy banks of San Joaquin in
California, a lonely, forbidding piece of
land where crickets croak in mournful
chorus, and the night wind plays ghostly
caterwauls on marshgrass strings. It is
a place to hush men’s voices and still
their laughter, and bring to mind’s eye
strange visions of unholy things spying
on intruders behind the rotting trunks
of ancient trees.

And yet tonight it was a bacchanal.
Shrill cries echoed over the swamp,
the clink of glasses muffled. the insect
chirps and the wail of the wind was lost
in-a thumping cadence of jazz, blaring
from a portable radio in a> sprawling
cabin two hundred yards from shore.
Clyde Stevens, California’s Number
One rat, was giving a party to:celebrate
his latest carnival of blood and crime.
It was a sordid, shoddy affair, ribald and
tawdry as befits the gangster cloak, with
pinched and faded blondes «lolling in
rickety chairs while their sneering host
twirled his guns and boasted and forgot
the law that was forever at his heels.
But the law was not forgetting him—
or his kind. 3

It was a little after midnight when a
posse of sixteen grim-faced men, cross-
ing the river in rowboats, reached the
island and sloshed through the oozing,

ger ISLAND is a. desolate,

By KINGSLEY WELSH

Mad Dogs—men without hope—plotted an escape,

but the warden's bravery foiled their schemes

stagnant mud that fringes the shore line.
Some of them, led by Captain Charles
Dullea (present Chief of Police of San
Francisco), had come from Police Head-
quarters at San Francisco, sixty miles
north; others, with Sheriff John Miller
of Contra Costa County in charge, were
deputies familiar with the labyrinth of
the delta lands. All of them had one
purpose—the capture of Mad Dog Stev-
ens and his murderous band.

Three months before, laughing and .

promising reform, black-haired, hand-
some Clyde Stevens had been granted
a parole from San Quentin Prison. He
went straight to San Francisco, joined
his pal Albert Kessell, also an ex-con-
vict, and launched a reign of terror that
was climaxed with a dozen bank rob-
beries in broad daylight. And then,
while every policeman in California was
at his heels, an incredible event took
place in the great prison from which he
had been freed.

Four snarling convicts, armed with
automatics, burst into the home of War-
den James B. Holohan, high on ‘a hill
overlooking the green crescent of San
Francisco Bay, and in full view of the
bristling machine gun towers that circle
the prison. They slugged and beat Holo-
han unmercifully, commandeered a state
car at gunpoint and kidnapped the secre-
tary and three members of the California

State Prison Board, who were lunching
at the Warden’s house.

Finally, roaring through the prison
gate past guards who dared not shoot,
the convicts began a flight that ended
hours later, as the car, with its tires
bullet-riddled, crashed into a barn in a
little town six miles from the sea coast.

Rudolph Straight, leader of the group,
was shot to death by pursuing police
when he stumbled out of the wrecked
machine and tried to run. The others,
whimpering and pleading for life, were
disarmed and brought back to the prison
where, after an all-night grilling, they
cracked and told an astonishing tale.

Clyde Stevens had been the “brains”
of the plot.

Clyde Stevens, fresh from prison and
flushed with the success of his bank raids,
had smuggled those four deadly auto-
matics into San Quentin as a favor to
his former cellmate, Rudolph Straight.
There was only one slight miscalculation

in the infamous plan. Straight had not.

counted on the courage of the kidnapped
officials who, facing swift death on that
agonizing ride, had made no effort to

‘bargain for their lives and prevent

pursuit.

The break had failed—and Stevens
knew now that Straight would not keep
the appointment they had made weeks
before. Seething with the fury of frus-


¢

James, known as the “‘mean-
‘xas,” according to Waco’s
faxey, and nicknamed Jesse
is violent and vicious crimi-
ed his baby brother Loyal
nds of Texas authorities for
John M. Blackford during a
idup. John James was cap-
\ngeles, Cal., during a rob-
yn a Western Union office.
-radition and was returned
ce the more serious charge
; younger brother, captured
fter shooting a bartender in
_ tavern, is now serving a 99-
luntsville, Tex., State Prison
ord slaying. The Waco kill-
yated a crime spree by. the
vhich terrorized Texas, Mis-
s. and Louisiana. The FBI
brother’s criminal career be-

hen he was 16 and, like

ssake, he is described as

perado who had boasted
r be taken alive.

uitney, confessed killer of
cided I’d Rather Kill Than
‘RONT PAGE, 1960) might not
ered even had he known he
ing he’d rather die than live—
be sentenced to death. in the’
for the murder of Miami,

DENNIS WHITNEY
vhite to face Florida's chair.

ition attendant Arthur Keeler,
murder for which he was tried
ond first-degree murder trial
17-year-old North Hollywood,
The month before, in a trial

Beach, Fla, Whitney was

ling a 62-year-old grand-

irginia Selby, whose car he

had commandeered. That. jury recom-

mended mercy; his second jury made no.

such recommendation, Altogether, accord-
ing to a signed statement made by Whitney,
he had killed seven times, three times in
Florida and the others in Arizona and Cali-
fornia. Whitney was the only one to testify
for the defense. As he ambled to the stand,
he was heard to say, “I just don’t give a
damn.” Then, briefly, under a lawyer's guid-
ance, Whitney said he had had an impov-
erished childhood, a--shiftless, drunken
father and a bedridden mother. “I had to
give the money to my mother. I worked
since I was eight years old, to help out in
the house. My father was very sloppy and
vulgar and would pass out from drink.
Sometimes he came close to burning down

the house. Once he set himself on fire .

and burned his clothes off.” This was the
total of Dennis’ defense testimony.

Hilary Thornhill, the Czar of ‘Marion
County (Miss.) bootleggers who branched

out to engineer the bush-wack murder of

crusading Sheriff J. V. Polk, has been sen-
tenced to life imprisonment. Confessed
triggerman Willie McCain was the state’s
key witness, testifying that Thornhill had
promised him half of his bootlegging busi-
ness in the county if he killed Polk. Thorn-
hill’s defense attorney, Earle Wingo, cross-
examining McCain, attempted to make him
admit he had made a deal with the district
attorney and the judge to plead guilty and
receive a life sentence—rather than. death
—in exchange for fingering Thornhill. “I
got life, but it wasn’t any deal,” McCain re-
torted. “I knew I was guilty and I pleaded
guilty.” In his final argument for the state
before the jury retired, County Attorney
Michael Lawless declared, “Marion County
is on trial. Either we allow criminals or
good citizens to run this county. This de-
cision is yours.” It took the jury one min-
ute less than an hour to make that decision.
Defense Attorney Wingo immediately mo-
tioned for a mistrial, and was turned down.

He subsequently indicated he would enter —

an appeal to the State Supreme Court. Also
sentenced to life terms for the murder of
the Columbia, Miss., sheriff who had de-
clared an all-out war on bootleggers and
moonshiners were Basel Rogers and Desolee
Thornhill, who pleaded guilty to helping
plan the shotgun murder. Eugene Robert-
son, who pleaded guilty to attempted mur-
der, was sentenced to ten years in prison.
Police charged Robertson had been hired to
assassinate the sheriff, but then chickened
out and was not present at the actual shoot-
ing. Shirley Lee, charged with conspiracy,
was sentenced to two years in the state
penitentiary, but Circuit Court Judge Sebe
Dale placed her on a four-year probation-
ary status. A week after the sixth person
had been tried in answer to the tragic

question of Who Bought Sheriff Polk’s .
Death? (August FRONT .PAGE, 1960),

Marion County residents were startled to
learn that the case was not yet considered
complete: a seventh person, Nath McCain,
a cousin of confessed triggerman Willie
McCain, was arrested and indicted by the
Grand Jury on a charge of murder. He is
accused of helping buy the automobile
which was used as a partial payment in the
slay-for-pay killing. Nath McCain, arrested
at his home in the Dexter community nine
miles southwest of Columbia, vehemently

denied any connection with the murder. He -

said he is a farmer, that he often buys and
sells fruit, and that, in fact, he had been

packing fruit outside his home when he was ©

arrested.

Howard Stickney, 22-year-old murderer
whose trail of credit card gas purchases re-
sulted in his apprehension following the
deaths of Shirley and Cliff Barnes (Case Of
The Missing Type O, September FRONT
PAGE, 1960), has been sentenced to die in

Howarp STICKNEY
Credit Card trail ends in death sentence.

the electric chair by Houston, Tex., Dis-

_trict Judge Miron Love. As he waited in

court to hear the verdict, Stickney calmly
held on to a box of cigars and several books,
one of which ironically was titled We The
Living.

Elizabeth Duncan, facing execution for
hiring two men to kill her daughter-in-law
Olga, has been granted a stay until the fall,
when her appeal can be heard. Supreme
Court Justice Douglas agreed that the
court would decide if her rights to due
process of law had been violated dur-
ing her trial in Ventura, Cal., by the con-
duct of the prosecutor, resulting publicity
and the presence of “three jurors who had
entered the jury box with fixed opinions as
to guilt.” Also granted stays pending final
action on these questions were the two men
hired by Mrs. Duncan, Luis Moya and
Augustine Baldonado. (In The Witch’s
Tentacles, April FRONT PAGE, 1959.)

Serge Rubinstein, mysteriously murdered ©

financier found strangled to death in his
Manhattan mansion (Who’d Kill Me? May
FRONT PAGE, 1955), left a surprisingly low
estate of $2,031,573, it has just been re-
vealed in Surrogate’s Court. It had been
believed that Rubinstein, whose killer was
never found, had a personal fortune as high
as $10 million. The bulk of his estate was
left to his two children; $10,000 bequests
had been left to a friend, two secretaries,
and the butler. who found his body. His
murderer has never been apprehended, nor
has a motive ever been established.

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11


ee
a
~ hearuise Washington office. “I have never
he? pacdaed harder in my life,” pares ae
‘ble, cg ,eet best at seemed that the ag a
\d by powetk cavelved was typing copies of iet-
Jor-tac att and a secretary did that. Bike: a.
Ammy jy. Wéritten Denial. Last week, his in

grutegatum exposed as a sad and cyni-
gat farce, Bender was threatening to sue
ey yeablication that reprinted Washing-
amed as chair.#o Perl and Times Herald on cari
hree-member j dberttock’s devastating version oO . e
ston: Ohio J, f#*ier investigation (see cut). But m a
Bender, somet.# teasman asked to oh usr ahi . e
an (1939-48: pentane that Bender claimed to uve
r (1955-57), mits bus bles. Bender could produce nothing
as the boar-sh: phate Convincing than a Ictter he had sent
ublican Conven#@ ¢ harles C. Curran, eee Te ot
spicuous by rin:@4 s bakery drivers’ (Teamsters ) oca
rention of Sen.#@ Tacoma, Wash, “We would like to
fisen.” said Bender's letter, if there
lec proved equ bre been any cases of racketeering or
. whitewash br&eetter alliances in your local, and what
iding with the Bi toot ant a hk: officially to elim-
—_ caste such elements. ;

gles Saranled ACTOSS the bottom of the let-
n, using an inv 48 the straightforward reply:

: comparable tot No rackelecring here

case by going mi Charles C. Curran

ling, “Is aml HISTORICAL NOTES

) Teamster offi;
Hoffa's own mA Nice Old Lady

letter asking — Jn the college town of Oberlin, Ohio
icketeering, if {i540 pop. 7,062), neighbors knew Alice
zative replies, ICostes Little as a dear old maiden lady
n bothering to dgith a sharp memory and a_ penchant
¢ ~ formed lft collecting. Her memory, even after
c 2 O.K. Hpore than half a century, still warmly
ll, to the pityadted the color and sound of the far-
acts about the 'ywsy Pacific islands that she visited as
Bender's inves yung missionary for the Congregational
mut. For his efityurch, Her collections—sea shells, bits
> a day from ligg pressed vegetation, samples of earth
19,250 from Atind coral—cluttered her antebellum house
n additional $ijq (terlin’s East College Street, where
ig Tent on Benhe jived quietly the last 50 years.
But meticulous Alice Little, it turned
ut. had brought home more than sea
lle and memories. Early in World War
I. U.S. Naval Intelligence heard that
had lived in the west central Pacific,
terviewed her. To the Navy’s delight,
" Miss Little rooted out other items in her
tS aes iollections—maps, charts and the jour-

ht a bright sy
wyers*: Why ¢
ng commission #

in Washington:
Edward Bennett
‘ank Costello, Be
‘ton Powell) will

\f missions on trips around her islands
tmuard the sailing vessel Morning Star.
put of the faded books and charts leaped
x porch facts as these: how the tides swept
h and the heights of shore-line cliffs,
& #« deep the channels were and how
awrite the sandy beaches, where in the
“ dyvtal water lay hidden coral reefs and
here lay clear passage at low tide. The
savy borrowed books, charts, fauna and
and. Alice Little settled back to her
itt spinster existence.

Last week Alice Cowles Little died at
ell: And in the midst of the sea shells
gr" pressed plants and a vast collection

X

& * postage stamps, friends found a well-
qv. wo

Alo:
ponsonty
ri TG
AVES’ eh

raced, patently cherished letter from
EF Shaval Intelligence thanking the little old

==<hly from Oberlin for her role in the
B, Tha Washington Fc cessful wartime invasions of the islands
RKED HARDER -jatawa, Makin and Kwajalein.

v Gsnuary shut, JANUARY 5, 1959

ONADO, DUNCAN, and MOYA, asphy

RR jale she carefully kept for the board .

iseieiiats rere

(CRIME

Mamma's Boy
Pity the girl who marries Frank Dun-

_ can, clacked the gossips around the Santa

Barbara, Calif. courthouse. The owl-eyed
lawyer was arrogant and humorless, lisped
so noticeably that teasing court clerks
called him a “wicked wascal wabbit” be-
hind his back. But that was the lesser half
of it: Frank at 29 was a mamma's boy.
Matronly, smartly dressed Elizabeth Dun-
can, separated from her husband when
Frank was a child, held her son’s hand in
court, applauded when he won a case,
tongue-lashed the district attorney when

OLGA

e San Quentin (Ventura) August 8, 1962,

ELIZABETH

Oe ee one

was no help. Santa Barbara and Ventura
police turned up the phony annulment
and, with help from the FBI, followed a
trail that led to two characters of Santa
Barbara’s seamy Haley Street area: blade-
thin Augustine Baldonado, 25, and Luis
Moya, a 22-year-old convict (dope and
street fighting). Both finally confessed
that mother Duncan had hired them to

kill Olga for $6,000. They led the cops to .

a shallow grave in a Ventura County
ditch. There indeed lay the body of Frank
Duncan's bride, the victim of beating and
strangulation.

Mother Duncan, already in jail for the
fraudulent annulment, was led from her

# ag
are

UPI: Wayne F, K

elly—Los Angeles Times
FRANK |

Wicked wascal wabbit wan.

he lost. So tight was the noose that once,
when Frank threatened to leave home,
his mother took a heavy dose of sleeping
pills and was carried off to Santa Bar-
bara’s Cottage Hospital.

Love & Leave. There, ironically, ro-
mance entered Frank’s life 13 months
ago. Mother Duncan’s nurse was slight,
auburn-haired Olga Kupczyk, 30, recently
of Vancouver, Canada. After Mother
Duncan was sent home, Frank and Olga
dated. In May Olga was pregnant, and
told friends she was in love; in June she
and Frank were married. But scarcely had
a superior court judge tied the knot than
Olga Kupczyk Duncan’s mother-in-law
trouble began. The newlyweds checked
into a Santa Barbara motel for their wed-

ding night. At 1:30 a.m. Frank had to go

home to mother.

For five months Frank Duncan spent
evenings with Olga, nights at home. Some-
times mother Duncan, 54, would harass
Olga by telephone at the hospital; some-
times she would beat on the apartment
door and scream threats. Twice Olga
changed apartments to escape her. mother-
in-law; each time Mother Duncan trailed
Frank to his rendezvous. And one day
last August mother Duncan hired an ex-
convict to act as her son, posed herself as
Olga, got a Ventura County superior court
judge to annul her son’s marriage.

Defeat & Death. Olga and Frank ig-
nored the threats; Olga, in fact, had high
hopes that the baby’s arrival might win
over Frank once and for all. Then, in
mid-November, Olga’s hospital friends re-

_ ported her mysteriously missing. Frank

cell and charged—along with Baldonado
and Moya—with murder. Angrily, she de- .

nied all, called the whole thing a frame-up
to hurt her Frank. Frank himself hid
under an assumed name in a Hollywood
apartment until the cops tracked him
down. Then he scarcely grieved over his

dead wife and unborn child. But he was ,

shocked and shaken by his mother’s
plight. Said he: “I could never recall
mother doing anything cruel. She would
have to be insane to be linked into it.”

DEFENSE |
Man for the Job

With better luck than anyone had a
right to expect, President Eisenhower last
week found just the man to take on the
job—vacant since the “wanted” sign was
hung out last August—of running the
Pentagon’s increasingly diverse research
and engineering problems. The man: Dr.
Herbert York, 37, one of the nation’s top
scientists, who has been holding down the
job of chief scientist of the Defense De-
partment’s Advanced Research Projects
Agency, ten-month-old overall Pentagon
planning group.

Known in the scientific world as a rol-.
licking wit and a hard worker, stocky
(5 ft. rz in., 190 Ibs.) Physicist Herb
York got his start in science as a small

!

_ boy in Rochester, N.Y., when his untle

gave him a book on astronomy. He worked
his way through the University of Roch-
ester (A.B. ’41, Phi Beta Kappa), took his
Master’s in 1943. After that he joined the_

parade of topnotch atomic physicists at |

23


FRONT PAGE DETECTIVE

July, 1960

lutters’ farm home.
s a radio, a pair of
$50 in cash. Smith
sted in Las Vegas,
were put on their
the Kansas State
the robbery-murder
walls of the prison
ad, he mentioned to
h and Hickock that
the informant had
‘thy and had a safe
is no such safe.

‘well, convicted in
e murder of elderly
nd himself the tar-
s to send him to the
g he also murdered

. {OTHERWELL

chamber.

defective child. The
n, D. C., construc-
‘tained his innocence
ig the wealthy Mrs.
“ring her cross-coun-
yur, said, after hear-
y, “It wasn’t what I
cution, in their at-
‘entence rather than
xplained that when
wife was found face

Luis Moya, 23, awaiting execution in the
San Quentin, Cal., death house for his
part in the slaying of Nurse Olga, Duncan,
29, in the plot engineered by her mother-
in-law (Jn The Witch’s Tentacles, April
FRONT: PAGE, 1959), is seeking court per-
mission to give one of his eyes to save the
sight of a minister. Moya said he wanted

to submit to the corneal transplant opera- .

tion “in atonement for past misdeeds.” His
recent court action was a move to force
California Prison Director Richard McGee
to allow the operation, which McGee had
turned down last Fall on the contention that
it conflicted with prison regulations. The
minister who would benefit from Moya’s
offer is going blind from wounds suffered
as a marine in World War II.

Eddie Oxendine, of Pembroke, N. C.,
has been turned down on his appeal to the
State Court of Criminal Appeals: for what
it termed the “cruel and wanton murder”
of a young Lawton, Okla., housewife, Mrs.
Ruth Zimmerman, during a robbery, the
court set execution. Still pending is the
appeal of Oxendine’s cohort, his brother-
in-law, James Spence, 29, Hampton,. N. C.
The court had reversed the men’s convic-
tions earlier on grounds that improper pic-
tures were shown at the trial. They were
tried again, and both drew the death sen-
tence. Oxendine admitted his participation
in the robbery-murder, but pleaded for
mercy on the grounds that it was Spence
who fired the fatal shots. All three appeals
judges concurred in the opinion, written

by Presiding Judge John Powell, that Ox-
endine deserved the death penalty: “The
deceased was tied and gagged at the time
she was killed by defendants in an apparent
attempt to prevent detection and identifica-
tion. Truly, the evidence disclosed a cruel
and wanton murder and was amply suff-
cient to support the extreme penalty
assessed.” The opinion stated that Oxen-
dine had told a jailer “that their only mis-
take was not staying to see that the Zim-
mermans were dead.” (My God, He’s Emp-
tied The Whole Clip, July FRONT PAGE,
1958)

Dismas House, the establishment created

-by Father Dismas Clark to help convicts
stay straight during that critical period be-

tween release from prison and the acqui-
sition of a job and enough money to pay
the first month’s rent, will soon gain in-
ternational renown: the. movie industry is
about to immortalize on film the Hood-
lums’ Priest and His Half-Way House
(February FRONT PAGE, 1960). Actor Don
Murray is scheduled to: portray the’ St.
Louis, Mo., priest whose drive to establish
Dismas House was based on his conviction
that ‘ex-convicts “can be rehabilitated into
useful members of society” provided that
society remembers “they need things—a
hot shower, not a sermon .. . a good place
to sleep, not a pat on the back . . . a good
meal, not a pep talk.” The actor who will
portray Reverend Charles Dismas sampled
all of these things during his flying prelim-
inary visit to meet the prison chaplain,

sk Nt a ak i RR at TRON

and Don Murray’s comment—between
bites of steak, and later strawberry ice
cream—was that he had “slept like a log”
during the night he spent at the rehabili-
tative project named after the thief who

died with Christ on:the cross.

Charles Nash, Richard Jones and Roy
Hicks, have been convicted of murdering
Detroit, Mich., auto dealer Parvin Las-
siter. The three were sentenced to life
imprisonment by Circuit Court Judge
Joseph A. Rashid after pleading guilty to
second-degree murder, Nash, the admitted
trigger man, angrily protested “This is a
kangaroo court.” Jones declared, “They
gave us the works on this thing.” (Paged
To Fill A Coffin, August FRONT PAGE, 1959)

George Flatter, 21, has been found guilty
of murder in the first degree for the
strangling of housewife Mrs. Elizabeth
Moughlér (Run, Lady, Run, May FRONT
PAGE, 1960). The verdict came after a De-
troit, Mich., jury did some checking of its
own to determine whether or not the dis-
tance between where the victim was found
and where the accused lived could have
been covered in the 20 minutes between the
time the woman was killed and the defend-
ant was seen to arrive home. Two jurors
took a walk on their own, clocking them-
selves, and concluded that young Flatter
could have covered the distance easily in
20 minutes.. The jury’s decision carries a

‘mandatory life sentence for the 21-year-

old murderer.

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I Universal Schools, 6801 Hillcrest Ave.,
Dallas 5, Texas

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leath was ruled acci- :
Aongoloid child was
t cemetery, Mother-
d strangled to death
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udge whether or not she is guilty

conspiracy has been declared a

Owever, the trial was ordered
of Gordon Watson, the man who
| with plotting with her the death
sband in order to acquire - Parvin
fortune and clear the path for an
ance (Paged To Fill A Coffin,

. ONT PAGE, 1959),

rchina, who seven years ago was
. °d of shooting his wife’s mother,
er and brother to death and of
his wife in a wild spree (My
Your Lives, May. FRONT PAGE
in faced a trial, this time in
y. Archina, an immigrant from

the shooting took place in'Den- -

.ANK. ARCHINA
emory lingers on,

> sentenced to death by a
ut the sentence was reduced
‘to his homeland when psy-
ed he was temporarily in-
1e of the shooting. Italian
um as soon as he arrived on
has been in prison in Rome

years. During that time an 4

trist examined him and

stand trial for murder. 1
@:: he will plead: for £
n grounds that he has rd

six years in jail awaiting
uilty, he could receive life

Charles Kelley, of Minneapolis, Minn.,
has pleaded guilty to first-degree murder
charges in the death of Alvin Koehrsen—
after a jury could not agree on the death
penalty for him. The jury of nine women

~ and three’ men reported to District Judge

Leroy H. Johnson that it was deadlocked

on whether or not Kelley should hang: for ©
his part in the killing of-the 54-year-old

Walnut, Iowa, man. The jury foreman and
another juror had been holding out for life

imprisonment for the 20-year-old whose
Three Nights Of Kill-Kill-Kill (June Front
' PAGE, 1961) was climaxed with the death

of Koehrsen. After the judge dismissed ©
the jury, Kelley’s court-appointed hehe 3

conferred with the defendant and the ju
foreman, and Kelley entered his guilty plea,
which left it up to the judge to determine

the penalty. Charles Brown has already-

been tried for his role in’ the slaying, and
sentenced to hang at the Iowa penitentiary.
‘Both men. have also been. charged with
murder in Omaha, Neb., and_Minneapolis,
Minn., in connection with slayings there.

Edward Vogt, 18-year-old accused of

- killing Robert Giuttari; 14, while trying to

steal the tips the boy was earning by de-
livering Christmas trees, has been. found
guilty of first-degree murder in the Jolting
Case Of New York’s Boy Killer (April
FRONT PAGE, 1961). At the trial, Vogt re-

pudiated his confession, charging police had

put words into his mouth and threatened
to throw him out a window unless he con-

fessed. The all-male jury got the case at .
. 12:30 p.mM.; after deliberating for nearly

8% hours, they presented their decision to
Judge Joseph. A. Sarafite, with their recom-
mendation of life imprisonment. The rec-
ommendation of. life imprisonment does

* not. necessarily mean Vogt will spend the |

rest of his life behind bars. Assistant: Dis-

trict Attorney Robert J..Reynolds said that °

under a recent law, Vogt would be eligible
for parole in about 27 years. Before the
law’s enactment, a lifer was ineligible for

‘parole. ;

Gary. Sizemore, 17-year-old Houston,
Tex., student with: a blueprint for crime

- that included the item P.S. Kill If Neces-

sary (August FRONT PAGE, 1961), has been
indicted on two counts, one charging him
with armed robbery andthe other with the
murder of Bennie W. Hoelscher, Each
charge could carry the death penalty on
conviction. Re

Frederick Wood, 48, convicted killer pa-
roled over the protests of Elmira, N.Y.,
officials, and later picked up for #fe brutal

murder of two elderly Queens; N.Y:, men, |

has been adjudged mentally competent and

remanded to Queens County Jail until his |

scheduled trial. Wood had been convicted
of the 1942 slaying in Elmira of John Low-
man, and sentenced to a 20-year-to-life
term. After serving 17 years, he was re-

- leased on parole. A little over three weeks -

after his parole, the two elderly men-were

found dead. In their apartment were found .
two scrawled, misspelled: notes, purportedly -

written by Wood. One read: Now aren’t

these two murders a dirty shame? I’m so-0'
sorry. The other said, And God bless the. -

parole board—they’re_ real intelleant peo-
ple van So-o Sorry, October FRONT PAGE,
1960). 3 ie oe

~ Simonne Cristmann, lovely Air France
hostess, has been convicted by, a° Federal
Court jury in Brooklyn, N.Y., of violating

, the narcotics law by attempting to bring
- 4% pounds of heroin—worth $500,000 on

the user’s market—into the U.S. concealed
in her underclothes. She faced a minimum
penalty of five years and a maximum of

_ 20 years‘in federal prison. Her. defense ‘had

been that'she thought she was smuggling in
an essence of perfume for a man with whom
she had become infatuatéd (Case Book,
July FRONT PAGE, 1961),

may prove a final appeal against the death
entence imposed on his mother for the
er of his: wife. Mrs. Duncan, Luis
oya and Augustine Baldonado were con-

ughter-in-law,. Olga Duncan. Moya and
Baldonado confessed they: had been hired
to kidnap and murder. the young woman.
Their appeals were to be heard along with
Mrs. Duncan’s;. based, according to the
other attorney accompanying’ Mrs. -Dun-
can’s son to Washington, on contentions that

. three jurors of the convicting: panel: later
“admitted prejudice, and because the court

failed to grant a change of venue justified
by pretrial press coverage and sentiment in
the Ventura, Cal., community. Mrs. Dun-
can awaited the outcome of the appeal at
Corona Prison for Women;. the two hired
killers were on San Quentin’s Death Row
(In The Witch’s Tentacles, April FRONT
PAGE, 1959). :

Mrs. Elizabeth Duncan's son made what

icted in. 1959 of murdering the woman’s |

Euan.
Touch

GRAVE WARNING—Pestered by ped-
diets, a family in Lockport, N.Y., hit upon
a unique method of discouraging un-

wanted\ visitors from their door. On the
front | of their home is a large, white
headstohe bearing the epitaph: ‘Here
Lies a $alesman.”

WAD’$ THIS?—In Washington, D.C.,
energetic burglars broke into a store,
lugged out a 250-pound safe and dragged
it agross railroad tracks into a hidden
spot{ and then spent an estimated two
houfs tearing off the door. The owner re-
this inventory of the safe’s con-

Lester Langrehr, George Heldebrand and

‘ George Pat Jordan have been sentenced for

the roles they played as The Will Makers
(July FRONT PAGE; 1961) for two elderly
people who--actually had died intestate.
Langrehr, a farmer from the Monmouth-
Maquoketa, Iowa, area, was sentenced to
‘one to three years after Assistant State’s
Attorney Louis Garippa described him as
the mastermind who concocted bogus wills
to loot the $150,000 estate of the'late Mrs.
Kirstine Jepsen, and thé $390,000 estate of
the late Max Roeder. Heldebrand and Jor-

‘dan were each sentenced to 90 days. Jor-.

dan had admitted writing the fake Jepsen
will, while Heldebrand confessed he wrote

_the phony Roeder will.

Harold E. Kistner Jr. entered a surprise

' plea of guilty to a charge of aiding and
. abetting Mrs. Burnice Geiger to embézzle

$2,000,000 from her father’s bank in Shel-
don, Iowa (The Lady And The Looted
Bank, May FRONT PAGE, 1961). Kistner also

pleaded guilty before’ U.S. District Judge.

Henry N. Graven to one charge of fraudu-
‘lent sale of securities in the now-defunct
Northern Biolchemical Corp.

Pierre Joyeux, sought since October,
1959 in the slaying of Robert Bessoudo
over a girl named Germaine whom both
men wanted while all three were at a
French nudist colony (Scandal In The
Nudist Colony, February FRONT ‘PAGE,
1960), may have been found .. . a skeleton
hanging from a-rope wound around a tree
branch. The body. was discovered on the
isle. of Portcros, near Toulon, France.
-Nearby . was a notebook in which was
scrawled Good-by My Germaine, good-by

my Mediterranean, good-by my little boat.

tents.to the police: a wad of scrap paper
thrown into the safe once because it was
closer than the wastebasket. .

GRIME RHYME—No criminal offense,
but a crime against humanity was the de-
cision of an Indianapolis, Ind., judge who
took a long look at a dirty roller towel in
the court washroom, then penned a poetic
appeal to the ‘building superintendent.
Following a preamble in which he con-
tended that “cleanliness is next to Godli-
ness” and just next above justice, the
jurist rhymed:

“T think that I shall never see
’ A towel as dirty as it be.

A towel whose grimy folds are pres’t

Against the face of all the rest.”

FIRE TRAP—Tired of warning local
motorists about following the fire truck
when it was en route to a blaze, the Ath-
ens, Tenn., fire chief set a trap for the
culprits. He intentionally set a rubbish
pile ablaze, then waited for results. Its

siren screaming, the fire truck arrived at
the scene, followed by a stream of curious
local residents in their cars. Thirteen of
them were cited for a court hearing for
illegally following the fire truck.


“Objection,” defense attorney called.
“Sustained,” ruled the judge.
According to the witness, Frank had
promised his mother many times, “Tl
never leave you.”

After the wedding, said Mrs. Martin,
Elizabeth told her, “Frank came home to
mother on the night of the marriage.”

“Mrs. Duncan said she would kill Olga
dead and would kill Frank dead. She
said she would rather see Frank dead than
living with that - - - - - - rad

WHEN recess was called Mrs. Duncan
leaped to her feet. “Liar!” she scream-
ed at the aged witness stepping down from
the stand. Sullivan tried to restrain his
client but Mrs. Duncan turned to the
courtroom and pointed to Mrs. Martin.

“See those clothes?” she called out.
“They’re mine. See those beads? She got
them from my apartment. I could go up
there and rip them off.”

For the next day and a half, Mrs.
Martin underwent a thorough cross-
examination by Sullivan. The defense at-
torney got the woman to admit that she
was hazy on certain dates. He kept ham-
mering away at the fact that the elderly
witness had never informed the police of
the things she claimed she knew. He also
drew an admission from Mrs. Martin
that she had not actually heard Mrs. Dun-
can threaten Olga over the telephone.

But Mrs. Martin said that after the dis-
appearance, Elizabeth Duncan warned
her, “You know it will mean the electric
chair if you tell.”

(0X March- 3rd, Gustafson called Mrs.
Winnie Hahn, a former jail-mate of
Mrs. Duncan, as a witness. The woman
testified Mrs. Duncan had planned to es-
cape and warned Mrs. Hahn not to re-
veal her plans, saying, “She had people on
the outside who would get me.”

The witness said Mrs. Duncan pro-
tested her innocence in Olga’s murder,
but called the late nurse, “A foreigner,
no good dope addict and a Russian spy.”

Another cell-mate testified that Mrs.
Duncan had told her, “They (Moya and
Baldonado) beat her, beat her and beat
her, but the old b—— wouldn’t die. Isn’t
that just like a Russian?”

After this testimony, Gustafson rested
his case.

sh following day, Elizabeth Duncan
took the stand to fight for her life.

44

To the very end, Elizabeth Duncan was cocky—certain that she would be freed.

Her emotions ranged from supreme con-
fidence, to tears, to anger, as her attorney
led her through her testimony.

The defendant admitted being “terribly
upset” on Frank’s wedding night. She ad-
mitted Mrs. Martin’s testimony about a
plan to tie up and abduct Frank.

“Why did you want to tie him up?”
Sullivan asked.

“I guess I just didn’t want to lose
Frank. I was going to keep him for a few
days and talk to him. I know it was
foolish.”

Under Sullivan’s careful examination,
she admitted she did not like Olga Kup-
czyk and did not want her son to marry
the girl. She called Olga on the tele-
phone, she said, and “I accused her of
sleeping with him (Frank) at night and
she admitted it. . . She called me a bad
name and said she would marry my son
if I liked it or not.”

The defendant admitted ‘going to the
newlyweds’ apartment but denied that
Frank had said “Come on, doll, let’s go
cic She insisted, “He never called me

fe) vid

She glared at the judge when he over-
ruled ‘her attorney, and she covered her
face with her hands and shed tears when
Sullivan questioned her about her daugh-
ter, Patricia, who died at the age of
fifteen, in 1948.

After arguing with Frank in November
of 1957 over an annulment from one of
her husbands, Mrs. Duncan said, she
attempted suicide by taking an overdose
of sleeping pills. It was that attempt that
sent her to the. Cottage Hospital where
Frank met Olga.

Elizabeth Duncan then emphatically
denied hiring the killers of Olga Duncan.

aprile and gay during the noon recess,
the witness broke into tears again
during the afternoon session when she
sobbed, “I was just lonesome for him. I
just wanted him.”

As for the witnesses who testified she
had tried to hire them to harm Olga, they
were all wrong, she claimed. And she
never asked a witness to spy.on Frank,
she said. “I don’t.think my son would
stoop so low as to go toa lovers’ lane.”

Mrs. Duncan disposed of the Moya and
Baldonado claim that she had hired them
by saying they were trying to “blackmail”
her. She hadn’t identified them at police
line-ups because, “I don’t believe in put-
ting anyone in jail.”

Ween Gustafson took over the question-
ing, he brought shouts, sobs and angry
retorts from the defendant as he asked
her about husband after husband, until
she had admitted to eleven marriages.

“What has that got'to do with all of
this?” she yelled at the prosecutor.

When Judge Blackstock told her,
“Never mind,” her answer was, “I cer-
tainly do mind.”

Sullivan objected that the questions
were designed to prejudice the jury. “And
to degrade my son,” the witness added.

Later, the judge ordered that the jury
disregard all testimony pertaining to the
many marriages.

Over and over again, Mrs. Duncan
denied to Gustafson that she had hired
the two men to kill Olga Duncan.

“Don’t you. say that to me,” she yelled
at the prosecutor at one point. “That’s
a lie! A lie!”

Then the D.A. asked her what the “bad
name” was that Olga had called her
during a telephone conversation.

Mrs. Duncan shook her head defiantly.
“I won’t answer that,” she said.

“Oh, yes, you will,” retorted the pro-
secutor.

“Make me,” she challenged.

Ordered by the judge to answer, the
defendant said “She said I was nq good.
She said I was a son of a bitch for not
pears Frank to go ahead and marry

er.”

She continued snapping angry retorts
at the prosecutor throughout the day.
During the afternoon Frank Duncan join-
ed her by jumping to his feet and shout-
ing at Gustafson that his name was
“Frank—not Frankie,” as the D.A. had
been calling him.

“You sit down,” Gustafson said. When
he young lawyer obeyed, his mother took
up his defense, telling the prosecutor that
her son was an officer of the court and,
“You should show him some respect.”

“Where is your intelligence?” she asked
Gustafson when he asked her if she had
attempted to hire a carhop to kill Frank’s
wife. At another point she cried out,

-“That is not true. And don’t you sit there

and lie.”

To Judge Blackstock she yelled, after
being told to answer a question, “How
can I, when you sit there and overrule
everything?” Then she told Gustafson,
“Get away from me. I don’t want you
close to me.” When he walked away, to
the far end of the jury box, she told him,
“That’s a good place for you.”

Towards the end of her cross-examina-
tion, Gustafson asked why she hadn't
identified Moya in a lineup as her “black-
mailer.”

Her answer was “I don’t believe in
prosecution. I really don’t, and now I
don’t for sure. Now they’ve got me.”

T= next day Frank Duncan took the
stand and said he “went back and

“forth like a yo-yo” between his mother

and his wife. He didn’t tell his mother
of his plans to marry because, “Mother
was always proud of me. I was the apple
of her eye. She did not want to lose me.”

When he returned after his wedding
night, he said Mrs. Duncan, “was crying

in uncontrolled hysteria. I tried to con--

sole her—but I was unsuccessful.”

He described the argument in the
apartment as “A Donnybrook” and said
he left Olga and went back with his
mother.

Asked if he had lived with his mother

‘most of his life, he answered, “I have,

sir.’ Then he added, “I am proud to say
CRIME DETECTIVE

it.” Gustafson o
of the statement,
the record.

Sullivan .as
an occasion
manhood or

slept in the
mother)?”
“Never,” Du
further that the
apartment with «
His mother h
against Olga’s
Duncan testified
“I love my 1
wife, too,” he sa

HEN Duncan |!
rested its cas
court, “I intend
testimony that h
“You're a |
yelled from her
“You keep q
back.

Insurance mé
was then called
testified that Fr
marriage, “I’m
I wish I could
else.” The witn
Frank about t
almost a mont
hearing about
vised Duncan t
live with his wi
don’t know my

In closing th
son told the }j
wife could hav
or sister,” anc

CAR FU
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INVESTIGA'
as the repres

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why: The hu;
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service indus’
LION ACCII
Insurance C<
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Already hunc
thousands of
$14,768 his fi
ten weeks. R
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Firms needir
overseas, cal)
this booming
school. Write
you to get ir
of weeks. Nc

CRIME DETEC)


lrew_from_ the University.
“Red” Clarke’ seemed to
1960 and 1964 he worked
of undistinguished. jobs. He
nissed for inefficiency as a
t Office clerk, fired from a
lephone answering service.
tion had been as safety
an industrial organization.
arged after being involved
t. Since early January of
deen getting unemployment
wife supported the house-
of all this he was described
nan and had never been in
of any kind. There was
ing in his background that
2 a flare-up of murder.

AY morning at about
-en a man who lived on
id found a paperback book
two blocks from the Her-
e book was “All the King’s
2rt Penn Warren. The man
\.’8 office and George Cur-

ch it!” Currey told him.
fingerprints.”

‘as picked up at once, and
‘h of the area began in the
ling the missing weapon.
ne detectors went over the -
inch by inch, and a num-
bjects were unearthed. But
*~ -nong them.

orning, Currey Butler
well were on a plane bound
n. They carried with them
found under Paula Her-
e bullet-punctured sweater,
iula’s blood, the paperback
veral articles of Clarke’s

in the famed F.B.I. labora-
hington got quick results.
similar in every respect to
1 Herring’s sweater, were
of Clarke’s suits.
three officers flew back to
nd that there, too, the case
had moved ahead. Police
om one of his friends that
special interest in guns.
friend’s presence, Clarke
llet into the lawn in front
eth Apartments in South
1 the aid of mine detectors, .
s dug up, rushed to the
e of the Tennessee Bureau
ivestigation and Identifica-
kings on it were found to
those on the two slugs
he slain girl’s body.
isual twist had developed
Clarke had _ voluntarily
into Vanderbilt Hospital,
d been suffering “blackout
period of time.
| went into session with
o and Mayor Beverly
/ afterward, Nichol an-
a warrant had been ob-
g John Randolph Clarke
2e murder in the death of

s removed to the prison
ashville General Hospital
1 was placed under guard.
lays, he was: taken to jail,
2d and held without bond.
13, 1964, a Davidson

y, after full investiga-
indictment against him

d assault with intent to

t CRIME DETECTIVE

y

In spite of Clarke’s indictment, resi-
dents of Nashville remained uneasy and
restive. Was the mysterious night prowler
apprehended in the person of John Ran-
dolph Clarke? Apparently not. The
same Friday night the burly ex-Navy
man slept under heavy guard in the
prison ward of Nashville General Hos-
pital a new “incident” was reported by
a young woman on Foley Drive. Shotgun
in hand, the young matron, whose hus-
band was away on business, had faced
down a mysterious intruder who tried to

_enter her home by cutting through the

screen of a back bedroom window. The
woman’s mother, looking through the
window of another bedroom, saw a car
slow down, then zoom away on Wallace
Road, making a sound like the roar and
rattle of a broken muffler.

A letter appealing for defense funds
for Clarke was shortly thereafter circu-
lated through Nashville, and a copy sent,
to the district attorney’s office and the
office of Mayor Beverly Briley.

OHN Randolph Clarke’s trial was a
sensation—from beginning to end. Be-

cause feelings in Nashville were so in-
tense, the defense attorneys asked for and
were granted a change of venue, and the
trial took place in Jackson in the court
of Circuit Judge Andrew T. “Tip”
Taylor.

Throughout, the courtroom . was
crowded to capacity. People waited hours
in the hall hoping for a seat that might
be vacated by the lucky folks who had
gained entry. It was the most dramatic
trial held in the South in 1964,

To begin with, the State called Mrs.
Eva Herring to the stand. The heart-
broken mother of the victim caused one
of the biggest surprises in the whole
sordid case. Under questioning, she re-
vealed that she had met Clarke in a
diner and had given him her telephone
number. This was three weeks before her
daughter had been killed. Clarke had tele-
phoned Mrs. Herring that same day he
met her and had gone to her home,

where, Mrs. Herring reported, there had
been some intimacy between them. But,
she claimed, although he telephoned her
again two days before the murder, he had
not known her daughter prior to the
crime. She pointed to Clarke as he sat
at the defendant’s table and accused him
of killing Paula. But the defense attorney
forced her to admit that she had no per-
sonal knowledge that he was guilty—
only that she felt he was.

After that testimony and the pitiful
testimony of the young brother of the
murder victim, a case of circumstantial
evidence was built up against Clarke,
which was apparently able to convince
the jury. ;

On September 25th, it rendered its
verdict: “We the jury find the defendant,
John Randolph Clarke, guilty of murder
in the first degree and recommend his
sentence be set at 30 years in prison.”

Note: The names Ed Kirby and Jim
Kellin are fictitious.

“KILL HIS WIFE

FOR ME, BOYS!”

(Continued from page 41)

that the husband of Olga, at least, would
know ‘nothing of the matter. Mrs. Kirk
said the defendant promised “to stand
behind me with a blanket to throw over
the girl,” and they would then take the
victim to the mountains and dispose of
the. body.

The witness said she reported the inci-
dent to Frank two days later by telling
him his mother was trying to get his girl
out of the way. “I didn’t have the words
to tell him his mother was planning mur-
der,” Mrs. Kirk said.

HE second witness was Mrs. Evelyn St.
John, a former assistant to an optome-
trist whom Mrs. Duncan had consulted
about glasses. Mrs. St. John testified that
the defendant told her her son was going
with a student nurse at the Cottage Hos-
pital in Santa Barbara.

The witness said, referring to Mrs.
Duncan: “She wanted to know if I could
help her find out who the b—— was. She
told me she didn’t want anyone marrying
her son now, in the middle of his career.
She said he was not right for it, and
wanted me to go to various parking lots
or lovers’ lane spots to find them. She

said that if they did get married, ‘T’ll get -

rid of her””

The witness said she askedsMrs. Dun-
can if her son wasn’t old enough to marry
rt her answer was, “He’s still Mommy’s

oy.”

(n the second day, Gustafson introduced
as witnesses a husband and wife who

testified that Mrs. Duncan had offered.

them one thousand dollars to commit
murder and later had upped her. price to
fifteen. hundred dollars.

John Strada, who had been tried on a
narcotics charge a short time before, said
“I told her I couldn’t do it. I had just
gotten out of trouble and didn’t want to
get back in.”

His wife backed up his story. She
testified Mrs. Duncan wanted her to hit

CRIME DETECTIVE

Olga Duncan over the head, put the body
in a bathtub and pour lye on it.

“I didn’t think she was serious,” the
witness said. “But when she told my hus-
band, I got worried.” The woman said
she “played along” with Mrs. Duncan’s
offer. In answer to Sullivan’s question as
to whether she had reported the incident,
the witness answered, “If I went to the
police, would they believe me?”

| ivsttrmgenss the morning, as the wit-
nesses drew their damning pictures of
her, Mrs. Duncan appeared less cocky.

When a witness testified that Mrs. Dun-
can had asked her to get in touch with
the Stradas and wanted to know if she
knew anyone to help “get a woman out
of town,” Mrs. Duncan turned to her son
and said, almost inaudibly, “I don’t know
that woman.”

But she regained her composure by
the noon recess. When a reporter com-
mented, “It’s a beautiful day out,” the
accused answered, “It certainly is.” Then
she added, wistfully, “I wish I was out.”

Frank Duncan told the reporters that
witnesses were lying about his mother.
“She is getting damn sick of all these
lies,” he said heatedly.

But the testimony Duncan objected to,
faded in comparison with what he heard
the next day when Luis Moya recited a
story of murder to the courtroom.

Hes and without emotion, the twenty-
two-year-old youth told how he and
Baldonado met with Elizabeth Duncan
in the cafe of Marie Cortes and bargained
over the price for the murder of Olga
Duncan.

“She (Mrs. Duncan) said she wanted
to get rid of her because Olga had threat-
ened to ruin her son’s career if she didn’t
pay one thousand dollars by Friday,”
Moya said. He told how he raised the
price from three to six thousand dollars
to commit the murder. :

As the witness told of haggling over
the price, Frank Duncan, his eyes misty
with tears, rose from his seat and left the
courtroom. In the corridor he sobbed, “I
can’t stand it. I can’t stand it.”

On the stand, Moya continued his story
while Elizabeth Duncan watched, stone-
faced. When he asked her how he should
kill her daughter-in-law, Moya said, “She
told me she had acid, rope and sleeping
pills if, we decided we could use them.”

He said they decided later that the best
plan would be to kidnap the nurse and
take her across the Mexican border to
Tiajuana and dispose of her there. Moya
testified he and Baldonado borrowed a
gun, rented an old car for twenty-five dol-
lars, and bought tape and black leather
gloves. Four days later, the two men
went to the apartment of Olga Duncan.

Moya said he lured the young wife out
to the car by saying Frank Duncan was
downstairs, drunk.

“When she opened the door of the car,
I hit her on the head with a pistol and
tried to force her in. It was a pretty hard
blow, but it didn’t knock her out. She
screamed.”

He and Baldonado pulled her into the
car, hit her again and drove off. Olga,
semi-conscious, was bound with tape as
they rode away.

Because the auto was not running well,
the men abandoned the plan of going to
Mexico. Instead, they drove to the lonely
spot near Ojai. There, they took the strug-
gling nurse and beat her with a rock and
strangled her, Moya said.

“It was a pretty good place to bury
her. We didn’t think she would be found.”

“Was she dead?” Gustafson asked.

“I felt and there was no pulse,” said
Moya.

(x February 27th, the jury heard Adele
Martin. The eighty-four-year-old friend
of Elizabeth Duncan spoke in a low voice
which ‘showed fear, as she described -the
jealousy Mrs. Duncan showed. toward her
daughter-in-law.

The witness testified that Elizabeth
Duncan had once angrily slashed to pieces
a wallet bought by Olga as a birthday
present for Frank. As pieces of the wallet
were introduced as evidence, the witness
quoted the defendant as saying, “I want
Frank to live with me. He’s not ready to

_ get married yet.”

The old woman said she heard Mrs.
Duncan threaten the nurse over the tele-
phone. “You're not a fit person to be
with my son. If you don’t leave him
alone, I'll kill you.”

Then she described a scene at the
newlyweds’ apartment. After a three-way
verbal battle, Frank turned to his mother
and said, “Come on, doll, let’s go home.”

“Did Mrs. Duncan say to you what the
sleeping arrangements (at her apartment)
were?” Gustafson asked.

43


on took over the question-
ight shouts, sobs and angry
ve defendant as he asked
oand after husband, until
2d to eleven marriages.
hat got to do with all of
-d at the prosecutor.

e Blackstock told her,
her answer was, “I cer-

ected that the questions
O prejudice the jury. “And
son,” the witness added.
dge ordered that the jury
stimony pertaining to the

ver again, Mrs. Duncan
afson that she had hired
kill Olga Duncan.

ay that to me,” she yelled
or at one point. “That’s

.. asked her what the “bad
at Olga had called her
yne conversation.
shook her head defiantly.
that,” she said.
1 will,” retorted the pro-

she challenged.

he judge to answer, the
‘She said I was nq good.
a son of a bitch for not
to go ahead and marry

apping angry retorts
throughout the day.
noon Frank Duncan join-
ng to his feet and shout-
on that his name was
inkie,” as the D.A. had
1.
a,” Gustafson said. When
r obeyed, his mother took
‘elling the prosecutor that
officer of the court and,
ow him some respect.”
ir intelligence?” she asked
he asked her if she had
e a carhop to kill Frank’s
er point she cried out,
», And don’t you sit there

.ckstock she yelled, after
nswer a question, “How
u sit there and overrule
ren she told Gustafson,
n me. I don’t want you
‘hen he walked away, to
ie jury box, she told him,
olace for you.”
‘nd of her cross-examina-
asked why she hadn’t
in a lineup as her “black-

was “J don’t believe in
‘eally don’t, and now I
Now they’ve got me.”

Frank Duncan took the
aid he “went back and
-yo” between his mother
le didn’t tell his mother
marry because, “Mother
id of me. I was the apple
did not want to lose me.”
urned after his wedding
{rs. Duncan, “was crying
hysteria. I tried to con--
was unsuccessful.”
the argument in the
onnybrook” and said
went back with his

iad lived with his mother
>, he answered, “I have,
"ided, “I am proud to say

CRIME DETECTIVE

it.” Gustafson objected to the last part
of the statement, and it was stricken from
the record.

Sullivan -asked, “Has there ever been
an occasion in your adolescence, young
manhood or manhood when you ever
slept in the same bed (with your
mother) ?”

“Never,” Duncan snapped, denying
further that they had ever lived in an
apartment with only one bed.

His mother had never made a threat
against Olga’s life to his knowledge,
Duncan testified.

“I love my mother, but I loved my
wife, too,” he said.

HEN Duncan left the stand, the defense
rested its case, but Gustafson told the
court, “I intend to show that (Frank’s)
testimony that he loved his wife is false.”
“You’re a liar!” Elizabeth Duncan
yelled from her seat. :
“You keep quiet,” Gustafson snapped
back.

Insurance man Valentine Ponomaroff
was then called as a rebuttal witness. He
testified that Frank told him, before his
marriage, “I’m in a little deep with Olga.
I wish I could palm her off on someone
else.” The witness also said that he told
Frank about the fraudulent annulment
almost a month before Frank admitted
hearing about it. When Ponomaroff ad-
vised Duncan to leave his mother and go
live with his wife, Frank answered, “You
don’t know my mother.”

In closing the state’s case, Roy Gustaf-
son told the jury that Frank Duncan’s
wife could have been “anyone’s daughter
or sister,” and, “if Frank had married

any other woman the same thing was
likely to have happened . . . She (Mrs.
Duncan) didn’t want anyone to have her
son.” He said the case was “shocking and
amazing. It’s almost unbelievable.”

The prosecutor claimed the evidence
showed that the affection between Frank
Duncan and his mother was much greater
than normal, citing how Mrs. Duncan
served her son breakfast in bed and laid
out the day’s clothes for him.

He called Duncan a “spineless jelly-
fish, liar and lady-killer,” and claimed,
“it is obvious Frank Duncan did not
love Olga Duncan. Olga Duncan loved
Frank and paid with her life.”

The methodical prosecutor finished by
demanding the jury find Mrs. Elizabeth
Duncan guilty of murder in the first de-
gree.

When. he finished and walked across
the courtroom, in front of Mrs. Duncan,
she snapped, “You son of‘a bitch.”

Gustafson stopped. “Pardon me,” he
said. “I didn’t hear you. Will you say
that louder?”

Mrs. Duncan glared but remained
silent.

pprravee attorney S. Ward Sullivan said
Luis Moya and Gus Baldonado were
not paid assassins, but bungling, free-
lance kidnapers who intended to hold
Olga Duncan for ransom.

“She offered some resistance,” he said.
“And. instead of having a victim .. .
they’ve got a corpse on their hands... .
Now it’s easy to accuse her (Mrs. Dun-
can) of participation in it, avenge them-
selves, and try to save their lives.

“Is there anything wrong with a mother

having intense love for her son?” he
asked the jury. “True, the love of each
for the other may have been more than
in the normal family. But that doesn’t
mean it would cause either one or the
other to resort to physical violence.”

Concluding, he said, “I submit that
there’s only one verdict you can reach in
this case—a verdict of not guilty.”

HE next morning, March 16th, Elizabeth
Duncan stood calmly and_ looked
straight ahead while the jury announced
that they had found her guilty of murder
in the first degree. Then de turned to her
son and said softly, “Don’t worry too
much, Frank.” But after being led back
to her cell she broke down and wept.

The next day, the jury heard arguments
to decide the sentence. Gustafson asked
the death penalty and claimed the lurid
past of the defendant was one of the rea-
sons she deserved no mercy. Prosecution
witnesses told of her vice arrest in 1953.
Gustafson also called several of her ex-
husbands and a psychiatrist.

Elizabeth Duncan’s marital record was
confused and contradictory and neither
the prosecution nor the defense attempted
to clarify it: The number of husbands
mentioned ranged from twelve to sixteen
and the testimony included references to
many annulments and misrepresentations
by the defendant.

Mrs. Duncan added to the confusion
herself, saying at one point, “I think
D’Amato was before Sollenne,” when dis-
cussing two of the men she married.
There were other marriages she could not
recall.

The psychiatrist testified that Mrs. Dun-

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can was impulsive, egocentric, maladjust-
ed, unable to stand frustration and unable
to maintain her equilibrium—but, “My
findings are that she is not insane.”
Frank Duncan said, “If I had a choice
. .. I would choose the same mother.”

(x March 20th, the jury decreed that
the penalty should be death in the gas
chamber.

On March 24th, Judge Blackstock, in
a hearing taking less than five minutes,
found Mrs. Duncan sane on the basis of
the psychiatrists’ findings.

While she waited in jail, Mrs. Dun-
can’s attorney, S. Ward Sullivan began
working on an appeal. He called her
trial, “The clearest case of a miscarriage
of justice that I have ever had in more
than thirty years as a lawyer.” Frank
Duncan decided to serve as attorney for
his mother, and began to work on the
600-page transcript of the trial, looking
for errors on which the appeal could be
based.

District Attorney Roy Gustafson
claimed, “The verdict of death is just.”

In an exclusive interview with a New
York City newspaper reporter, Duncan
revealed that he was working on an ar-
rangement with a motion picture com-
pany to depict his mother’s life on the
screen.

On April 9, 1959, a jury ruled that
Augustine Baldonado was to die for his
part in the murder of Olga Duncan. And
on April 30th, the death penalty was
decreed for Luis Moya.

Then the fireworks started.

N execution date was set for Eliza-

beth Duncan, Augustine Baldonado

and Luis Moya. It was to be August 16,
1961.

Then an appeal before the U. S. Court
of Appeals contended that newspaper
publicity had influenced the jury. Judge
Frederick G. Hamley granted a stay
order for Mrs. Duncan and her accom-
plices.

On July 3rd, 1962, all hell broke loose
in San Quentin when six desperate killers
on Death Row beat two guards into
bloody submission and held them hos-
tage for three hours. Two of those des-
perate killers, who hoped to escape as
a result of holding the guards were Luis
Moya and Augustine Baldonado. The six
killers never had a chance to escape.
They were forced to give up when a
tear-gas barrage forced their surrender.
Luis Moya’s role was an interesting one.

It was he who warned the guard, Ser-
geant Roy B. Kardell, on pain of death,
not to let the office know, in his regu-
lar one a.m. report, that anything was
amiss. But Kardell blurted out, ““There’s
trouble on the row,” when he got the
operator on the phone. He later said,
“I figuted it was better to die than let
the boys get loose.”

If Moya and Baldonado ever had a
chance of beating the rap, this desperate
maneuver had just about killed their
chances.

BY July, 1962, the Duncan case be-
came a political headache to Gov-
ernor Pat Brown, who was seeking -re-
election against one of the toughest ad-
versaries in the political arena, Richard
Nixon. Just at the time that Brown was
having his hands full with a difficult leg-
islature, the Supreme Court turned down
Mrs. Duncan’s appeal and ordered the
court to set a date of execution.
Capital punishment is a big political
issue in California. It raged during the
Chessman appeals, and Governor Brown,
known to be against capital punishment,
had called the legislature into session in
February, 1960, in an effort to abolish
the death penalty in California. The leg-

“jslature had voted against Brown then.

Now; Brown had to face appeals for a
commutation of sentence at a time when
his political future was hanging in the
balance. It was not a pretty prospect.
The fifty-seven-year-old Elizabeth Dun-
can was to be only the fourth woman
ever to be executed in the state of Cali-
fornia, and the first one to to be exe-
cuted in Governor Brown’s term of of-
fice. Also, since Mrs. Duncan and her
accomplices were all scheduled to die on
August 8th, it was to be the first triple
execution in the state. For a man who
is against capital punishment, three peo-
ple executed on the same day was a dev-
astating prospect.

In addition, the: foes of capital punish-
ment in the state were beginning to kick
up a big row. After all, Mrs. Duncan
did not have a direct hand in killing her
daughter-in-law. Baldinado and Moya
had done the dirty work.

At San Quentin, all the prisoners on
Death Row went on a hunger strike
against “Mother” Duncan’s execution.

On the other hand, there were strong
forces demanding that the death pen-
alty be carried out. Among those who in-
sisted that Governor Brown was weak
and full of “indecision” in the Chessman
case was Richard M. Nixon.

The Southern California section of the
American Civil Liberties Union, however,
stated that the rash of publicity about
the strange relationships between Eliz-
abeth Duncan and her son, Frank, had
caused an unfair trial.

Governor Brown’s decision was: “I am
unable to find circumstances to warrant
commutation.”

Meanwhile, Elizabeth Duncan was liv-
ing in semi-isolation at the State Institu-
tion for Women at Corona, where she
had been tending flowers and watching
television..

On August the 7th, one day before
her scheduled execution, Frank Duncan
appealed personally for a stay of execu-
tion to the U. S. District Court in Los
Angeles. The stay was denied. The
grounds for the appeal, Frank Duncan
averred, was that his mother was drugged
at her trial. “She might have been physi-
cally present at the trial,” he said, “but
these drugs denied her mental presence.”

Mrs. Duncan was removed from the
California Institution for Women to a
cell near the gas chamber at San Quentin.

On August 8, 1962, Elizabeth Ann
Duncan died in the San Quentin gas
chamber. Three hours later, Baldonado
and Moya went to their deaths together,
side by side.

Outwardly calm, Mrs. Duncan entered
the death cell after insisting on her in-
nocence. She said she wished she could
see her son Frank once more. Up until
the very last minute, she was sure that
he would arrange a reprieve for her.

Seven minutes before she entered the
gas chamber, Judge Walter L. Pope of
the U. S. Court of Appeals in San Fran-
cisco turned down a final appeal from
Frank, who described Mrs. Duncan as
the “best mother a boy ever had.”

At 10:02 a.m. Mrs. Duncan was led
into the gas chamber by two male guards.
She wore a simple dress of red and white
striped seersucker and her grey hair was
tied in a tight bun. She didn’t cry or
look at the witnesses.

Moya and Baldonado joked with each
other and their guards as they were led
into the gas chamber. Baldonado said to
one guard as he left the death chamber,
“Be sure to close the door when you
leave.” But when the fumes began ris-
ing Baldonado said, “I can smell it and
it doesn’t smell good.”

Note: The names Marie Cortes, Mary
Lou Kirk, Evelyn St. John, Adele Martin
and Winnie Hahn are pseudonyms, to
conceal identities of persons involved.

THE HANGING OF

CHARLIE PEACE

(Continued from page 12)

“What are you doing here at this hour
in the morning?” Tate asked, at the same
time looking the man over keenly.

“Just looking at the lights of London,”
the man answered.

“We can’t allow loiterers here at this
hour. Come on! Get up and get moving,”
Tate snapped, irritated by the man’s cool
insolence.

The man’s expression at once changed
to one of the most horrible snarls Tate
and Robinson had ever seen on a human

46

face, and for a moment he just sat there,
glaring at them. Then, he got to his feet
slowly, spat out a foul oath, and walked
away.

ATE and Robinson watched him until

he disappeared, then resumed their
patrol, carefully examining all houses,
especially those where the occupants
were known to be away for the Christ-
mas holidays.

Because they were being attacked by
the newspapers for failing to halt the
burglaries, the police were taking un-
usual precautions and practicing many
tricks to help prevent robberies.: One
favorite device of Tate and Robinson
was to fasten a thread of ordinary sew-
ing cotton, by means of pins, across
windows and doors. Such a thin line
could not be noticed in the darkness,
and if the officers did find one broken,

they knew at once that someone had
entered a house or tried to enter.

' They had examined several of these
threads and found them intact, and then
approached one of the more pretentious
homes. Suddenly, they both saw just a
flick of a shadow on a window shade.
They knew the owners of the house
were away.

At once, Tate ordered Robinson to
get reinforcements. He himself stood
guard, tense and ready. Perhaps, here
at last was the desperate burglar who
had been terrorizing the district.

A few minutes later, vague shadows
silently surrounded the house — other
policemen brought to the scene by
Robinson. Inspector Harding was in
charge. The other men posted, Tate and
Robinson then entered the house with
Inspector Harding. Fortunately, the own-
ers had left the keys at the local police

CRIME DETECTIVE

You receive
signal trace
erator, radi
other valua

station, so they °
front door and «
But quick an
the burglar was
slightest wernine
of shots.
lighted uy
lets smas.
cried out and fe
let struck him.
“Rush him!” J
ed, and he and
Harding striking
Tate used his tru
It was a brie
by now the rc
sistol. He then |
ing Inspector H
But in that sam:
to crash his nig
burglar’s head,
a heap.

THER policem:

into the hall
their lanterns, t
oner and then «
tunately, the br
high in the rig!
officers took Rot
others hauled tt
heath police sta

By the time
the prisoner, he
ness and starte
them viciously.
at the time wh«
did realize tha
uncommonly tc
further emphas
his person rev

CRIME DETECTIVE


—

Tough

HAVE been a reader of MasTER DETEC-

TIVE ever since I started doing my third.

jolt. "I did this jolt in Folsom Prison,
California, a tough spot and for recidi-
vists only.

One of the cons who subscribed for all
the detective magazines publishing true
detective stories, would rent these mags
out to the cons. You could take a mag
to your cell and read it one night for one
sack of weed. He did a land-office busi-
ness. In fact, business was so good that
he had to hire a bookkeeper. This party
was my cellmate. Besides keeping books,
he also wrote songs which were highly
commercial.

I noticed that MasTER DETECTIVE got
more play than any of the other fact
magazines. I spoke of this to my cell-
mate.

“You know, pal,” he said, “all the boys
in here go for Master DETECTIVE in a
big way because it has the most inter-
esting cases. But there is one department

they could discontinue and thereby re-;
ceive the thanks of every con in this joint, ;

and that goes for.every stir in the U. S.,

and I am not passing up the ex-cons,'

either. I am speaking of that damn Line-
Up. It is getting so a fellow can’t pull
a bank job or a simple heist without his

mug getting flashed in MasTER DETECTIVE, ©
And, pal, when you see your map in, that. ;

magazine, you’d better start looking for
a mouthpiece. Millions of people’ will
gander at your pan in M.D.’s Line-Up,
and some of them are sure to make you.”

The Warden of Folsom Prison, C: A. '
Larkin, was tough—and when I say...

tough, I mean ToucH with a tail on, it. .

He had climbed to wardenship the hard)

way. He had started out as a guard about
twenty years before. It took a tough
hombre to be a guard in ‘‘them’ thar
days.” x 4
Guard Larkin proved to be as tough as
the toughest. His toughness landed him

in the captain’s office as captain of. the. .

guard. Believe me, he was just as tough
a captain as he was a guard. With the
exception of a very few, he was cordially
hated by every con in the joint. He
finally became Warden.

His first official act was to call a meet-
ing of all the wall guards.

Warden: “Bear this in mind, men, in
the event I am snatched and I order you

to throw down your guns, don’t you do it.
Shoot and shoot to kill.”
A’ guard: “But, Warden, suppose they
have you in such a position——”
Warden: “Damn my position! The man
_thati throws down his gun throws up his
job.”
He didn’t know it, but with these words
he signed his own death warrant.

Readers
EXPERIENCES

Was the Warden just putting on an.

act?) We'll see. Just remember I told
you he was tough. The Warden held his
interviews in the captain’s office. If you
had business with the captain, you
walked across the yard until you got to
‘the dead-line. You stood behind that line
until one of the clerks in the C. O. came
out after you. There is a guard tower
directly above the C. O. Before con-
ducting you in, the clerk has to get a
“highball” from the guard in the tower.
If you are tired of this life, just step
across that line without being-highballed.

. One Sunday, thousands of cons were in
the-yard. Some were playing dominoes,
some handball; others were watching a
ball game.

Over by the bandstand, six desperate

‘Imen, were preparing to stake their lives, .

“in a bid for freedom.

One of the:six said, “Let’s go, fellows.”

.. Thus spoke Clyde Stevens, without a:
trace of emotion in his voice:
the words that took him to his death.

‘before the guards in the four towers cov-
Ucering the, yard:got wise to what was
‘lCgoing on, the six men were in the cap-
. tain’s office. The Warden was there hold-
ing interviews. »,

Suddenly the whisper flashed around,
“It’s a break.” rsa

» The guards all disappeared from the ;

‘vyard. They converged in the.C..O.

He spoke!

They.made-a-dash across the yard, and.

Thousands’ of excited cons were lined.

up six deep across the yard facing the ‘

,. C, O,. Suddenly a con in front of: me
yelled, in a voice hoarse with excitement,
“They are bringing the Warden out.”

¥

First came two'of the snatchers, As~*

they stepped out of his office door, there’

came the crack of a rifle from one of the
towers. Then another tower went into
action. Then another. One of the men

. dropped, riddled with .30-30’s, His com-
. panion fell beside him, filled with hot
. lead. Then the Warden appeared in the

office doorway: covered with blood from
Behind was Clyde

many stab wounds.

Stevens holding onto the end of a wire
that encircled the Warden’s neck. Then
came the crack of a .30-30 in the hands
of an expert. Clyde Stevens dropped—
he was dead before he hit the dirt.

A kid next to me yelled, “I can’t stand
this. I’m going to help that poor——”
(Meaning the Warden.) I grabbed him
by the arm.

“You fool,” I exclaimed, “that guy in
the tower will drop you before you take
ten. steps!”

Warden Larkin died as he had lived—
TOUGH. ——Ex-Con.

Shanghai Counterfeiters

WAS on leave in Shanghai, in August,

1936. Every nation in the world had
some men-of-war at anchor in the old
Wangpo River. The money exchange at
that time was $3.30 for $1.00, Chinese
exchange paying the odds.

The first bar I stopped at was the New
Ritz on Avenue Rau Chu Pau San. Limie,

'-a darn good bartender, was on watch and

taking off about the new five-spot that
was framed and already hanging over the
cash register... Across the top of the
Chinese bill. was written, ‘Counterfeit.

- Taken by Limie the Clown.”

It seems that a very large counterfeit
ring had taken the banks and merchants
of Shanghai for a ride. They had op-

-erated fast-and.on a large scale, passing

out only five-dollar and ten-dollar bills
on a certain bank of China. The money
was in big demand among the business-
men. In a lot of cases it was taken in
preference to the old money. By the time
the experts of different banks found out
that the new money was counterfeit, a
lot of sailors on leave who had changed

‘their money.,to* Chinese currency, lost

plenty. % ,
“There are’some places in China where
‘a cheaper grade of paper is used in

making their .ten- twenty- and fifty-cent.

pieces. ~Counterfeiters were operating

. so fast that:the bank had to stamp ‘‘day

money” and “night money” on their
notes. In other words, you could spend
only the day money in the daytime and
‘the night money at night.

My leave was about up and I had time
to grab a cup of coffee and.a few dough-
nuts at the Y.M.C.A. just a few blocks
from Nanking Jetty. So, while riding in

(Continued on page 96)

of a

and a fu
the. bay a)
nects this par
university cit
The Septer
and although
crowds linger
inside. But t)
was deceptiv:
Sam Stubb:
to saunter ba
blast’ of an a
glanced over
coming from
was zigzaggir
Stubbs duc}
front wheels «
a light pole a)

He ran to
smartly dress:
lay crumpled
beside him w:
resting again:

The driver

“We're shot
“Girl badly h

Stubbs hur:
and returned
The physiciar
swiftly over tt
Leaning throu
he lifted one
turned the ligh
he _transferre
wounded man

“He’s. bad)
“There’s a goc
the hospital :

“How’s the
ously.

“Dead,” the
here while I
and notify the

Patrolman ]
Inspector, anc
Adams, of Ez
few minutes |

\ eee HA]


KE SSLLL, g¢ pan quentin
NON, DA VIS, BUDY and KESSELL, gassed San w
NON,

SANNES, Us

12-2, 12-9 & 12-16-1938

a€ deal. Bring

lobby. Shaffer
iaby-faced gun-
guy a lesson,”
ie like this and

ig smile on his
im on another
vider when he
th satisfaction
ig the trip.

jack now, he

rove with the
Avenue near

id for making
couldn’t have

‘rent lack of
mised him a

waiting in a
| rented only
3 warmly and
‘ing payment. .
Mike opened
tomatics the
00; to seize

angle of the
nuld not fail.
rr everybody
: signal!

ll of them
rew a pistol
s hand shot
s he realized
™ age 119)

ee ee

i a

» under sentence
th for murder

who escaped while serving
ne of John K. Ottley, bank
, after recapture in Ci

riot, men are
Quentin’s new lethal gas chamber,

Wesley Eudy, Fred
‘and Ed Davie, Barnes,


No Regrets, Killer Writes

, trap,

chamber he

| ;

Asking mercy from neither

nor man,” Ed Davis, 38, last of live
convicts condemned for the murder
of Warden Clarence Larkin of Fol-
+yorr Prison; died in San Quentin's
lethal chamber yesterday—ailone and
spurning spiritual consolation, 4

The “Fox,” -
cluded Pretty Boy Fioyd.- Big Boy
Brady, Wilbur Underhill and Harvey
| Bailey, paid his penalty without re-
grets and with few twinges of con-
science, although he apparently re-
sented the curious eyes of 101 spec-
tators come to see him in his last

to friends and & statement to War-
den Court Smith, the jatier combin-

ing the ferocity of the “ker, and.
L Ne eaten 5

“Cheer up and feel the best,”
he wrote. “Tor myself, EF don't
give a dam, for I know I am many
times pata LE
_ewn. heart, better than anyone..

TY could to somettring for my wife
today IT am. sure yiad I felt that.

way. No regtets for old Ed. ©
“1 myself um welt paid for many
wT

whose outlaw pals ine

ber he said to the guards:

- In the tew hours remaining to
him before

he entered the” yas
had written six letters |

for and E-know my

“signed to. his fate: r

Gas Chamber Execution

“God !and I do know there are Gam few

peopie all bed and no good. pf
never have and am not now asking
mercy of either God or man and
all considered my consicence is now
resting easy.”

As Davis entered the death cham-

“Quite a” congregation—hope
they get their money's worth.”

‘As the stethoscope tube was taped
to his chest he looked at the circle
of eyes and said, “Well, here goes.”
Hig hands were clenched. betweed
his knees, his head bent forward.

He watched the fatal fumes arise,
and just before they touched his
nostrils he sighed, apparenuy re-

ere ene ond

tty all igh”

Tt was not all right, actually, for

the doomed man, in his efforts to

show..no emotion, -had-

his tongue. ee “--
Biood trickled from his mouth as

he died. Sacta bie :
The gas first reached hinr at 10:02-"

Eleven minutes later, Dr. LL

Stanley pronounced him dead,
re gaectators included Senator Roy

| September. Iwas going to where, J. Niel

a - ¥ J

Yer Gannon, both of Sacramento,

who have. been interested in pos-

sibly leading & movement to do

awry. with the chamber_--——-—-—
Neither, however,

appeared —_to4-
avis suffered a great deal.

—


DVN fo ’ OF gs AV eg dd oe V edad 4 decd Yd hed ites OC de dachestinad <6 eet ned ee! SS dh @ / £ FS ae Br AO

TTOWER FROM WHERE
digeeg GUARD H.B. TRADER FIRED

j
a

a 4 WHER

Tae
en.

samen }

This photo-diagram of the recreation yard at Folsom illustrates the highlights in the
prison’s most sensational jailbreak.

By
WILLIAM
SEW ELL

Brooding sullenly in
their cells, seven kil-
lers plotted a des-
perate jailbreak.
Their pent-up fury
exploded in Fol-
som’s bloodiest de-
bacle. But the
most courageous
command ever is-
sued by a warden Cr ea
thwarted the break. TE te

30 STARTLING DETECTIVE

pecata (F 5) an

SCAP
E In the
the re
prison, that
Escape!
tongues, mo
walls they h
Hours wi:
ness of nigh:
a whispered
eyebrow—al
one word: |
And now °
“beat the jo
line with 33
ahead on the
A convict «
forward one
Inside the
of the priso
complaints. ;
chance on th
routine.

re tnnt wes NM eres

Pay o
= pale
“ By
6 9) yw "
bd *.

Folson prison
yard where th

ADVENTURE

taking story to
i A. J. Strong.
‘rom hell’s own
-y pulsated with
he escape siren,
ng into:the yard

lling around the
were filling the
swelling discord
ng, screaming,
fever of danger
otion. Folsom
hold of carnage
t blood-freezing
-epared for that

sweeping the
1eir riot guns,
. back! C’mon,
staring sullenly
then, yielding,
inside. the cell-
ed behind them
‘ds next turned
»fice- where the
their final dash.
ind the rear of
crash through
ed by Davis.
sangster cursed.
| kill you, and

s to avoid more
e guard,

here,. Solberg.
yourself. killed.

t, backed’ away
Just as he left,
ng a squad of
iimself blindly
aimed his cane
igure in reach.
t Martin’s sud-
t him to stay
» too late. The
ctin, clawing at
men,.crumpled
d

‘| down at the
e. “We'll give
. if you try a
d. “Take off
e it snappy.”
vitable, obeyed
clothes to the
the coat and
‘ the Warden,
hin wire noose
fe drew it taut
e purpled and
for air, and
Warden’s neck

ind march!”
. stood up and
yes on each of
iced men until
wavered and
ew at last that
of them all—
or died. He
> wanted none
n rats whose
ce held in his

said slowly.
m going to tell
ing, boys. If
prison today—
y dead body!”
valedictory of
Clarence Lar-
» die.
‘scribable, the
lowed. The

iding Larkin,
yard confident
: would be a

Noe =

passport to the gates, that the Warden’s
inexorable orders regarding his own safety
were only a bluff. They might have known
he wouldn’t play that kind of game.

For instead of finding the yard clear of
men and guns, the prisoners were suddenly
engulfed by a squadron of avenging guards
swinging vicious clubs and canes. The first
blow felled Cannon just as he slashed at
Larkin’s chin with his knife. Davis, in the
lead, was sent spinning and spitting blood
with a terrific blow that thudded against
his jaw.

Eudy, foaming with rage and. hate, saw
that his turn was next. Something snapped
in his twisted brain, some last link to the
bestial surging in his yellow veins, and it
turned him into a slavering thing with the
urge to kill. He grasped his long whetted
knife, turned the point up until it touched
Larkin’s shirt, and then threw his weight
behind a maniacal push that drove the
steel deep into the flesh. Warden Larkin
gasped once, plucked at the knife in his
abdomen, and sprawled to the ground in
a cascade of blood.

Wesley Eudy had no time for further
contemplation, for even as his fist un-
clenched, a bullet whined through the air
and struck his neck.

HM CLYDE STEVENS, whose tremendous

ego had created all this bloody hell, saw
his mad dreams dissolving in flaming guns
and crushing, leaded canes, and now, at the
end, his canary spine began to crawl. He
started running, squealing like the caged
rat he was.

He stumbled toward the wall as though
its stone breast would give him refuge, and
his knees buckled. He tried to crawl, but
stark fear chained his feet. -

Escape ... ESCAPE... ESCAPE.

Guard Trader, raising his rifle, spotted
the bandit’s cringing form against the wall.
He raised the gun, brought up the muzzle
until Clyde Stevens’ black thatch of hair
took solid shape in the crotch of the sight.
Then, and only then, his finger tensed.
Clyde Stevens, the Mad Dog,--will never
know what it was that seared and deadened
His brain.

There were only three now left of
the seven maniacs—Kessell, Barnes and
Kucharski.

Kucharski, running in circles, frantically
seeking a hole, got his in a fguntain of
lead that tattooed his egg-shaped skull
with little round holes. Barnes, still wield-
ing his knife against Guard James Kearns,
was shot through the chest, and Kessell was
stretched unconscious with a slug in the
neck.

Ten minutes ... a veritable lifetime.

Ten minutes of carnage—three men dead,
four more clinging to life only by a miracle,
and still others seriously wounded.

Thus ended Black Sunday, almost ten
years to the day after that other ghastly
Folsom holiday when caged men lost hu-
man perspectives and turned into raging
beasts.

Warden Larkin, still alive, was rushed
to the Sutter Hospital in near-by Sacra-
mento, the state capital, where four special-
ists began a heart-breaking fight for his
life.

But it was a futile, discouraging task.
Clarence Larkin regained consciousness
only once, whispering to his wife:

“I don’t care what happens to me. I
knew what I was up against when I took
the job, and the only thing that matters is
that the prisoners didn’t get away...”

It was his own epitaph, this pledge to
duty.

Clarence Larkin died at 1:05 o’clock on
the morning of September 24th—not many
hours after the announcement from the
State Prison Board that California’s new
lethal gas chambers were ready to be in-
stalled at Folsom and San Quentin. Lethal

gas replaced the gallows on which, for
three score years, killers like Clyde Stevens
and Ed Davis had expiated their crimes.

Captain Ryan, meanwhile, had been taken
to Mercy Hospital, also in Sacramento,
where he showed an amazing vitality and
resistance to death.

Barnes, Eudy, Kessell, Davis and Can-
non—all wounded in the prison bedlam—
were taken to the Folsom Hospital where,
night and day, armed men stood on guard.
The Sacramento County Grand Jury, mean-
while, had voted first-degree murder indict-
ments against all five, and they were soon
brought to trial. All five were convicted,
and, in December, 1938, were executed in
the lethal gas chamber at San Quentin for
the murder of Clarence Larkin during
the Folsom riot.

There is an epilogue to this discourse of
death.

It began a few days after the Folsom
eruption when trouble burst almost simul-
taneously in rock-ribbed Alcatraz, the
forbidding “devil’s isle” for Federal pris-
oners, in San Francisco Bay, and San
Quentin. Burton Phillips, a “stir-crazy”
kidnapper, attacked Warden James Johns-
ton of Alcatraz on the heels of a sit-down
strike participated in by a hundred of the
nation’s most notorious felons. Two days
later, in the great yard at San Quentin,
where 5,000 men gathered during recrea-
tion hours, wall guards were forced to
wound fighting prisoners with carefully
aimed shots in the legs.

Perhaps there is some connection be-
tween these three volcanic rumblings be-
hind prison walls, one following the other
so closely, and perhaps not. But prison
authorities are convinced that the mysteri-
ous grapevine which knows all things and
travels with the speed of light, passed a
message from Folsom that stirred unrest
and bitterness and trouble in the other
fortresses of numbered men.

You may well ask—what causes a prison
break?

Coarse food, abuse, temporary insanity,
monotonous routine?

No, none of these. Warden Court Smith
of San Quentin, who hurried to Folsom
and took charge after the tragedy, has
what he knows is the only answer:

@ “A LIFER leaves hope behind when he

enters the prison gates,” Smith said.
“When a man leaves hope at the gate, when
he faces five, six, even seven life sentences,
you can know that he will stop at nothing
to win freedom.

“Those fellows,” Smith waved his hand
to indicate the twenty-eight hundred or
more felons behind Folsom walls, “are
doing lots of time. They want to escape.
If you happen to get in their way, they'll
take your life if they think liberty is just
around the corner.

“It doesn’t matter who you are, they’ll
kill you—if you alone bar their road to
freedom. Then, if they’re caught, their
only comment will be, ‘Well, I had to
bump him.’ .

“It doesn’t matter who runs the prison,
it doesn’t matter what precautions you
take, it doesn’t matter how humane and
generous and intelligent administration is,
there will always be attempts at breaks.

“There will be violence and there will be
brutal, deadly, futile attempts to win free-
dom, just as long as there are prisons and
just as long as men march behind stone
walls, leaving hope behind at the gate.”

Clyde Stevens, therefore, was only a
symbol of “hope left behind at the gate.”

And as months grow into years, and men
go on marching into the oblivion of the
Folsom lifers’ army, there will always be
guns on the stone walls—watching, waiting
for others, perhaps even more vicious Mad
Dogs who come in snarling and vowing to
kill or be killed.

Will You Let
Me PROVE I Can

Make YOU
a New Man?

LET ME START SHOWING
RESULTS FOR YOU

‘“‘Have put
3% in. on
chest." — F,
S.. New York.

For quick results
I recommend

Recommend , you for
quick results!’
G.. Ne. 4

COULD fill this whole
magazine with enthusi-
astic reports from

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val


YOM WHERE

3 TRADER FIRED
DNE CONVICT

; DETECTIVE

Le ES

—s

SCAPE!
E In the numbed brains of seven habitual criminals doomed to spend
the rest of their days behind the grim walls of California’s Folsom
prison, that single thought beat a constant tattoo.

Escape! For months they had rolled that tantalizing word over their
tongues, mouthing it noiselessly, whispering it to the unanswering cell
walls they hated more than death itself.

Hours without end the seven convicts had stared into the deep black-
ness of night, dreaming, scheming, plotting, planning. A muffled word.
a whispered conversation in the cheerless prison yard, a nod, a raised
eyebrow—all had conveyed the rich, hopefulness compressed into that
one word: Escape!

And now the day for which they had lived—the day when they would
“beat the joint’—had come! It was September 19, 1937. Waiting in
line with 33 other convicts, the seven “repeaters” glued their eyes straight
ahead on the door of the captain of the guard's office. The door opened.
A convict came out and the line of uniformed, waiting men moved
forward one pace.

Inside the office Warden Clarence Larkin, hard-hitting, 6 feet 6 keeper
of the prison, was listening, as he did every Sunday morning, to the
complaints and pleas of inmates who thought they deserved another
chance on the outside, or who wanted some change made in their prison
routine.

tempted prison break at Folsom.

PRES Pt ee 8

ay Se

Folson prison giache with loaded canes are shown above looking at
yard where the desperate battle was fongh' Rune mepust this

Hy

ADVENTURES

Warden Clarence A. Larkin, right, signed his own
death warrant by his heroic action during the at-

: ding’ from.

ellow uard


Capfainys Office

2
re @
y

.

{>
-~ Reg a
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Pushing through the door shown above, the seven escaping convicts over-
powered Warden Larkin, Despite his wounds, the courageous warden cleverly
dispatched a warning to his guards. The picture below was taken as Warden
Larkin was moved to Sacramento hospital, severely injured by the jail breakers.

pe)) ¢
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j

To the extent that any warden can
achieve popularity with convicts the big
man in the office was well liked. Not
even the seven desperate criminals wait-
ing to see him felt any personal resent-
ment. All of them had been in other
prisons and none would have said Larkin
was cither too harsh or unjust. But he
stood between them and freedom and was,
therefore, their enemy. More than that,
they had decided that Larkin should be
the instrument through which escape
from the grim fortress was to be effected.

They were hardened men, these seven,
all professional criminals. None of them

as “stir crazy,” none the type to at-
tempt any fantastic method of escape on
the presumption that no one else ever
thought of it before.

OLSOM was reputed to be unbeatable

and the seven convicts approached the
problem of escape with utmost care.
They knew about Claude Kohl who had
attempted to slide to the other bank of the
American river on a wire cable 150 feet
above the sharp rocks of the quarry and
had fallen to his death. ‘That method
was out.

They knew how Martin Coulson had
tried to float downstream under water
with a rubber tube attached to a piece of
bark through which to breathe, making
of himself a sort of human submarine.
Coulson had been recaptured, foiled by
the swiftness of the current, after he had
almost drowned, The seven convicts
knew of these and many other futile
methods of escape and had rejected all of
them as “screwy.”

Their own plan was very simple; some
wmong them had used it previously at
other prisons and had found it effective.
They intended to overpower the warden
and, at threat of death, force him to order
the guards to open the gates while they
passed outside. They would hold him
hostage until they were a safe distance
away.

Outside the prison walls a car was
waiting, provided by friends of Clyde
Stevens, California’s Public Enemy No.
1, who now stood in the line in front of
the captain's office. The road to Fresno
had been properly logged after the man-
ner invented by that master bank robber,
Eddie Benz, who taught it to John Dil-
linger, the man whom Stevens had
boasted he would outdo on the Pacific
Coast. Driving over back county roads
instead of the main highway, they would
go to a hideout in Fresno to “cool off.”
Once they got outside the prison walls
everything would be simple.

There was one detail, however, which
worried Stevens as it did Ed Davis, his
chief conspirator, Davis had really per-
fected the warden-kidnaping idea back at
Lansing prison, Kansas. In 1933 he had
broken jail with Warden Kirk Prather in
tow, taking with him the notorious
Harvey Bailey, Wilbur Underhill and
seven others. What worried Stevens and
Davis now was the absence of firearms.
The (feel of an automatic tucked beneath
their prison shirts would have made them

[Continued on page 72]
STARTLING DETECTIVE

ee EEE

Dummy wooc
hand-made k:
were used as
the seven esca;
Albert Kesse!
Stevens (at |
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freedom. The
taken in 1935
were recaptur
caping from ¢

ADVENTUR:

Mrs. Evelyn LaBarr, teen aged widow,
and her two young accomplices, George
Shead and Gerald Carpenter, have all been
sentenced to prison as the result of the fatal
robbery-beating of Mrs. LaBarr’s landlady,
Mrs. Sarah Maxin (The Black Widow and
her Teen-Age Death Gang, June Front
PAGE, 1961). The 19-year-old Evelyn was
given an indefinite term in the state correc-
tional institution for women, Muncy, Pa.
The two boys were sentenced to 3 to 10
year terms in Eastern State Correctional
Institution. The 75-year-old Philadelphia
victim suffered a ruptured liver from the
beating administered in the $300 robbery.

Gerald Nemke, who faced execution as
the result of his conviction in the rape slay-
ing of Marilyn Duncan in Chicago in 1960
(Too Nice For Her Own Good, August
FRONT PAGE, 1960) has been granted a new
trial as the result of a decision by the
Illinois Supreme Court. The justices held
that the trial judge erred when he admitted
Nemke’s confession into evidence.

Chyrel Jolls, the 15-year-old girl who was
charged with the kidnaping and drowning
of Andrew Ashley (Buffalo’s Chilling Pied
Piper, October FRONT PAGE, 1961) has been
committed to a mental institution after the

testimony of two psychiatrists who pro-
nounced the girl mentally incapable of as-
sisting in her own defense. She is still
under indictment for both the kidnaping
and the first degree murder and could be
brought to trial later if psychiatrists decide
she is mentally competent.

James R. Cook, who, along with Roger
Simpson was charged with the murder of a
Lone Pines, Cal., school teacher, Frederick
Robbins near Tuscola, Ill. (Case of the
Peripatetic School Teacher, December
FRONT PAGE, 1961), switched his plea of
innocent to guilty and was sentenced to
100-150 years in prison, following the
recommendation of the state’s attorney,

who labeled the slaying “cool, deliberate, *

premeditated murder.” Robbins, who had
been hitchhiking to Oakland, Ill. was

found within six miles of his destination,
shot three times. Cook was accused of be-

ing the triggerman. Simpson was due to
come to trial in mid-February on the
charges against him. Under the new Illinois
criminal code, Cook will be eligible for
parole in 20 years,

Dr. Jesus De Galindez, former professor
at Santo Domingo University in Dominican
Republic, and a lecturer at Columbia Uni-
versity in New York City, disappeared six
years ago and his fate has been shrouded
in mystery ever: since Uf I’m Missing,
July FRONT PAGE, 1956). Suspected of
having been kidnaped and murdered by
Trujillo’s followers, Galindez’ case was ex-
pected to remain forever shadowed in the
frustrating lies and the lack of cooperation
that cloaked so many of Trujillo’s activi-
ties. But with Trujillo’s assassination, many
of the rural people in. the Dominican Re-

public began to talk more freely. One of -

these people was a former constable who
has revealed now that in 1956 he was led
to a stream where the half submerged
body of a man about 40 years old had been
found by a. woman. The body appeared to
have been there about three or four days
and bore bruise marks as’ well as black
marks on the neck that indicated the man
had been choked to death. The constable
was ordered by the district attorney to
bury the body: and. it was taken some 50
feet off the road and placed in a shallow
unmarked grave. A former student and a
close friend of Galindez both happened to
be on the ‘bridge over the stream where
the body was found on the day that the
crowd gathered to watch its removal. Both
recognized the body as that of’ Dr. Galin-
dez, but fear of reprisal prevented them
from. mentioning their knowledge. After
Trujillo’s assassination, the constable was
shown the photos of five’ men, he immedi-
ately and decisively picked out. the photo
of Galindez as that of the man he had
buried. The remains. were dug up from their
shallow grave and the bones are now in
the possession: of the district attorney who
has been instructed’ by national authori-
ties to determine if they are those of the

long missing Dr. Galindez. Although con-
clusive proof will rest’ with the district
attorney’s findings, members of the com-
mission composed of two political parties,
the Dominican Revolutionary Party and
the 14th of June Movement, plus many
citizens from the village of San Jose de
Ocoa are certain the mystery is now solved.

Elizabeth Duncan, convicted of murder
and sentenced to death in the murder-for-
hire-death of her daughter-in-law, Olga
Duncan (Jn The. Witch’s Tentacles, April
FRONT PAGE, 1959) has heard the ultimate

-penalty affirmed by the U.S. Court of Ap-

peals. The court said that it did not have
jurisdiction to entertain most of the argu-
ments presented by Mrs. Duncan’s at-
torney; the main one of which was that
adverse publicity before and during the
trial deprived the defendant of a fair

proceeding. Mrs. Duncan was convicted
in March, 1959 of having hired Luis Es-
trada Moya and Augustine Baldonado to
strangle and bury her son’s pregnant wife.
All three of them were sentenced to death,
but the executions were stayed pending the
decision of the U.S. Court of Appeals. No
new date has been set at this writing and
Mrs.’ Duncan’s attorneys had indicated
earlier that they would appeal this latest
ruling of the ‘court to the U.S. Supreme
Court that already has ruled once against
Mrs. Duncan.

The Denver cop scandal that to date has
implicated 48 patrolmen, a sergeant and a
detective, plus several suburban officers
and civilians (We, The Jury Find The
Sheriff—March Front PAGE, 1962) has re-
sulted in the swearing in of a new police
chief, James Slavin, formerly of Kalama-
z00, Mich. After accepting the oath, Slavin
stated ‘There is relatively little I can do,
alone. There is almost nothing that we
together cannot accomplish.” He made it
clear that he had no magic formulas or
special” powers to bring about improve-
ments, but he was ready to go nght to
work to do what he could to help straighten
out one. of the worst police scandals in
history.

Who
Ge

Pains |
Nervo
Loss

The €
Glane

Men as the
often become :
for granted, \
pains. They n
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Health are thi
older age.

This neglig
Tragic resulti:
where expensi\
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If you, a rel:
have the sympt
indicated abov:
be due to Gla:
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NON.

The non-surg
Glandular Inf
other diseases
forded at the |
Clinic have be:
over 20 years
on the part of
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COMPLE

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ns for five‘of the seven
$500 fines for the other
vere urged for Sol and
rs), Frank Faraci, Alan

in Brinn. Fines were —

¢ Beeftink and Henry
former officer, Frank
dicted, but requested a

CLEMENTS, GROARK

Smackover, Ark., has
m sentences on three:
d murder growing out
ijack an airliner (His
, Case Book, November
Superior Court Judge
enced the construction
ears in prison on each
the terms to run con-
1 the court he did not
ibout the shooting and
uring the attempted hi-
al. He said previously
hijack the plane came
sit his second wife and
“sentenced for shooting
ng to shoot one of the
“king the co-pilot with
Still pending before
, ossible charge in con-
oting of the pilot, who
sye.

a, Who Picked The
vre Museum (August
. fifty years ago and
vith his theft of the
placed in art cir-
aring art thieves:

wu. Duke of Welling-
rom Britain’s National

Gallery. The: 19th Century ‘masterpiece,

«valued at $392,000, was ‘recently the center

of a British-American controversy’ when

an American bought the painting last June.

A storm of. public protest over the master-

piece leaving British ‘soil resulted in the ,
American’s selling the painting back to the
British .-. . only to result, just a ‘few

months later, in Scotland Yard being hard

at work trying to return it to its place in

the London gallery. _ f

’ Mrs. Elizabeth Duncan, condemned to
die for the 1958 murder of her. daughter-
in-law Olga,.and the two men Mrs. Duncan
was convicted of hiring to do the actual
slaying, Augustine Baldonado and Luis
Moya, ‘have been granted stays of execu-
tion by the U.S. Court of Appeals. The
Ventura, Cal., woman contended in her
appeal from the San Quentin Prison gas
chamber that newspaper publicity had-in-’
fluenced the jury. Both the U:S. and Cali-
fornia Supreme Courts had rejected earlier

appeals. However, Judge. Frederick - G. “

Hamley, of the U.S. Court of Appeals, said

the stay order for Mrs. Duncan was issued |

because the U.S. District Court at Los“An-
geles gave her attorneys permission to file
an appeal with the U.S. Court of Appeals
(In The Witch’s Tentacles, April. FRONT
PAGE, 1959)... lear

Domenick Bonomi, convicted of ‘killing
his wife Mildred, and who has insisted: in
the five years since his trial that Every-

one’s Lying But Me (May FRONT PAGE, .

1956), flunked the lie detector test: he has
been demanding ever ‘since his wife’s death.
Told that the test had “gone completely
against you,” Bonomi answered, “You must
be kidding!” “You obviously haven’t told
the truth,” the test expert: told Bonomi.
“Tf there are any details that..can make
things better for you; tell’ me now,” he
advised the convicted murderer.’ Bonomi’
merely reiterated, “I. didn’t kill her.” The.
man who had administered the test; as
well as several other lie detector experts,
agreed that the machine definitely showed
Bonomi was lying when asked such ques-
tions as:. “Did you kill your wife?” and,
“Were you present when your wife died?”
The test also showed, the experts sajd, that.
Bonomi may be trying to shield Someone
in the case. He showed. a strong reaction
when asked if he were trying to hide infor-
mation involving another person. District
Attorney John R. Wheatley, who prose-
cuted the Plymouth, Mass., husband when
he was on trial, said that he would study
the entire transcript of the lie detector test
and reopen the case if he feels it is war-
ranted. Benomi had been separated from
his wife “when she suddenly disappeared.
Her. body turned: up five days later in a
Hanover. culvert, buried-beneath tons of
gravel. Bonomi, a contractor, was arrested,
tried and given a life prison term.

£ “s

David: Francis Early stepped into the

‘Colorado’ Penitentiary’s’ gas chamber at

7:55 P.M. Friday, August 11, and was exe-
cuted for “slaying three members of a
prominent. Denver suburban’ family three
years ago (There Was A Death Cell In My
Future, October FRONT PAGE, 1959). The
fleshy, 32-year-old prisoner spoke not a
word during the final minutes of prepara-
tion for his ‘execution, the 73rd in the his-

* tory of the prison at Canon City. Early, a

Kansas ex-convict, was sentenced to die for
the April 25, 1958,-slaying of Mrs. Regina
Knight. She, her husband, Merrill, a prom-
inent Denver, Colo., attorney, and -their
daughter,’ Karen, 15, were shot to death in
their Littleton home where Early had gone
in an attempt to get money. He had been

‘released from the federal penitentiary in

Leavenworth, Kan., just three days before.

-Early was’ tried for Mrs.-Knight’s death.

The execution had been set: after the
many months of appeals to various courts

ended. “Early started to get nervous and

tense about 2 p.m. Friday and we were
sure that. he had resigned himself to his
fate at that time,’ Warden Harry Tinsley
said. Before, Early had said the guards
would have to drag him by his heels into
the ‘gas chamber. But the: condemned man

stepped unaided into the glaring white gas
- chamber. He sat. down and waited in taut

silence as two guards first placed a black
blindfold on his face, then forced heavy
straps over his tattooed arms and around
his chest. Warden Tinsley entered and said,
“God bless you, Dave.”

. The prisoner’s dark-thatched head nod-
ded briefly. Then The Reverend Justin Mc-
Kearnan, Catholic chaplain, followed Tins-
ley. He wrapped a rosary in the’ fingers. of
Early’s right hand. The priest stepped out,
and the heavy door swung shut. Wearing
only a pair. of white shorts, Early waited
rigidly as the cyanide pellets dropped be-
neath his chair. He appeared to try to
hold his breath. momentarily, swallowing
heavily. The gas fumes ‘rose. and Early
choked and strangled. The prison physician

said’ Early’s heart stopped beating at 8:02 |.

P.M., seven minutes after he entered the
lethal chamber. In his final hours, Early
listened in:his cell to classical records pro-
vided him by Father McKearnan. The rec-
ords and a'player were delivered to his cell
at 10 a.m. Early played them almost con-
stantly, until the warden interrupted him
to read the death warrant at 7:45 p.m.
“He didn’t say a single word from the time
I read the-death warrant to him until he
died,” Tinsley said. “He stood up in his
cell when I read it, shook hands with me,
but didn’t say a word.” Early exchanged
no-words with four-other convicts in Death

‘Row cells but waved:to them without ex-

pression when he was led to the gas cham-
ber and déath. ’ ae,
His body later was claimed by a wom-

an‘ who had befriended Early by letter.

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MEN PAST 40

Afflicted With Getting Up Nights,
Pains in Back, Hips, Legs,
Nervousness, Tiredness.

If you are a victim of the above symp-

toms, the trouble may be due to Gland-°
ular Inflammation. A constitutional Dis- .

ease for which it is futile for sufferers
to try to treat themselves at home.

To men of middle age or past this.

type of inflammation occurs frequently.
It is often accompanied by despond-
ency, emotional upset and other mental
and nervous reactions. Neglect of such
Inflammation causes men to lose their
vigor, grow old prematurely and often
leads to incurable conditions.

Most men, if treatment is taken in
time, can be successfully NON-SURGI-
CALLY treated for Glandular Inflam-
mation. If the condition is aggravated
by lack of treatment, surgery may be
the only chance. .

NON-SURGICAL TREATMENTS

The NON-SURGICAL New Type treat-
ments used at the Excelsior Medical
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recent years of new techniques and
drugs plus over 20 years research by
scientific technologists and Doctors,

Men from all walks of life and from
over 1,000 communities have been suc-
cessfully treated here at Excelsior
Springs. They found soothing and com-
forting relief and new health ‘in life,

RECTAL-COLON
DISORDERS __.

Are often associ-
ated with Glandu-
lar Inflammation.
We can treat these
disorders for you
at the same time
we treat Glandular

EXAMINATION
AT LOW COST

When you arrive
at the clinic, our
doctors — who have
years of experience

in this field —make _}!*flammatlon,
a complete examina- REDUCIBLE
tion. Your condition HERNIA -

is frankly explained
and then you decide
if you will take the
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Our treatments are
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Se se se oe ll

:

Mrs. Jean DiFede, accused of the slay-
ing of her doctor husband, Joseph DiFede,
in December, 1961 (The Gigolo Murder of
Dr. DiFede, June. FRONT PAGE, 1962), was
convicted of second degree murder by a
Queens County Court jury in New York
City. Her alleged lover and conspirator, 19-
year-old Armando -Cossentino, received a
verdict of guilty on a charge of first degree
murder.’Mrs. DiFede. was scheduled to ap-
peal for a new trial, which could find her

guilty of a capital offense. She maintained -
her innocence throughout -the first trial, and.

was determined to take thé risks inherent
in a second one. Cossentino, who faces the
possibility of death in the electric chair, is
entitled to an automatic appeal.
* Donald. Montgomery, 19, - of . Butler
County, Pa., was convicted-of first degree
murder for the arson-slaying- of 69-year-

Donato MoNnTGOMERY:
Reaps.a bitter harvest

‘old Mrs. Pauline Ritter last January “(Sift

the Embers for Mrs, Ritter, May. ¥RONT
PAGE, 1962), The youth was sentenced to
life imprisonment. Sets bs

John Mack Herring, who admitted slay-
ing his sweetheart; Elizabeth Jean Williams

‘in’ Odessa, ‘Tex. (Kiss: Me Then Kill Me,

July FRONT PAGE, 1961), and was adjudged

earlier this year to have been insane at the —

time of the: murder, has had his case re-
opened by the Texas State Supreme Court.

The court ruled that the insanity verdict

‘was not in order because there was no rul-

‘ing on the state of the defendant’s sanity at
the time of the trial,-but rather before the »

trials Re

*

- Trooper Robert C. Gillespie, of ‘Bedford,
a ‘Ind., police for a. ballistics test of the

Ind., who’ in.1959 was awarded a: medal of
honor for his heroism in apprehending gun-
man James’ Everett Brown and, his wife,
Nancy Joy (The Girl With a Pocketful of
Bullets, September’ FRONT PAGE, 1959),

was killed in a two-car crash on June 10:
minutes. before his vacation was to begin.

sa

of

eae ape —_

Luis Moya and ‘Augustine Baldonado,
prisoners in San Quentin’s Death Row, who
were hired in 1959 by Mrs. Elizabeth Dun-

can of Santa Barbara, Cal., to kill her

daughter-in-law (Jn The Witch’s Tentacles,
April FRONT PAGE, 1959), took part in an

escape. attempt with four other Death Row
convicts—Clyde Bates, Manuel Chavez,

Willard Winhoven and David Bickley.
Chavez and Bates were two of the men who

BREAKOUT
No hacks with a hacksaw

ignited five gallons of gasoline in a Los An-

geles bar in 1957, resulting in the deaths of
six persons (The Cocktail That Shook Los
Angeles, July FRONT PAGE, 1957). The
would-be escapees seized two guards as hos-
tages and held them for three hours. Offi-
cial (above) said sextet used a hacksaw

blade to saw bars and slip out of their cells. _

Authorities immediately began to shoot tear
gas shells into the area where the hostages
were being held, eventually forcing the con-
victs to surrender. The two prison guards
had been badly beaten with lead pipes.

_. Robert Allen Jones, 18-year-old accused
slayer of Gerald W. Shibe, of Seymour,
Ind., and John Pless Womack, of Chatta-
nooga, Tenn. (You Can’t Fry Me But Once,

-March FRONT PAGE, 1962), had confessed at

the time of his arrest that the .25-caliber
pistol believed to have been used in Shibe’s
murder was purchased in Munich, Ger-
many. Munich police have asked Columbus,

weapon, in an attempt to determine if
Shibe’s murder is linked to other murders
in Munich last year. A. state police de-

tective in Columbus said he has learned that:

several ‘persons were murdered with .25-
caliber pistols in Munich after Jones pur-

chased his pistol a
many last October
weapon will be se:
Parison with bull
Germans.

Fred Thompson,

who was convicted
four-year-old Edit!
(Hunt the Beast D.
1961), was ruled tc
New York City G
After conducting a s
Psychiatrists testifie:
become insane sinc
presiding judge coni
port that the defen:
understanding the p:
and of conferring
judge signed commi:
that Thompson be he
hospital for the crim}
time as it is possib!
tenced to death on h
conviction.

The National Ga!
been charged in a gi
report to have inadeq
ments, which were
August, 1961 theft o
portrait of the Duke «
recovered (And No:
Rembrandt, January
The report stated th:
had become accustom:
removed without their
they found the Goya

MEZ
SUC

In The Best

4 saree —)
Students (above) gettin
cutting in only their 3;
getting actual practice tr.
on all the latest power 1.


ae

ad

Police officers uncovering the shallow grave containing the viciously beaten
body of Olga Duncan. The corpse, clad in a nightie, can be seen in foreground.

LACK ANGEL

_ Of Santa Barbara

The lovely

‘have been b

in the grave

L. was ar

that was

Churchill ir
Court on A
five months
the most vici
in the histo:

In the cou:
day, a shift
stepped forw
Frank Dunc:
Barbara.

He told th
been marrie
since June 2
consummated
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64

is behind a pipe.’ Gus said, ‘I had to hit
the witch—the witch sure screamed.’”

Moxa and Baldonado were immediately
picked up and jailed on suspicion.
Both refused to talk.

Elizabeth Duncan was booked in the
Ventura County jail on a complaint is-
sued by Roy Gustafson, charging her with
perjury, bribery, forgery and falsifying a
court document in the case of the phoney
annulment she had obtained. She seemed
completely unconcerned. She laughed and
admitted her part in the annulment, but
denied knowing anything about her
daughter-in-law’s disappearance.

Still laughing and joking, she was ar-
raigned on the fraud charges on Decem-
ber 17th.

Despite the combined efforts of Ven-
tura and Santa Barbara authorities, no
trace of Olga Duncan could be found.
But Gustafson, with or without a body,
went after the trio he believed had mur-
dered the missing nurse. He had the bail
on each of them raised to one hundred
thousand dollars.

Frank Duncan branded the D.A.’s ac-
tion as “ridiculous.” His mother, he said,
could not possibly have had any part in
Olga’s disappearance. She was with him
the entire night of November ninth.

But two days later, the investigation
broke wide open when Gus Baldonado
confessed.

ALDONADO said Mrs. Duncan. had hired
him and Luis Moya to kill Olga Dun-
can for the price of six thousand dollars.
They had left the nurse’s body, he said,
in a shallow grave dug in a desolate spot
off Casitas Pass Road. Baldonado claimed
only $250 had been paid to them by
Elizabeth Duncan, and that when he and
Moya asked for more, Mrs. Duncan had
threatened them with prison.

Baldonado described in detail how the
men had lured the young, pretty nurse
from her apartment on a ruse, forced her
into a car, then beat and strangled her.
Later in the day, he led the lawmen to
the mountain road where they found
Olga’s body.

Luis Moya denied his guilt until late
Christmas night. Then he, too, confessed.
But Elizabeth Duncan scoffed and sneer-
ed at her questioners.

“Those two men are trying to black-
mail me,” was all she would say.

On December 26, 1958, the Ventura
County Grand Jury indicted the trio for
murder.

yee Duncan complained to police and
reporters that the charges against his
mother were “fantastic,” but as the trial
date drew near, and more details of the
case came to light, he could only shake
his head and say, “I don’t know, I just
don’t know.” :

District Attorney Gustafson was a lot
more definite. He emphatically stated that
the two men and Mrs. Duncan were
guilty, and added that he would fight for
the death sentence. “Nothing short of
death could be considered a just and
fitting penalty,” he announced.

Mrs. Duncan retained attorney S. Ward
Sullivan. She entered two pleas: not
guilty and not guilty by reason of in-
sanity.

Under California law, she faced three
separate court actions—a trial to deter-
mine her innocence or guilt, a hearing
before the same judge and jury to fix her
sentence if she were found guilty, and a
sanity hearing.

The trial began on February 24, before

a jury of eight men and four women.
Elizabeth Duncan appeared in court dress-
ed ina black and white dress. She car-
ried rosary beads and announced to news-
men, “I think God will see me through.”

(een began his opehing statement
by hitting hard at the defendant. He
pictured Mrs. Duncan as a conniving,
bitter-tongued mother afraid of losing her
son, who hounded her daughter-in-law
with “telephone calls, curses and tongue
lashings.”

Then the District Attorney painted a
verbal picture of a meeting between Mrs.
Duncan, Luis Moya and Augustine Bal-
denado, describing how the three “struck
a bargain that eventually brought Olga
Duncan to a shallow grave.”

Then he introduced witnesses to show
how Mrs. Duncan had “shopped around”
- find someone to kill her daughter-in-
aw.

Mary Lou Kirk, a Santa Barbara car-
hop, testified that the defendant offered
her fifteen hundred dollars in July of 1958
to throw acid in a woman’s face. Mrs.
Duncan had not mentioned the woman’s
name but promised the witness to have
her son Frank “doped up” so he would
know nothing of the matter. Mrs. Kirk
said the defendant promised “to stand
behind me with a blanket to throw over
the girl,” and they would then take the
victim to the mountains and dispose of
the body.

The witness said-she reported the inci-
dent to Frank two days later by telling
him his mother was trying to get his girl
out of the way. “I didn’t have the words
to tell him his mother was planning mur-
der,” Mrs, Kirk said.

se second witness was Mrs. Evelyn St.
John, a former assistant to an optome-
trist whom Mrs. Duncan had consulted
about glasses. Mrs. St. John testified that
the defendant told her her son was going
with a:student nurse at the Cottage Hos-
pital in Santa Barbara.

The witness said, referring to Mrs.
Duncan: “She wanted to know if I could
help her find out who the b—— was. She
told me she didn’t want anyone marrying
her son now, in the middle of his career.
She said he was not right for it, and
wanted me to go to various parking lots
or lovers’ lane spots to find them. She
said that if they did get married, ‘I'll get
tid of her.’”

The witness said she asked Mrs. Dun-
can if her son wasn’t old enough to marry
beni her answer was, “He’s still Mommy’s

oy.”

(x the second day, Gustafson introduced
as witnesses a husband and wife who
testified that’ Mrs. Duncan had offered
them one thousand dollars to commit
murder and later had upped her price to
fifteen hundred dollars.

John Strada, who had been tried on a
narcotics charge a short time before, said
“I told her I couldn’t do it. I had just
gotten out of trouble and didn’t want to
get back in.”

His wife backed up his story. She
testified Mrs. Duncan wanted her to hit
Olga Duncan over the head, put the body
in a bathtub and pour lye on it.

“I didn’t think she was serious,” the
witness said. “But when she ‘told my hus-
band, I got worried.” The woman said
she “played along” with Mrs. Duncan’s
offer. In answer to Sullivan’s question as
to whether she had reported the incident,
the witness answered, “If I went to the
police, would they believe me?”

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name of the missing woman’s
zht up.

one of Olga’s acquaintances
1e didn’t want Frank to marry,
2ould to break up their mar-
tly—in a judge’s chambers—so
up and cause trouble at the
von out, anyway. She broke
ried a few weeks, and they
since.”
’s mother was known in the
-d law as a fussy mother hen,
tle chick made. If Frank lost
ament on the stupidity of the
yn, she would walk with him
his hands in hers, or throw-
nd beaming at him and the

' loosen her hold on him,” a
but Mrs. Duncan is stronger
‘ets him wrapped around her

‘ned the newlyweds’ address,
apartment. In a wild frenzy,
jer son as a young boy. She
and wept before her agitated
ordered him to return home

hell for Olga Duncan.. Her
break up the weird triangle,
, were useless. He spent the
\NFIDENTIAL DETECTIVE CASES

ll

,

early evenings with his wife, then went to his mother’s
home to sleep.

All the while, Elizabeth Duncan fought a verbal cam-
paign against her newly-acquired daughter-in-law. She
telephoned threats to the young bride and complained of
her to her friends. She claimed Olga had entered the
United States illegally, that she had been married before,
and that she was the mother of two children. She claimed
the unborn child Olga was carrying did not belong to her
son, and that Frank had been tricked into believing he was
the father.

And Elizabeth Duncan said over and over again accord-
ing to witnesses, “I'll kill her. I'll kill her.”

When Olga couldn’t take any more, she told her husband
he had to make a choice—between her and his mother.

’ He went home to live with his mother.

Ores friends urged her to have her. mother-in-law ar-
rested. The nurse consulted a lawyer about getting
her marriage annulled. But Frank asked her to wait until
after the baby came in January, and vowed that “something
can be worked out.”

While she waited, Olga wrote her parents about Mrs.
Elizabeth Duncan. “That woman is nuts,” she wrote. “Life
is short and I want to enjoy the rest of it.”

Police were told by Olga’s landlady that during one of
her tirades against her daughter-in-law, Mrs. Duncan
claimed her son’s marriage had been annulled in Ventura,
twenty-seven miles from Santa Barbara.

An investigator, checking the court records there, found
that on August 7th an annulment had been granted one
Olga Kupezyk Duncan and Frank Duncan on the grounds
that the marriage had not been consummated. The investi-
gator then talked to the attorney who had handled the case.

The lawyer recalled that a couple had come to his office
and said they wanted to dissolve their marriage without
publicity or scandal. He complied with their wishes and
took the necessary legal steps, but a few months later
he discovered. that the real Frank Duncan knew nothing
of the annulment. The lawyer investigated further and
found that the woman who claimed to be Olga Duncan,
and who asked for the annulment, was actually Mrs.
Elizabeth Duncan. The man who had impersonated Frank
Duncan was unidentified. sae

The lawyer told the police investigator that he had re-
ported these findings to Frank Duncan and to Ventura
District Attorney Roy Gustafson.

“Mother did a foolish thing,” Frank Duncan admitted
to the police who questioned him about it, “but she thought
she was helping me.”

As to his mother’s threatening his wife, Duncan said,
“Mother doesn’t like Olga, but my.wife’s friends are exag-

“LAST RIDE FOR MOTHER .. .SON’S LAST HOPE GONE...

Elizabeth Duncan is surrounded by guards as she leaves California Institution for Women
one day before her execution, and enters car which will take her to San Quentin. At
right, her son Frank, who battled till the very end to save her from death, leaves Fed-
eral Building after being told she has been executed. ‘‘They just won't listen,” he said.

gerating the whole story. Our marriage has not broken up.”
But Roy Gustafson now joined forces with Santa Bar-
bara District Attorney Vern B. Thomas to investigate the
possibility that Olga Duncan had been kidnaped or mur-
dered. They checked the background of Mrs. Elizabeth
Duncan—and they found it was quite a background.

rs. Duncan had spent a lot of time in courtrooms.

Preliminary investigation disclosed that she had mar-

ried at least six times after divorcing Duncan in 1948.

Most of the marriages ended in annulments, within a short

time, on the grounds that the marriages had not been con-
summated. But that wasn’t all.

In May of 1953, under the name of Betty Cogbill, Mrs.
Duncan was arrested in San Francisco for operating a
house of prostitution. She was convicted of soliciting, and
was given a thirty-day suspended sentence, plus a year’s
probation. a

Y December 4th, there was still no word of Olga Dun-

can and no clue as to her whereabouts. It was on that

day that Frank and Elizabeth Duncan entered the Santa
Barbara police station.

Duncan told the lawmen that his mother was a victim
of extortion. An ex-convict named Luis Moya, he said,
had forced Elizabeth Duncan to pay him $150 on threat
of bodily harm. Now, Moya and another man were de-
manding an additional $500 from his mother, Duncan said.

“Some time ago, I charged a friend of theirs $500 to
defend him in a criminal case. He was found guilty and
sentenced to jail, so now these men want the money back.”

While her son was making the report to the police, Mrs.
Duncan was reluctant to talk about the case at all. Later,
she viewed Luis Moya in a line-up but failed to identify
him. She made it plain she preferred to drop the whole
matter, and Moya was released. But the investigators began
looking for a link between the ex-convict, Frank Duncan’s
mother, and his wife’s disappearance. They found it in the
person of an eighty-four-year-old widow.

er name was Adele Martin, a next-door. neighbor of
Mrs. Duncan. Her first words to the investigators
were, “You've got to help me. She’s already had one person
murdered, and she wouldn’t hesitate to kill me.”
“Who did she have murdered?” she was asked.
_ “Her daughter-in-law,” the old woman answered. “She
pawned her diamond ring and paid two men to kill her.
She told me herself.”
Mrs. Martin didn’t know the names of the men, but she
said Mrs. Duncan met them through Marie Cortes, wife

of a jailed cafe owner. (Continued. on page 62)


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plates—he would be subject to arrest.
And Lawson had good reason for wanting
to keep clear of all contact with the
police.

Early the next morning, Beck phoned
the license bureau. He learned that a
Jackie Ray Lawson, who gave an East
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Beck and Sergeant Segel drove past the
apartment building on East Second Street
later that morning, Saturday, March 23rd,

but failed to spot the car. Then they —

drove to the Northern Lights shopping

center. Within five minutes, they had,-

located a 1948 Dodge with the Ohio plate
numbers that had been issued to Lawson.

They had no accurate description of
the suspect and were afraid to risk check-
ing the, various stores in the shopping
center for fear he would. spot them as
police and escape. So they found a
parking place near his car and camped
there.

Closing time, five p.m., arrived. The
officers saw the lights go out in the
stores and watched the employees come

The questioning was continued, and
at last, on Monday, March 25th, Lawson
began showing signs of nervousness and
strain. He asked to see his wife.

“We'll let you see her, Lawson,” Beck
said. “But why don’t you get all this off
your chest first so you can talk to her
with a clear conscience?”

Lawson considered for a moment. “Yes,
I'd better,” he said. “I have to talk, or
V’ll crack up and go crazy.”

paver said that he and Credia Mal-
lady had been living together as man
and wife since shortly after his arrival in
St. Louis. He said that an argument had
started on the night of February 26th
when he told her he was going home
to his wife in Columbus.

“It was the first she knew that I had
a wife,” he said. “She got a butcher
knife, stood in the kitchen door and said
I couldn't leave. I struck her in the face
and knocked her to the floor. 1 jumped
on her and grabbed her by the throat
with my right hand and seized the
knife with my left hand. We hit the light
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entirely by maul. R. filing out. Then a man came toward the the knife on the table, got a bottle and ing field. No

Dodge. He was dark-haired, slender, ‘be- hit her over the head with it. ; own busines

spectacled and mild-appearing. As he “She made a funny noise, like a pigeon CTI’s fin

slipped his key into the car lock, the roosting, so I took the knife and cut a illustrated, «

detectives stepped behind him. piece of clothesline and wrapped it edge. It inc

“Lawson, you’re under arrest for the around her neck and knotted it. Pretty ; It p

LL GLADLY LOAN YOU $100—$300—$500 | murder of Credia Mallady,” Beck said. soon, I saw she was dead. She had on ments. It p

—$800—or as much as $1,000 on your own sig- He and Segel snapped handcuffs on black slacks and underpants. 1 pulled put knowle

ners: If date a Sa ea hen the amazed man and took him to head- them off of her so it would look like students ea
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bors, relatives, employer will not be contacted. Ralph | oth ote cig gece ‘Lawion said he then went to a tavern full story: «

Palen ~~ a just arrived fy ae a hat inka, Saturiite ‘iu oe
$i A : rom Florida. Grinning, Bec anded and had some drinks. Returning In
signers—NO insurance required—NO embar- | over the suspect into Paul's custody. early morning, he cleaned up the place

rassing investigations. | «tyr. he is, Sheriff. And I think you'll as well as he could. Then he went out
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Payments include both in- AT ONCE! Borrowing car, buying the Dodge with part of the
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CashYou |30 Monthiy|25 Meathty | of scattered obligations T h her body into the laundr
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$300) 15.06| 17.00] Payment to make each deputies questioned the suspect in relays. rane Then he drove 415 miles to Colum-
month and only one After his surprise at being arrested wore us. “ ‘
$500) 23.57) 26.86] piace to pay, you'll be | off, Lawson maintained a stoical calm. Rejoining his wife the next day, Feb-
$800) 35.28| 40.59| abletos-t-r-e-t-c-h your |'He admitted living with Credia Mallady. TUary 28th, he left Credia’s body in the
51,000) 42.92| 49.57 paycheck further than | He admitted cashing her check and sell- Cat trunk, trying to decide what to do
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62

to take a lie-detector test, he repeated
the story he had told before. The poly-
graph indicated he was lying. When told
this, he refused to take a second test.

and he is now serving his sentence.

Note: The name, Evelyn Strand, is

‘a pseudonym.

“DON’T PUT MOTHER
IN THE

GAS CHAMBER!”

(Continued from page VS)

Mrs. Cortes was frightened, too. She
didn’t want to talk, but police pressed her
until she admitted introducing Elizabeth

Duncan to two customers—Luis Moya and
Augustine Baldonado.. Mrs. Cortes said
Mrs. Duncan wanted the men to do a job
for her.

“What else do you know?”

“Nothing. Nothing,” the woman said.

“Do you know what the job was?”

Her eyes wide with terror, the
woman waited a long moment before an-
swering. “They borrowed a car and came
back here late one night,” she whispered.
“Luis said, ‘We did Mrs. Duncan’s job.
They'll never find that witch. Her body

CONFIDENTIAL DETECTIVE CASES

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pan aroregetadl the morning, as the wit-
nesses drew their damning pictures of
her, Mrs. Duncan appeared less cocky.

When a witness testified that Mrs. Dun-
can had asked her to get in touch with
the Stradas and wanted to know if she
knew anyone to help “get a woman out
of town,” Mrs. Duncan turned to her son
and said, almost inaudibly, “I don’t know
that woman.”

But she regained her composure by
the noon recess. When a reporter com-
mented, “It’s a beautiful day out,” the
accused answered, “It certainly is.” Then
she added, wistfully, “I wish I was out.”

Frank Duncan told the reporters that
witnesses were lying about his mother.
“She is getting damn sick of all these
lies,” he said heatedly.

But the testimony Duncan objected to,
faded. in. comparison with what he heard
the next day when Luis Moya recited a
story of murder to the courtroom.

‘heneigal and without emotion, the twenty-

two-year-old youth told how he and
Baldonado met with Elizabeth Duncan
in the cafe of Marie Cortes and bargained
over the price for the murder of Olga
Duncan. :

“She (Mrs. Duncan) said she wanted
to get rid of her because Olga had threat-
ened to ruin her son’s career if she didn’t
pay one thousand dollars by Friday,”
Moya said. He told how he raised the

‘price from three to six thousand dollars

to commit the murder.

As the witness told of haggling over
the price, Frank Duncan, his eyes misty
with tears, rose from his seat and left the
courtroom. In the corridor he sobbed, “I
can’t stand it. I can’t stand it.”

On the stand, Moya continued ‘his story
while Elizabeth Duncan watched, stone-
faced. When he asked her how he should
kill her daughter-in-law, Moya said, “She
told me she had acid, rope and sleeping
pills if we decided we could use them.”

He said they decided later that the best

‘plan would be to kidnap the nurse and

take her across the Mexican border to
Tiajuana and dispose of her there. Moya
testified he and Baldonado borrowed a
gun, rented an old car for twenty-five dol-
lars, and bought tape and black leather
gloves. Four days later, the two men
went to the apartment of Olga Duncan.

Moya said he lured the young wife out
to the car by saying Frank Duncan was
downstairs, drunk.

“When she opened the door of the car,
I hit her on the head with a pistol and
tried to force her in. It was a pretty hard
blow, but it didn’t knock her out. She
screamed.”

He and Baldonado pulled her into the
car, hit her again and drove off. Olga,
semi-conscious, was bound with tape as
they rode: away.

Because the auto was not running well,
the men abandoned the plan of going to
Mexico. Instead, they drove to the lonely
spot near Ojai. There, they took the strug-
gling nurse and beat her with a rock and
strangled her, Moya said.

“It_ was a pretty good place to bury
her. We didn’t think she would be found.”

“Was she dead?” Gustafson asked.

“I felt and there was no pulse,” said
Moya.

(Qn February 27th, the jury heard Adele
Martin. The eighty-four-year-old friend
of Elizabeth Duncan spoke in a low voice
which showed fear, as she described -the
jealousy Mrs. Duncan showed toward her
daughter-in-law.

The witness testified that Elizabeth

Duncan had once angrily slashed to pieces
a wallet bought by Olga as a birthday
present for Frank. As pieces of the wallet
were introduced as evidence, the witness
quoted the defendant as saying, “I want
Frank to live with me. He’s not ready to
get married yet.” :

The old woman said she heard Mrs.
Duncan threaten the nurse over the tele-
Phone. “You're not a fit person to be
with my son. If you don’t leave him
alone, I'll kill you.”

Then she described a scene at the
newlyweds’ apartment. After a three-way
verbal battle, Frank turned to his mother
and said, “Come on, doll, let’s go home.”
« “Did Mrs. Duncan say to you what the
sleeping arrangements (at her apartment)
were?” Gustafson asked.

“Objection,” defense attorney called.

“Sustained,” ruled the judge.

According to the witness, Frank had
promised his mother many times, “I'll
never leave you.”

After the wedding, said Mrs. Martin,
Elizabeth told her, “Frank came home to
mother on the night of the marriage.”

“Mrs. Duncan said she would kill Olga
dead and would kill Frank dead. She
said she would rather see Frank dead than
living with that - - - - - - Mes

HEN recess was called Mrs. Duncan
leaped to her feet. “Liar!” she scream-
ed at the aged witness stepping down from
the stand. Sullivan tried to restrain his
client but Mrs. Duncan turned to the
courtroom and pointed to Mrs. Martin.

“See those clothes?” she called out.
“They’re mine. See those beads? She got
them from my apartment. I could go up
there and rip them off.”

For the next day and a half, Mrs.
Martin underwent a thorough cross-
examination by Sullivan. The defense at-
torney got the woman to admit that she
was hazy on certain dates. He kept ham-
mering away at the fact that the elderly
witness had never informed the police of
the things she claimed she knew. He also
drew an admission from Mrs. Martin
that she had not actually heard Mrs. Dun-
can threaten Olga over the telephone.

But Mrs. Martin said that after the dis-
appearance, Elizabeth Duncan warned
her, “You know it will mean the electric
chair if you tell.”

(Qn March 3rd, Gustafson called Mrs.
Winnie Hahn, a former jail-mate of
Mrs. Duncan, as a witness. The woman
testified Mrs. Duncan had planned to es-
cape and warned Mrs. Hahn not to re-
veal her plans, saying, “She had people on
the outside who would get me.”

The witness said Mrs. Duncan pro-
tested her innocence in Olga’s murder,
but called the late nurse, “A foreigner,
no good dope addict and a Russian spy.”

Another cell-mate testified that Mrs.
Duncan had told her, “They (Moya and
Baldonado) beat her, beat her and beat
her, but the old b—— wouldn't die. Isn't
that just like a Russian?”

After this testimony, Gustafson rested
his case.

| we following day, Elizabeth Duncan
took the stand to fight for her life.
Her emotions ranged from supreme con-
fidence, to tears, to anger, as her attorney
led her through her testimony.

The defendant admitted being “terribly
upset” on Frank’s wedding night. She ad-
mitted Mrs. Martin’s testimony about a
plan to tie up and abduct Frank.

“Why did you want to tie him up?”
Sullivan asked.

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KSARNES, Conner), LAWS

ome fifty feet beyond the point where the upright iron

posts supported the roof of the portico in front of the

office of Captain of the Guard William Ryan, there

was a broad, white line drawn with lime across the

hard, pebbly surface of the Folsom Prison yard. It was the

deadline; to venture across that marker without permission

| presumably spelled death as every one of the forty re-

cidivists who toed it on that forenoon of September 19th,
1937, well knew.

Guard towers, atop the gray walls, commanded a_ full

sweep of that lime-marked section; hot lead could be in-

{ 40

Ul)
STIS IIE:

) Vins.

+ + GRP

LODY & KE5 =: VM as a

stantly poured down in the event of a disturbance.

Beneath the portico was an expanse of stone slabs forming
a walk which led to the door of the office: the door was of
iron; through a grating the captain of the guard could
converse with the men in the yard.

As was his custom on every Sabbath morn, Warden Clar-
ence Larkin sat within the office, behind a thick glass parti-
tion which alone separated him from the nameless men in
shapeless suits who wished to present appeals for clemency ;
men pleading for yet another chance on the “outside” despite
the fact that they were all at least “two-time losers.”

The warden was a gigantic man, six feet, six inches in
height, his massive head topped with dark hair. Muscles
bulged from beneath ‘his coat. sleeves and his mouth drew a
firm, straight line, but nevertheless he was known as a just
man.’ He listened patiently and the light in his keen eyes was

As the cc

slashed away
portico, left,
hangman, ot

linger of

t

listurbance.

‘ stone slabs forming
ce: the door was of
of the guard could

morn, Warden Clar-
ia thick glass parti-
he nameless men in
ppeals for clemency ;
the “outside” despite
time losers.”

x feet, six inches in
dark hair. Muscles
id his mouth drew a
was known as a just
in his keen eves was

Hollis B. Fultz .

Special Investigator for

As the convict leader, Stevens, (inset, left)
“slashed away at the helpless warden beneath the
portico, left, Guard H. B. Trader, official prison
_ hangman, above, took careful aim and the "Dil-

linger of the West" went west for certain.


his hand and wept.
len diamonds ! That
that prompted the
pt the break.

relayed to Folsom
» Jerry Devine and
Angeles, who had
Benny Kucharski.
arski and two con-
¢ Bridges Jewelry
. Illinois, in 1934,
ine in gems, which

Devine and Mans-
‘r of the notorious
St. Louis.

rski still held the
uts of the cache.
rs refused to talk,
were never able to

“diamond cache”
im of Clyde Stev-
tuckian, to become
ter. Back in 1934,

vhile an inmate at

ll become better

vas released from
out to fulfill his
d picked key men
1om he had met in
‘ one of his lieu-
\essell were then
of Stevens’ pros-
ere still in prison.
“red Barnes, Ru-
ed Landers, Alex-
Kristy, all men

san Quentin, Stev-

for “springing”
To get sufficient
to action, Stevens
a dozen bank rob-
Each was a bold
hem Stevens dis-
sought to capture

recklessly spent
wn. Then — they
Convict Straight,
it purchased four
xtra clips of bul-
lidn’'t know what
tor.

to San Anselmo,
and sneakéd into
r who was build-
xk. He secreted
ing of the con-
d Straight a note
“jag” and signed
vas the tip-off to
hat the weapons
machine.

» the prison one
the pistols from
n. The convicts
the parole board
ssion.

ie board met, but
solitary cell for
ation. . He was
Isom, as officials
maker.” So the

| the scenes
itten espe-
Stags" will
e Detective.

other four convicts decided to break out
without Barnes.

Flashing tHeir guns, they rushed into the
warden’s home, severely beat Warden
James B. Holohan, kidnaped the entire
parole board, its clerk and three guards.
Into the warden’s automobile the convicts
forced their hostages and sped out of the
prison grounds, guards withholding their
tire in fear of hitting the hostages:

A wild 100-mile chase followed, with
scores of guards, deputy porns and state
highway patrolmen in pursuit. \ A police
bullet crippled the. convict’s stolen auto-
mobile, which crashed into a barn, A gun
battle followed, and Straight was shot to
death. The other three convicts surren-
dered. ;

In the exchange of bullets during the
chase, Parole Board members Frank C.
Sykes and Joseph Stephens were wounded.

That same night Stevens and Kessell
were seized in their hideout following a
gun battle with San Francisco officers.
Stevens and Kessell had been waiting for
Straight and the other convicts to join
them so they could start east to commence
their “reign of terror” a /a Dillinger. But
the court selected Folsom prison as the
home of Stevens and Kessell for the next
seventy years.

For their part in the escape plot, Kristy
and Mackay were hanged. They were
convicted on several charges, including kid-
naping, which is a capital offense in Cali-
fornia. Landers, who had prevented the
others from killing Warden Holohan, was
let off with a life term.

Thus, Clyde Stevens’ dream to be the
“new Dillinger” had resulted, on the night
of September 19, 1937, in the deaths of six
persons, including ~ himself—three in the
San Quentin plot, three in the Folsom plot.
More deaths were to follow .

UDGE HARVEY arrived at Folsom

from Bakersfield and went into a con-
ference with District Attorney Otis Bab-
cock of Sacramento, Warden Smith and
the members of the prison board.

After examining the wooden guns used
by the Folsom plotters, Warden Smith was
inclined to believe that they were made by
Vladimir Pruszynski, a Folsom inmate,
who is “too talented.”

Pruszynski had been the author of a
bizarre attempt in 1935 to slay Smith while
he was warden at Folsom. An informer
tipped guards that guns had been made
within the prison to kill Smith while the
warden attended the prison boxing matches.
A shakedown followed, and the guns were
found in Pruszynski’s cell, concealed in a
phonograph.

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’

When he was asked why he wanted to
kill the warden, the convict replied, indi-
cating by gesture:

“If I kill a guard I get this much of a
newspaper story. But if I kill the warden
I get this much (indicating a far larger
story).” .

The guns made in 1935 were capable of
firing bullets. Those used by men who
attacked Warden Larkin and Captain Ryan
were for bluff only.

District Attorney Babcock talked to the
guards who foiled the plot, then went to
the hospital to speak to the rioters. Only
Cannon and Barnes were in condition to
talk..

Cannon said: “All I know is that I think
my head was whupped in by a guard’s
cane. I didn’t hear any shots and I’ve no
idea what happened. Guards do funny
things here.”

Barnes’ answer, too, was typical:

“I didn’t hear or see anything. I don’t
know anything either.”

And, by a not-too-strange coincidence,
there were more prisoners playing domi-
noes in the prison yard at the time of the
riot than at any other time since Thanks-
giving Day, 1927. District Attorney Bab-
cock learned this when he questioned con-
vict “witnesses” to the fracas.

“Here’s how the convicts’ answers ran:

George Fredericks, San Francisco rob-
ber: “I never discuss other people's busi-
ness.”

William Burns, Los Angeles kidnaper :
“I was playing domnioes; I was too far
away to recognize anybody.”

Tony Campagna, San Francisco robber :
“I seen some inmates getting their heads
knocked off.”

James Kirk, co-kidnaper of William F.
Gettle in Los Angeles in 1934: “I was
watching a baseball game.”

A dozen more gave similar answers, with
Burns’ “domino” reply being the most
popular.

The convicts questioned were known to
us as “professional witnesses.” We wanted
their statements now, so they couldn't ap-
pear later in court and testify with some
trumped-up story for the defense. For
from past experience, we suspected that
some convict “professional witnesses”
would go into ¢ourt and state that the
guards had “felled the wrong men.”

DESPITE the convicts’ silence, Babcock
announced: “I have an open and shut
case. The death penalty is the only answer
in such a crime. I plan a speedy trial and
it is quite possible that these criminals will
be the first to die in California’s lethal gas
chamber.” :
California recently adopted the ‘lethal
gas chamber as a substitute for the gallows.
As their conditions grew worse, Warden
ILarkin and Captain Ryan were transferred

INSIDE DETECTIVE

Lieutenant of the Guard Goranhson in-
spects the screen in the door to the
captain’s office, ripped in the mélée.

to hospitals at Sacramento, where each
underwent a series of blood transfusions,

Meanwhile, the Sacramento County
grand jury met on September 22, and after
hearing three witnesses—Dr. Day, who de-
scribed Guard Martin’s fatal wounds; Al-
bert H. Mundt, Folsom clerk, who gave
prison records of the five surviving con-
victs; and Trusty Richard Harrison, who
identified the rioters—voted murder indict-
ments against Davis, Barnes, Kessell, Eudy
and Cannon.

After the grand jury met, Warden Lar-
kin took a sudden turn for the worse.
Peritonitis developed, then pneumonia. Dr.
Day summoned Dr. C. H. McDonnell and
Dr. Everett Carlson, specialists. Larkin
was placed in an oxygen tent.

But the peritonitis and pneumonia proved
too much for the rugged warden. At 1:05
o’clock on the morning of September 24,
Larkin died. At his bedside were his wife;
his step-son, Floyd Perry; Joseph Ste-
phens, a member of the State Board of
Prison Terms and Parole; and myself.

Governor Frank F. Merriam of Cali-
fornia, who had kept in constant communi-
cation with the hospital, was shocked when
word was flashed to him of Larkin’s death.
He paid tribute to the warden in a formal
statement, saying:

“IT sincerely regret, as does all Cali-
fornia, that the life of this courageous

officer had to be sacrificed by people who
have no regard for life or organized
society.” '

On September 27, Warden Larkin was
carried to his grave following rites at the
Sacramento Municipal Auditorium, the
city’s. largest gathering place, where 3,000
mourners assembled. It was one of the
largest funerals in California’s history.
Among the many floral offerings was one
sent by a group of Folsom inmates—con-
victs who were devoted to the fair-dealing
warden.

But with the failure of the Folsom plot,
violence was not yet finished in_ Pacific
Coast prisons. ©

TWENTY-FOUR hours after Warden
Larkin was fatally knifed, 100 inmates
at Alcatraz penitentiary—Uncle Sam's
“Devil’s Island” in San Francisco Bay—
went on strike, refusing to work unless
given more privileges.

Warden James A. Johnston, who bosses
the nation’s toughest criminals, locked up
the strikers in their cells and put them on -
a bread and water diet.

Then, on September 24, Warden Johns-
ton lectured to the other Alcatraz inmates.
Suddenly Burton Phillips, young Kansas
kidnaper-robber, serving a life term, leaped
out of the line and swung his fist at the
warden.

As Johnston fell to the floor, guards
rushed in and clubbed the attacker. Both
warden and convict were taken to the
prison hospital, where Johnston lay half-
conscious for hours.

On September 27, trouble flared in San
Quentin, California’s noted “big house,”
where more than 5,000 prisoners are held.
Cecil Duncan and Fred Carroll, both
twenty-eight and regarded as two of the
toughest Negro inmates, fought a_ bitter
fist fight which guards feared might be the
signal for a general outbreak.

As 1,000 other convicts milled about ex-
citedly, guards gave orders to stop fight-
ing. But Duncan and Carroll fought on.
At last Guard George Alm fired from his
gun post and wounded Duncan in the leg.
The one bullet quieted the prison.

On September 29, the plague of rebel-
lion spread to Walla. Walla prison in
Washington. Three Walla Walla con-
victs, Les Ash, Carl Travis and Gilbert
Detwiler, leaped upon Guard Ben Taylor,
took his keys and gun, locked him in a,
hasement closet, and walked off the prison
grounds.

Thus the legend that convict uprisings
come in waves was again substantiated.

Despite stone walls and iron bars, the
job of keeping control over America’s
menaces to society is one that demands un-
ceasing vigilance, willingness to face peril,
and—all too often—the sacrifice of life
itself,

THE MIDWEST'S MOST HEARTLESS BLUEBEARD

Because he had tired of working fora living, gold-toothed George Perry devised c get-rich-quick scheme that
he believed couldn't miss. He would prey. upon the affections. of susceptible women, get their money, get rid of

them. ...

Leaving a swath of broken hearts behind him, the flinty-h

carted Perry blazed a trail of knavery unrivalled in crime

annals; But when the body of one of his women victims was found’ in o secluded spot in Wisconsin, the wily Bluebeard’s

days were numbered,

For the smashing story of the law's triumph over’ a conniving killer, ‘read Insioe Detective for February. In it
you will find a dozen other features all the more thrilling because every word is true. i

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warden can
victs the hig
liked. Not
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said Larkin
ust. But he
fom and was,
re than that,
in should be
hich escape
be effected.
these seven,
cone of them
type to at-
t escape on
IV else ever

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sroached the
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hl) who had
bank of the
ble 150 feet
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hat method

‘oulson had
Inder water
‘oa piece of
the, making
submarine.
d, foiled by
ifter he had
convicts
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peeted all of

imple; some
eviously at
ito octlective,
the warden
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while they ,

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aocar was
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ever, which
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of firearms.
ked beneath
»made them
72)

TECTIVE

” t e
ROS RAS
ete
ia

Dummy wooden guns and
hand-made knives, above,
were used as weapons by
the seven escaping convicts.
Albert Kessel and Clyde
Stevens (at right) engi-
neered the abortive bid for
freedom. The picture was
taken in 1935 when they
were recaptured after es-
caping from San Quentin.

ADVENTURES

Science Saves

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down at the table. Until the early hours
of the morning they remained there,
heads together, discussings secret) plans
over innumerable glasses of bootle
liquor.

Later the building trades representative
reported to his boss that Diamond, Orpen
and Walsh would protect painting: con
tractors in Brooklyn from the violence of
strikers for $25,000,

The striking: painters were themselves
being assisted by the notorious gang
leader, Hymie Curley, under orders from
Joe “The Boss” Masscria, henchman for
Al Capone.

ITymie sent word to Litthe Augie to
keep out of Brooklyn and stay on his own
side of the river where he belonged. When
he received the warning, Little Augie
snarled back, “No one dictates to me!”

Three nights later Little Augie with
his bodyguard, Diamond, was headed for
a gang rendezvous near Suffolk and De
lancey streets on New York's teeming
East side. A car slid up to the curb be-
side them and two men jumped out.
Before Little Augie could move they
started blasting away.

Even as Orgen fell to the gutter, one
of his assassins sneered, “We warned you
to stay out of Brooklyn, you rat!”

What had Diamond, the bodyguard,
been doing meanwhile? Nothing!

Perhaps he was too seared to move, too
seared to draw his rod. olud—aaybe he
wasn’) supposed to movel UW wouldit he
the first nor the last time that a trusted
bodyguard had helped put) his boss on
the spot.

But Diamond had forgotten that
double-crossing works both ways. For
suddenly Legs gasped, clutched at. his
stomach and sank slowly to the filth ot
the gutter with five slugs hammered into
his twitching body.

Betrayed by his own hench-
man, Little Augie lies dead
while his bodyguard, Legs
Diamond, writhes in agony at
his side. A new era of lawless-
ness has dawned, an era of
bloodshed and terror that has
no equal in the history of
crime. Who will be the next
menacing figure to gain ascen-
dancy in the merciless vortex
of the gang world? Read the
thrill-packed second instal-
ment of this amazing story in
February issue of Startling
Detective Adventures, on sale
December 29.

Red Fury at Folsom

{Continued from paye 32)

far more comfortable than the prison-
made knives they carried.

But, skilful though he was at such a job,
Stevens had been unable to get a pistol
into Folsom. He had managed it in Jan-
uary, 1935, when he sent four guns into
San Quentin under the hood of a truck,
thus precipitating the break in whieh con-
viet Rudolph Straight was shot to death
and Warden James Holohan so seriously
beaten that he later resigned his office.

Singularly it was that cleverly planned
but unsuccessful break whieh had made it
impossible for Stevens to get guns into
Folsom. Warden Court Smitl, of Folsom
had been moved over to take Warden
Holohan’s place at San Quentin and sec-
retary Clarence Larkin, with 24 years of
penal institution service behind him, had
been elévated to Smith’s position. For
smuggling of those guns into San Quen-
tin Clyde Stevens and his) pal, Albert
Kessel, had been transferred to the care
of the new warden at lolsom.

Warden Larkin, hero of the Thanks-
giving Day riot in 1927 when cleven con-
victs and two guards were killed, was re-
puted to be the most watchful keeper of
men in the West. Unable to get guns,
Stevens had equipped his escape pang
with nine prison-made knives sharpened
to razor edge, a steel bludgeon weighing
about 20 pounds and two dummy guns
carved of wood,

They were desperate, hardened crim-
inals, those seven who waited so omi-
nously to see Warden) Larkin. Clyde

Stevens had robbed a dozen banks before
he was sent to Folsom along with his
robber-pal, Kessel. Ed Davis, associate
of Pretty Boy Floyd, had escaped from
Lansing only to be caught in 1934 in Los
Angeles and sent up for life as a kid-
naping robber. Davis’ little game had
been to “snateh” a merchant, take him
to his store and make him open the safe,
a direct: system which saved long ne-
gotiations and ransom notes, even if it
didw’t) produce as much money as an
orthodox kidnaping,

ENNY KUCHARSKIT, who. also
stood among the 40 convicts await-
ing interviews on this fall morning, had
escaped from the state prison in’ Missis-
sippi and was serving 70 years as a bur-
glar. Robert Lee Cannon, young, blond
and the least intelligent of the lot, had
been transferred from San Quentin to
Folsom because he had been impossible
to handle in the other prison, Cannon
was a knifer and was believed to have
killed a fellow-convict in San Quentin.
Fred Barnes, the sixth member of the
gang, had also been transferred from the
other prison because it was known he was
a party to the break in which Warden
Holohan had been so seriously injured.
These six men had banded together as
naturally as wolves once they were as:
sembled within the same walls.
The seventh member of the gang was
tall,.slim, dark-visaged Wesley Eudy, a

Pomona robber a:
had been selected
of the lot te appre
the way for the
These were then
ing, Warden Lark
in a desperate bie
Captain of the
came to the door
11:30) o'clock at
udy. The cons
tarked out on the
forward, Sudder'
to go through t
which Warden
lunged for Ryan :
At that second
line made a dash
mighty shove th
though Ryan gas
cane, drove him
A blow from the
the glass partitic
den interviewed
fore Larkin reali
Davis had loops
his neck and tw:
“Tt works, w
giving the wire ¢
“We're goin
Stevens. “And
as vou're told. ¢
throw, down the?
Drspite the
Kin dused ta tn
his “Tew he othe
smashed anothe
Davis vanked
During the briet
had stabbed the
pain was intense
showed in) Lark
his conviet capt
“T'd whip all y
he said, “if you’
“Rat vou aren
jeered Bob Can
long needle-poi
kin’s throat. I
hand awayasat
down the captur
Warden Lark
loaded cane ha
weapon in the cl
was bleeding fr:
His arms were
Kessel and Ku:
quiet,
“That's bette


’

hat
For
his
th of
{into

sale

s before
with his
issociate
ved from
‘4in Los
sa kid-
ime had
take him
the safe,
long ne-
ven if it
‘y as an

vho also
‘ts await-
ning, had
n Missis-
as a bur-
ug, blend
» lot, had
‘uentin to
mpossible
Cannon

{| to have
Quentin.
vr of the
| from the
wn he was
“arden
jured.

ler as
wsTe as-

gang was
y Eudy, a

Pomona robber and parole violator. He
had been selected as the most inoffensive
of the lot to approach the office and clear
the way for the rush of his comrades,
These were the men whom, all unknow-
ing, Warden Larkin was about to engage
in a desperate bid for freedom.

Captain of the Guard William Ryan
came to the door of the office at exactly
11:30 o’clock and called the name_ of
KEudy. The convict stepped over the line
marked out on the prison yard and walked
forward. Suddenly, just as he was about
to go through the door of the room in
which Warden Larkin waited, Kudy
lunged for Ryan and struggled with him.

At that second the six men back in the
line made a dash for the door. With a
mighty shove they lurched inside and,
though Ryan gave battle with his loaded
cane, drove him back against the wall.
A blow from the steel bludgeon smashed
the glass partition behind which the war-
den interviewed prisoners. Almost be-
fore Larkin realized what was happening
Davis had looped a piece of wire about
his neck and twisted it tightly.

“Tt works, warden,” snarled Davis,
giving the wire a vicious twist.

“Were going out!” barked Clyde
Stevens, “And you die if you don’t do
as you're told, Tell the tower guards to
throw down their guns!”

Despite the wire around his neck Lar-
kin lunged to his feet. With a sweep of
his leg he tripped one convict and
smashed another in the face before Ed
Davis yanked him back in his chair.
During the brief melee one of the convicts
had stabbed the warden in the side. The
pain was intense but not a Nicker of fear
showed in Larkin’s eyes as he spoke to
his convict captors.

“I'd whip all you punks single-handed,”
he said, “if you’d give me the chance.”

“But you aren’t gonna get the chance,”
jeered Bob Cannon, jabbing the tip of a
long needle-pointed knife against Lar-
kin’s throat. Davis brushed Cannon’s
hand away asa thin stream of red trickled
down the captured man’s neck.

Warden Larkin subsided. Ryan, whose
loaded cane had proven an ineffective
weapon in the close quarters of the office,
was bleeding from several stab wounds.
His arms were pinioned at his sides by
Kessel and Kucharski. The office grew
quiet.

“That’s better,” said Stevens. “Now

“Help! Help! Police!”

AbVERTISEMENTS, Pr

Wien ANSWERING

ee

we can talk business. Pick up that tele-
phone and tell the guards to throw down
their guns. Better call the one right
above us first.”

In the tower he referred to guard Joc
Brady was on duty. Warden Larkin
suddenly realized a possible chance to
thwart the break, There was, no tele-
phonic connection with Brady’s tower;
if he asked for such a connection John
Luther, the officer on the switchboard,
would immediately sense that something
was wrong. ‘The warden lifted the trans-
mitter off the hook.

“Joe,” said the warden, speaking
slowly to let the significance of his words
sink in, “the boys down here want you to
throw down your gun. They are going
out,

T TIE other end of the line Jack
Whalen, Larkin’s secretary, whose
extension phone had been connected in-
stantly by operator Luther when the war-
den asked for “Joe,” caught the cue. Ilis
boss was in trouble! Ile listened intently.
Suddenly the voices of men arguing
reached him. He heard the convicts’
oaths, mingled with snarls and_ threats.
Acting with cool courage, Larkin had
quietly and unostentatiously laid the
transmitter on the desk instead of re-
placing it on the hook. He was fighting
every inch of the way and, though over-
powered physically, was using his brains
now to outwit the men who had him
cornered, ‘The warden wis sure that
Whalen would sound the alarm and he
realized that if he could stall off the rush
for the gates for a few minutes, guards
would come to his aid,

In the meantime, while the dramatic
scene was taking place inside the warden’s
office, there was consternation outside.
Ed Davis had picked this particular Sun-
day morning for the break because a ball
game was going on in the prison yard,
just as there had been some years before
when he crashed out of Lansing. “The
convict had learned by experience that at
such times prison discipline is likely to be
just a little less alert. Davis had guessed
right.

ace Brady, in the tower above the
office of the captain of the guard, had
seen Wesley Eudy pass out of sight
underneath the roof of the porch and then
had turned his eyes for a fleeting glance

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MASSACRE!

Into a happy, cheering election parade, hidden
gunmen poured a hail of deadly bullets.

Moaning men and screaming women crumpled in
their tracks, and the streets of a little Pennsylvania
town were red with blood, Mass murder had been
committed.

But the story had only begun.

In the wake of the election day horror, there fol-
lowed a strange drama of imprisonment, escape and
a lone man's amazing cunning in eluding the law.

Don't fail to read one of the most remarkable

stories of recent crime in the January issue of
DYNAMIC DETECTIVE, under the title

ELECTION MASSACRE!

The Amazing Story
of Pennsylvania's Political Killer

In the same thrill-packed number you will find:

THE SLAIN G-MAN AND THE AVENGING
POSSE

SNARING CANADA'S MURDEROUS BANK
BANDIT

NORTHWOODS' JUSTICE

On sale at all newsstands.

at the ball game. As he did so the six
men who had been watching and waiting
rushed toward the office.

By the time Brady’s attention was at-
tracted to the commotion directly below
him the six convicts were also under the
porch and the guard had not a chance to
fire a single shot. But if Brady had been
caught slightly off guard, so had the con-
victs, They did not know that a trusty,
Richard Harrison, was iit Larkin’s office.
As they stormed the door he rushed out,
barely avoiding a slashing knife in the
hands of Kessel.

“Help! Help!” shouted Harrison,
“They’re killing the warden!”

Helpless, the men on the walls could
only await developments. But inside the
great stone building Whelan was as-
sembling an attack party.

In a moment sirens were screaming and
warning bells jangling throughout the
prison, dread signals that a break was in
progress. Sleeping guards rose from
their beds; extra arms were rushed from
the arsenal and presently the walls
bristled with machine guns.

Slowly, grumbling because their day
had been spoiled, the 2,500 convicts in the
recreation grounds obeyed the commands
of guards atop the walls and shuffled
back toward their cells. With them went
the 33 other inmates who had been wait-
ing to interview Warden Larkin, Ina
few minutes the prison yard was clear of
human activity.

Inside the office Warden Larkin tried
to reason with the seven desperate men,

“Joe Brady wouldn’t send down his
gun because I've given direet orders
against it. “I've told every guard that if
anything like this happens they are to
start shooting, regardless of who is hit.
If you make a break for it all of us will
be killed.”

By prison grapevine word of the in-
structions the warden had given the
guards when he took over, had reached
the inmates, and every man in that office
knew that what Larkin had just stated
was true. It is doubtful if such definite
and courageous instructions had_ ever
before been issued by a warden of any
prison in the world. By his speech on
the day he was made warden Clarence
Larkin burned all his bridges behind him
and, in his determination never to allow
a successful break at Folsom, he signed
his own death warrant.

“If Tam ever captured,” Warden Lar-
kin had told his guards, “and T tell you
not to shoot, shoot anyway! If you don’t,
and I live, you might as well hunt for a
new job, for there won't be one for you
in’ Folsom.”

There was no mistaking those orders.
Every man on the prison walls knew that
Warden Larkin meant exactly what he
had said. Now, waiting tensely, they
prayed that relief would reach him before

ithe conviets brought him under fire of

their guns,

WANTED!

Outstanding fact stories of crime detection.
Reporters, free lance writers, detectives and
others who have interesting material availa-
ble are asked to query the editor.

Startling Detective Adventures
1501 Broadway, New York, N.Y.

74 Accrrt No Sunstirurrs!

.

For several minutes the argument in
the office continued, the warden trying
to convince his seven captors of the fool-
hardiness of their plan, the men trying to
decide what their next step should be now
that the guards had refused to throw
down their guns,

“ HAT the hell, let's go!” finally
snarled Eudy. He looped a_ red
bandanna handkerchief over the warden’s
neck in addition to the wire which Davis
held. They jerked Larkin to his feet and
pulled him out under the portico.

“Throw down your. gun, Brady,’
shouted Clyde Stevens, not venturing
from under the sheltering porch. ‘““We’ve
got the warden. If you don’t throw down
your gun we'll let him have it!”

Brady temporized. Across the yard he
could see guards assembling for a rush.

“How do | know you have him?” he
answered, “Bring him out where I can
see him.”

“Nothing doing,” yelled Stevens,

Then a wave of brown-suited guards,
swinging leaded canes, broke across the
prison yard. Knifer Bob Cannon saw
them first.

“Damn you, take that!" he snarled,
viciously driving his knife into  Larkin’s
neck, He pulled it) out and slashed at
the warden'’s abdomen,

Clarence Larkin, as he saw his guards
racing to his aid, made a mighty effort
for freedom, Like a plunging fullback
dragging would-be tacklers through a
football team's line, the big warden
lunged forward and pulled several of the
convicts withehim from under the porch,

Fifty yards away in Tower 13 Guard
H. B. Trader, prison hangman and a dead
shot, leveled his rifle. Clyde Stevens
was slashing away at Larkin. At that dis-
tance the guard could not see who the
convict was, aS Stevens was dressed in a
borrowed prison suit, a ruse by which he
had gotten in line at the warden’s office
that morning, But Trader could sce that
the man was attacking the warden. He
was about to pull the trigger when one
of the onrushing guards came between
his.sights and his object. ‘Trader waited,
holding the rifle to his shoulder.

A second passed and again the con-
vict’s body was in line with Trader’s gun
sight. He squeezed the trigger. A red
knife was slowly pulled from Warden
Larkin’s body as Stevens slumped to the
earth. The knife clattered to the gravel
at Larkin’s feet where Stevens lay dead,
a bullet through the vicious conniving
brain that had been bent on criminal
activities since he was a boy in Kentucky.

Surrounding the wounded warden the
onrushing guards drove the convicts to-
ward the office again. As they retreated
inside Larkin, believing Ryan was dead,
called out to Captain H. FE. Martin who
was sprinting oward the door:

“Stay out of there, Martin,” he called.
“They'll get you.”

Martin did not heed the call. Captain
Ryan was his friend and he could see that
Ryan was still on his feet inside the
office, battling grimly. Martin pressed
forward and other guards followed. As
he stepped inside the door a long knife
flashed downward; nobody outside could
see who held it, but the point entered
Martin’s heart. He died instantly.

As Martin fell his comrades leaped over
his body and it became a battle of canes
against. knives. Lying about them
viciously the guards forced the convicts
from the office and, inch by inch, drove
them into the open yard.

.

Auways Insist on Tix Apvertisep Branpl

The guns of th
began to bark. ¢
does fell. In

LYDE*STE\
charski were
Martin. Warden |
12 times; Captain
seven times; Ed
skull; Robert Lee
en into unconscio:
a bullet wound th
was shot through
a bullet in the ba
Warden Larki:
during which ti:
faction with the
men had conduc
venting the brea!
“No matter wi
said, “I am prou

*

“Ves, T remen®
and then gave u
with that of th:

“Know any ot

“Can't recall «
replied, “and, wi
I don't know ju
who they were.

“Did Burghar:
his job?” I as}
former employ:
were talking, t
would re-open.

“Seems to me
of weeks,” answ
he hasn't been
time.”

Then I:
tion the m
to see if he wou
been friendly
a long chance, !
we could do tu
almost imposs:
the list of emp!

Two days lat
worker breeze:
said he underst:
with someone
hardt.

“Well, I'm
worked on the
that I ever lear
He was always
own business.
acquainted wit

did that. Talke:
Miller, as I no

We asked f:
and Watson, h
would fit the
called at the Te
To our surpris:
Watson and M
as had been B: »
he said, was s!

The Irishma
once made a
rooming house
that he had st ¥
to California
Miller, he tho
Seattle.

BALDONADO, DUNCAN (Female) & MOYA, asphyxiated San Cuentin (Ventura) 8-8-1962,

————

| a
= i
Bees
eed

ae

— —— o

J

ar

|

~.

BLOODY TRAIL OF
THE “LOLITA” LOVERS

(TD December, 1961)

Their crime spree, which brought
death to four persons, began in Belle-
ville, Illinois, and ended in Midland,
Texas, on September 2, 1961, when John
Edwin Myers, 33, an ex-convict from
Chicago, and 14-year-old Donna Marie
Stone were arrested for the murder of
Arthur Lee DeKraii, 33, hitchhiking
from Ottumwa, Iowa, to California,
whom they had picked up and slain
on September ist. Their other three
victims, all slain near Belleville, were
George Ballard, 47, a machinist, and his
10-year-old daughter Carole, shot to
death on August 30th as they were fish-
ing in a lake, and Margaret Wernicker,
39, kidnaped from her home and shot to
death that same day.

on cases published by TD

Arrest in Texas ended murder spree of John Edwin Myers and Donna Marie Stone

Report of latest legal developments

In Rusk, county. seat of Cherokee
County, Texas, on March 16, 1962, a
jury found Myers guilty of murdering
the Iowa hitchhiker, and sentenced him
to die. Donna Marie, too young to be
tried for murder in Texas, was returned
to Belleville to face trial on a first-
degree murder charge for the deaths of
George and Carole Ballard. She pleaded
not guilty to the charge.

On August 20, 1962, Donna Marie’s
attorneys told Circuit Judge Richard T.
Carter that their client, who admittedly
took part in the four killings, wished to
change her plea to a reduced charge of
voluntary manslaughter.

Judge Carter accepted the plea and
ordered Donna Marie Stone turned over
to the Illinois Youth Commission. After
undergoing a series of tests at the IIli-
nois State Penitentiary at Joliet, she
will be sent to the State Girls’ Training

‘¢

School at Geneva. She will remain there
until she is 21. At that time, the Illinois
Board of Pardons and Parole will have
authority to release her, or to order her
confined in the Women’s Reformatory at
Dwight for the remainder of her 14-
year term—the maximum penalty for
manslaughter.

MEMBER OF THE WEDDING

(TD January, 1960)

In the State’s gas chamber in San
Quentin Prison, on September 4, 1962,
Lawrence Christopher Garner, 30, was
executed for the murder of Richard Lee
Knowlen, 28, of Los Angeles, an escaped
convict, and Knowlen’s fiancee, Patricia
Hurley Skeene, 28, a Los Angeles pa-
rolee on a narcotics charge. The pair
were on their way to Las Vegas to be
married. Their bodies were found on ‘SQ
September 7, 1959, in the Mojave Desert HR f
near Victorville, San Bernardino Coun- ee :

x

ty, California. Both had been shot to
death.

Garner and his wife Sandra, 24, who
were accompanying the pair, were ar-
rested in Mexico on September 17. Both
were convicted of the double slaying.
Sandra was sentenced to a life term at
the women’s prison at Corona, and Gar-
ner was sentenced to die.

As the execution day drew near, Q 4
Garner twice appealed to Marin County\, “T 3
Superior Court for permission to have NE
final visit with his wife. The request
was denied, but on September Ist they
were permitted to talk with each other
over the telephone for 15 minutes.

“TI am deeply grateful,’ Garner said.
“I love my wife very much.” .

HE PROXY MURDER OF
OLGA DUNCAN

(ED April, 1959)

NG

On August 8, 1962, three persons died
in the gas chamber in San Quentin
Prison. They were Mrs. Elizabeth Ann 4
Duncan, 58, Luis Moya, 23, and Augus- *
tine Baldonado, 28, of Santa Barbara,
California. The three were convicted on
March 20, 1959, for the murder of Mrs.
Duncan’s pregnant daughter-in-law,
Olga Kupczyk Duncan, 30, an attractive
Canadian nurse, employed at St. Fran-
cis Hospital in Santa Barbara.

According to testimony given at the
trial, Mrs. Duncan had made every
effort to break up her son’s marriage,
even to the extent of obtaining a fraud-
ulent annulment of it. Then, Baldonado
and Moya testified, she hired them to
dispose of Olga: They were promised
$6,000 for the job, they said, but re-
ceived only a down payment of $250.

On November 18, 1958, on the pretext
that her husband had been injured,
Moya and Baldonado lured Olga Duncan
into a car, beat and strangled her, and
buried her, still alive, in a shallow grave
in Casitas Pass Canyon. Her body was
found on December 21st. Autopsy dis-
closed she had died of suffocation.


—

BALDONADQ, DU NCa N. & MOYA aspyhx, Calif (Ventura), August 8, 1962.

CAPITAL PUNISHMENT DATA SHEET Por |

Cal tavess- Yoru

STATE INVENTORY #
OFFENDER TEETERS-ZIBULKA INVENTORY DATA OTHER SOURCE DOCUMENTATION
| Sa feo (32)
RACE: U/ / Asy
. = &/9 /62 ioe
SEX:

orrensz; “Maedee
DATE EXECUTED: Aupas7 %/ P62

COUNTY: Vertue
AcE: 58 | SP

_ VICTIM

waMe: Olga Duwcan

AGE:

RELATIONSHIP Dau gh/eerr- low
TO OFFENDER:

BACKGROUND
INFORMATION:

DATE CRIME /TSE °.
COMMITTED:

DATE SENTENCED:

DAYS BETWEEN CRIME AND SENTENCING:

DAYS BETWEEN CRIME AND EXECUTION:
COUNTY SIZE:

DAY OF THE WEEK EXECUTED: Wrd arts hy
OFFENDER RESIDENCY:

MEDIA ACCOUNT OF CRIME:

, Cre OF me
Oecd Goos 11 FM daryh Ra-m-Ga . Hirvid Mor

Ausus#F 180 Bald &pade FO Ktlf daw th e-la- face

PCaTOUSS oasis fnorsve

Sime


MEDIA ACCOUNT OF TRIAL:

MEDIA ACCOUNT OF EXECUTION:

' JOUs%
wernon Gas Ch4anbex 10:04 Any |

PERIOD OF INCARCERATION

STAYS OF EXECUTION Fivcd LU FIF CF fJabext Corps
CY as adc nicd.

EXECUTIONER

WITNESSES

RITUALS

%%

LAST worDs Told ward, * Dan wwroced, LT wad To see my Sow,

OTHER INFORMATION See B WO3-7%0Y

sentenced Crawford
‘rs in prison, 15 years
sentences to run con-
vard he was returned
at McAlester, Okla-

another convict, im-
ford in the attack,
a preliminary hear-

. the hospital, Wanda
~ Doctors told her
alive. The knife
‘said, would have
-Inch deeper,

3LED WIDOW
AIKIKI

ber, 1958)

Peoples was an un-
“oman who looked
ier years. The wid-
’ force master ser-
to Hawaii after his
i handsome apart-
jo Avenue. It was
into a tavern for a
‘vening. There she
with other patrons,
eft alone, refusing

August 21st, 1958,
in an alleyway ad-
it house. She had
‘e sought a young
the tavern shortly
eft. He had given.
s, Which identified
» 4 marine private
arbor. A blood-
nd in his laundry,
had had a nose
e had bled.

court, Hedges was
der, given a dis-
and sentenced to
' confessed to fol-
when she left the
in argument with
’, but he denied

appealed to the
test of military
"el for a crime

s in a civilian

%

pe

Deputy Fogarty took Mrs. Duncan to court for sentence—death in the gas chamber

THE PROXY MURDER OF
OLGA DUNCAN

(TD April, 1959)

The murder on November 18th, 1958,
of Olga Kupezyk Duncan, 30, attractive
Canadian nurse employed at St. Francis
Hospital in Santa Barbara, California,
ended her ill-starred marriage, begun on
June 24th of that year, to Frank Duncan,
a Santa Barbara attorney whose mother
refused to permit him to live with his
wife.

Investigation presently disclosed that
Mrs. Elizabeth Ann Duncan, 54, had
made a number of attempts to enlist the
aid of various persons in various plots
to take the life of her daughter-in-law.
It also was learned that Mrs. Duncan,
posing as Olga, with an ex-convict,
Ralph Winterstein, 26, posing as her son
had succeeded in having Frank’s mar-
riage to Olga annulled on August 7th in
Ventura, California.

But that did not satisfy Mrs. Elizabeth
Duncan. She finally succeeded in hiring
two ex-convicts, Augustine Baldonado,
25, and Luis Estrada Moya, 22, promis-
ing them $6000 if they would murder
Olga Duncan. Olga vanished from her
home on November 18th.

Arrested on December 12th, Baldo-
nado and Moya confessed that late at
night on November 18th they went to
the house where Olga, seven months
pregnant, was living alone, her husband
still being with his mother. They lured
her from the house on the pretext that
her husband was in their car, injured.
As she peered into the car, one of them
struck her on the head with a gun.
Then they carried her, unconscious, to
Casitas Pass Canyon and buried her. An
autopsy disclosed that she died of suf-
focation.

Mrs. Duncan was arrested December
13th. She loudly protested her innocence,
claiming Baldonado and Moya were try-
ing to blackmail her. But voluminous
evidence was developed to sustain their
confessions. All three were charged
with first-degree murder.

Mrs. Duncan’s trial began on Febru-
ary 16th, 1959, in the court of Superior

Judge Charles F. Blackstock. On March
16th the jury of eight women and four
men found her guilty of first-degree
murder. The same jury, on March 20th,
voted the death penalty. Both prosecu-
tion and defense agreed that Judge
Blackstock should determine the ques-
tion of Mrs. Duncan’s sanity, as required
by law. On March 25th, after studying
the psychiatric reports, Judge Black-
stock ruled Mrs. Duncan sane, and on
April 4th he sentenced her to die in the
gas chamber. Hired killer Baldonado
won a similar sentence.

Moya faces trial later. Winterstein
was sentenced to 1 to 14 years for the
annulment fraud.

THE GLASS CAT MURDER

(TD September, 1957)

Within her handsome San Fernando
Valley, California, home, which had
a glass cat on its front door, the body
of Mrs. Thelma Macomber, 42, was found
on May 27th, 1957. She had been
bludgeoned to death and an attempt had
been made to burn the bed on which
she lay.

On the basis of circumstantial evi-
dence Mrs. Macomber’s housekeeper,
Mrs. Linda Mintz, 36, was arrested.
Polish-born Linda, who had _ survived
six years in a Nazi concentration camp
and still bore her Auschwitz number,
tattooed on her left forearm, loudly and
hysterically protested her innocence. She
had been brought to this country in 1952
and had worked as a cook in several
California homes before being employed
by Mrs. Macomber.

Charged with murder, she was brought
to trial on October 22nd, 1957. Her
trial lasted eight weeks and the jury,
unable to agree on a verdict, was dis-
missed. Following a sanity hearing,
after Linda had several times attempted
suicide and was reported to be mentally
ill, Superior Judge William P. Haugh-
ton then adjudged her insane and or-
dered her committed to Patton State
Hospital.

On July 24th, 1958, hospital officials
informed Los Angeles court authorities

that Linda Mintz had fully recovered
her reason and was able to stand trial.
Her second trial began in November
and lasted 15 weeks. Again, after 10
days’ deliberation, the jury of eight
women and four men reported on Feb-
ruary 25th, 1959, that it was hopelessly
deadlocked. Superior Judge Edwin L.
Jefferson then discharged them.

At the first trial, it was disclosed that
the jury favored acquittal, 7 to 4. At the
second trial they were 8 to 4 for ac-
quittal. Chief Deputy District Attorney
Manley J. Bowler is quoted as saying,
“It looks as if the people have spoken.
Unless other circumstances arise, Mrs.
Mintz will not be retried.” She has been
released.

THE TERRIBLE DAY MY BROTHER
KILLED MY HUSBAND

(TD July, 1958)

For beating to death his sister’s hus-
band, John Rebar, 38, in his home in
Miami, Florida, on October 13th, 1957,
James Hamilton 3rd, 25, was found
guilty of manslaughter by a jury on
March 5th, 1958. Circuit Court Judge
Pat Cannon then sentenced Jimmy
Hamilton to 20 years in prison at hard
labor.

Rebar frequently had brutally abused
and beaten his attractive young wife
Doris, mother of his two children, and
when Jimmy saw his sister, with her
eyes blackened, her mouth cut, he
seized a hammer and _ struck Rebar
savagely on the head. A _ delicate,
nervous youth, Jimmy had a history
of epileptic attacks as a child, but had
outgrown the trouble and was em-
ployed as a secretary by the Dade
School board. His attorney pleaded
temporary insanity in young Hamilton’s
defense.

In March, 1959, the Third District

court of appeals ordered a new trial for
James Hamilton, on the basis of tech-
nical errors by the prosecution during
his trial.

Date for the trial is not set.


~

LOYAL SON DEFENDS MOTHER. ‘MURDER
CHARGE IS PREPOSTEROUS!” HE SAYS...

a alia
Loyal Frank Duncan (left) says,
“If | had a choice, | would
choose the same mother.” Below,
Picture taken thirty years ago
of Elizabeth Duncan and her son
Frank. He was then 6 months old.

that he and his wife were not living together. They had
been married on June 2, 1958, and separated less than
three weeks later. Olga ‘was pregnant, and they had been
planning a reconciliation.

Duncan told the police how his wife came to California
from her home in Winnipeg, Canada, in 1957, and how
they had met at the Cottage Hospital in Santa Barbara.
Duncan had been visiting his mother, who was a patient
there.

Duncan had been called on the morning in question by
one of his wife’s friends who became worried when Olga
Duncan didn’t appear at her nurse’s job at St. Francis
Hospital. Olga had entertained two other nurses the night
before, but they had already been contacted and reported
they left the apartment at eleven-thirty. Olga had an-
nounced at that time, that she was going to bed.

The police took Duncan’s description of his wife: Olga
Duncan, née Kupczyk, thirty years old, five feet two inches
tall, auburn hair, brownish-green eyes, weight 135 pounds,
in advanced stage of pregnancy.

“Her friends insisted I contact you,” Frank Duncan
told the police. “But my wife has changed her apartment
several times already. Maybe she’s gone away for a while.
It’s probably nothing serious.” ;

Considering the suspicious appearance of his wife’s
apartment, Frank Duncan’s optimistic view of the situation
was not shared by the police who began, with intense
diligence, to investigate further. They proceeded with their
plan to question the missing wife’s friends. And from the
very beginning, they were made aware that this was one
of the strangest cases in crime history . . .

14

The much married (eleven or
twelve times) Mrs. Duncan
waits in cell for jury to
reach a verdict. Their ver-
dict was a tremendous shock.

Om and over again, the name of the missing woman’s
mother-in-law was brought up.

“That woman is a witch,” one of Olga’s acquaintances
said of Elizabeth Duncan. “She didn’t want Frank to marry,
and she did everything she could to break up their mar-
riage. They had to wed secretly—in a judge’s chambers—so
that woman couldn’t show up and cause trouble at the
ceremony, But she finally won out, anyway. She broke
them up after they were married a few weeks, and they
haven’t been living together since.”

Police learned that Frank’s mother was known in the
courtrooms where he practised law as a fussy mother hen,
watching every move her little chick made. If Frank lost
a case, she was likely to comment on the stupidity of the
judge and jury. When he won, she would walk with him
through the corridors, taking his hands in hers, or throw-
ing her arms around him and beaming at him and the
whole world.

“Sometimes Frank tries to loosen her hold on him,” a
neighbor told investigators, “but Mrs. Duncan is stronger
than he is, and she always gets him wrapped around her
little finger again.”

When Mama Duncan learned the newlyweds’ address,
she swooped down on their apartment. In a wild frenzy,
she tore up photographs of her son as a young boy. She
raved and ranted, screamed and wept before her agitated
son and his bride. Then she ordered him to return home
with her. And he went.

The next two weeks were hell for Olga Duncan.. Her
husband’s weak attempts to break up the weird triangle,
of which he was one corner, were useless. He spent the

CONFIDENTIAL DETECTIVE CASES

early evenings
home to sleep.
All the while
paign against
telephoned thre
her to her frit
United States i]
and that she w:
the unborn chil
son, and that F
the father.
And. Elizabet
ing to witnesse:
When Olga c
he had to mak
He went home

Qa: frienc
rested. Th
her marriage ai
after the baby c
can be worked
While she w
Elizabeth Dunc
is short and I \
Police were
her tirades ag
claimed her so:
twenty-seven m
An investiga
that on Augus
Olga Kupcezyk
that the marria
gator then talk«
The lawyer !
and said they
publicity or sc
took the nece
he discovered
of the annuln
found that the
and who askt
Elizabeth Dun:
Duncan was u
The lawyer
ported these f
District Attorn
“Mother dic
to the police w
she was helpir
As to his n
“Mother doesr

hy

LAST RIDE

Elizabeth Dunca
one day before
right, her son |
eral Building af


BALI a ADO, BENe An & 2 fod

: er = Se 9
my 4 dew ‘ '
ba \ Faz
, Z : j Uj ;

4

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fF

i] HCE

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al af,

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ey

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~The ‘complete story of Elizabeth Duncan’s vei
crime, and her battle to hold off the executioner...

coh,

lew Orleans’ bride strangler_

SLAUGHTER OF THE
FREE-AND-EASY BLONDE

: [pera He took 43 days to kill
her — with his fists . . .

DEADLY PUNISHMENT
FOR A CHEATING WIFE!

.

VAMNMSY AMia Aare, Ns

CRIME DETECTIVE |
JANUARY, 1963

IE GAS CHAMBER!

THE COMPLETE STORY
OF ELIZABETH DUNCAN'S
CRIME, TRIAL

AND EXECUTION

by DON L. MASTERS

HERE was a real carnival atmosphere outside the Ven-

tura, California, county courthouse. People laughed,
sang, and called out to each other while a vendor made his
way through the crowd, selling cold drinks and hamburgers
at more than double the price they sell for at a nearby
stand. It was a holiday—a holiday of death. The first day
of what everyone knew was going to be a most sensational
murder trial.

wa

Inside the ninety-nine seat, wood-paneled courtroom
there was a quiet tension. The spectators watched three
people who were the center of the drama about to unfold.

T man standing before the bench, looking through his
papers, is county District Attorney Roy Gustafson.
He’s a methodical, calm, prosecutor who directed the in-
vestigation of this case almost from the beginning. He’s a
staunch advocate of the death penalty. He has already
made it plain that he Will insist on it in this case.

A thirty-year-old, handsome, dark-haired man sits behind
the defendant’s counsel table. His name is Frank Duncan.
He nervously adjusts his black-rimmed eyeglasses. He’s a
lawyer, but he’s not in court professionally. He has a much
more personal interest in this case. It’s his mother who’s
on trial. She is accused of killing his wife.

The third person is Mrs. Elizabeth Duncan. In other
surroundings, under other circumstances she might go un-
noticed. But not now. She’s the defendant. At fifty-four
years of age, she’s grey-haired and plump. She wears stylish
harlequin eyeglasses. Her face is lined, but she’s cheerful.
She turns and whispers something to her son and throws

her head back in a silent laugh. Her eyes wander around

‘the room casually, as if she’s in a theatre seat, coolly wait-

ing for the performance to begin.

Then Judge Charles F. Blackstock takes his place, and
the prosecutor prepares to make his opening statement.

And so it begins . . . But it’s not really the beginning.
For at least one of the people involved, the beginning was
a lifetime ago. For the police, the beginning was November
10, 1958, when beautiful Nurse Olga Duncan was reported
missing by her husband, Frank.

TT: front door to the empty apartment on Garden Street
in Santa Barbara, was partly open. From windows
looking out on a small balcony, a cool breeze led the drapes
in a lonely, mute dance.

The unrumpled bed testified that no one had slept on
it the night before. Although it was ten a.m., the lights
were still burning. A pocketbook and cosmetics were laid
out on the bureau, and a few articles of feminine clothing
were on a chair. Everything else was in place. But Mrs.
Olga Duncan, the lady of the house, was not at home.

Frank Duncan, her husband, explained to the police

HER MOTHER-IN-LAW TROUBLE
WAS INCURABLE ...

A VERY

Luis Moya, ab
below, and Eli
executed on fj

to save their
seven minutes
was led into ¢

“Life is short,” Nurse Olga wrote, “and | want to enjoy the rest of
it.” But at that very moment, her husband’s mother was busy shop-
ping for murderers to put her out of the way. She was dead six
weeks before her body was found where assassins had hidden it.

CONFIDENTIAL DETECTIVE CASES


IER AN
ERY

‘at, wood-paneled courtroom
The spectators watched three
of the drama about to unfold.

‘he bench, looking through his
ict Attorney Roy Gustafson.
osecutor who directed the in-
st from the beginning. He’s a
sath penalty. He has already

ve, dark Aaited man aij behind THEY GAVE SAN
>, His name is Frank Duncan. QUENTIN‘S LITTLE ROOM

ick-rimmed eyeglasses. He’s a
professionally. He has a much A VERY BUSY DAY...
lis case. It’s his mother who’s
illing his wife.

Elizabeth Duncan. In other
ircumstances she might go un-
s the defendant. At fifty-four
d and plump. She wears stylish
ce is lined, but she’s cheerful.
iething to her son and throws

ugh. Her eyes wander around
s in a theatre seat, coolly wait-
ye gin.

‘lackstock takes his place, and
nake his opening statement.

it it’s not really the beginning.
le involved, the beginning was
e, the beginning was November
urse Olga Duncan was reported
‘ank.

Luis Moya, above, Augustine Baldonado,
below, and Elizabeth Duncan, right, were
executed on the same day. But before
they were, their case stirred up political
battles, a hunger strike on San Quentin's
Death Row and a heated legal struggle
to save their lives, which lasted until
seven minutes before Elizabeth Duncan
was led into death room and executed.

oty apartment on Garden Street
partly open. From windows
my, a cool breeze led the drapes

fied that no one had slept on
igh it was ten a.m., the lights
»tbook and cosmetics were laid
2w articles of feminine clothing
ig else was in place. But Mrs.
the house, was not at home.

‘band, explained to the police

‘OUBLE

| want to enjoy the rest of
ind’s mother was busy shop-
the way. She was dead six
‘re assassins had hidden it.

CONFIDENTIAL DETECTIVE CASES


R

captain’s office,
cene taken from
from captain‘’s
ntervening steel
the rioters.

tearing loose

ruards rushed
ne guns down
iin gate. The
st its greatest
| and freedom
1 shrieked on

Post No. 13,
v of the door
s leveled their
ly above the
or because of

under him.
vho had been
aware of the
soon bullets

policing the
office, armed
{1 H. E. Mar-

en Larkin as
en are armed

only his duty
door and ad-
1¢ was hope-

d upon him,
les found its

INSIDE DETECTIVE

mark—and Martin fell to the floor, dead, a stab wound in
his heart spurting crimson.

Then, berserk with blood, several of the rioters fell upon
the defenseless warden and stabbed him repeatedly,

John Solberg, another guard, reached the door in time to
see Martin fall.

“Come in here—and you'll be the next to die!” shouted
one of the convicts.

OLBERG saw the futility of entering. He heard the

groans of Captain Ryan, lying in terrible agony on the
floor, and the tortured gasps of the warden, with the un-
merciful Eudy standing over him. ‘He tried to taunt the
rioters into coming into the open, where tower guards might
have a chance with their guns.

And strangely enough, the embattled convicts decided to do
just that—despite the manning of every strategic point on
the wall by gun-guards!

“We'll use these s for shields,” shouted Davis, pointing
at the warden and Ryan, “Let’s go, men—they won't shoot
as long as Larkin and Ryan are with us!”

The door was opened. Larkin was pushed out first, with
Convicts Cannon and Eudy right behind him. Then came
Ringleader Davis and the others, huddled closely together.

“This is the end for all of us,” said Larkin, weak from
loss of blood.

But Cannon and Eudy poised their knives at the warden’s
throat, while Davis yelled to Guard Brady.

“Throw down your gun,” he snarled. “We’ve got the war-
den, and we'll let him have it if you don’t give us the gun!”

Brady temporized. “Step out beyond the roof a little, so I
can see,” he said.

The watching convicts massed in thé other end of the yard
started jeering. And at that moment, the ground guards with
their weighted canes rushed Davis and his mob. Then began
Folsom’s bloodiest battle in a decade.

Canes swung, and rattled as they crunched through bones.
Knives flashed in the sunlight. Men writhed, s¢reamed and
staggered as their lifeblood spilled into the dust. Clinging des-
perately to Warden Larkin, Convict Cannon slashed at him
repeatedly with his keen-bladed “shiv.”

“If I die, so will you!” cried the maddened outlaw.

Cut in the neck, head and abdomen, Larkin slumped to the
ground.

From his station atop the wall at Tower No. 13, 100 yards
from the wild melee, Guard H. N. Trader, official prison

“SHIVS"

Extreme left: Warden Court
Smith (left) and District At-
torney Otis Babcock examine
knives and dummy guns the
rebellious convicts used as
weapons.

REFUSED

Ordered by the convicts to
lower his gun to them,
Guard Joe Brady refused.
He holds Warden Larkin’s
hat. bloodstained and
cut across the brim.

hangman and a dead shot, raised his rifle to his cheek,
brought a rioter under his sights. ... A guard got in the
way. ... Trader waited. ... The guard passed. . . . Trader
fired.

Zing! Trader’s bullet struck Convict Clyde Stevens squarely
between the eyes. And Stevens, mad dog of crime, fell dead
near Warden Larkin’s prostrate body. ~ ,

The battle went on, to the rattle of clubs and the groans
of wounded men. Guard James Kearns fell, badly injured.
Because’ other guards were in his way, Trader could fire no
more. But Guards R. T. Howard and Albert Strong in
Tower 21 could—and did.

A fusillade of deadly accurate gunfire came from Tower 21.
Plotter Bennie Kucharski fell dead in the dirt. Convict Fred
Barnes went down, a bullet in his chest, and Eudy fell close
by him. Convict Albert Kessell, shot through the neck, toppled
near the inert body of Stevens. A heavy cane cracked down
on Ringleader Davis’ head, felling him and fracturing his
skull. Convict Cannon had already been clubbed unconscious.

And suddenly all was, quiet, except for the cries of the
wounded and. dying. The prison yard was a shambles of
blood and death, with almost a dozen bodies littering the
ground near the captain’s office. Guards herded all other
convicts back to their cells.

Folsom’s bloody Sunday. was over—over except for a grim
aftermath that brought sorrow to every guard and many a
convict there. ...

OCTOR PROCTOR DAY came rushing from the prison
hospital and Lieutenant of the Guard James Goranhson
from the officers’ dining hall, where his luncheon had been
interrupted by gunfire. Both were veterans of the Thanks-
giving Day riot in 1927.
Dr. Day, in the previous riot, had (Continued on page 62)

9


years. He served ten years and, after be-
coming known as a model prisoner, he
was released on parole. He quickly dis-
appeared into unknown parts, and the
murder of Dolores Evans became part of
the vast criminal history of Cleveland.

We never were able to find out just who
the girl was so that her family could take
care of her body. Potter’s Field received
her with the same impersonal interest it
gives all unwanted unfortunates.

And for many a night I could hear
ringing in my ears that phrase: “What
did you say her name was?”

Poor Dolores Evans! Murdered by a
man who didn’t even know her name. .. .

To protect the identity of an innocent
person, the name “Sally Dunn” used in
this story is not real but fictitious.

Hell at
Folsom Prison!

(Continued from page 9)

walked right into the middle of trouble and
administered to guard and convict alike.
Now he did the same, giving first aid and
ordering that Warden Larkin, Captain
Ryan, Guard Kearns and the five wounded
rioters be rushed to the hospital. He looked
at the names and numbers on the shirts of
the two dead convicts.

“Take Budway and Kucharski and poor
old Martin to the morgue,” ordered the
doctor, ;

“That isn’t Budway lying there—that’s
Clyde Stevens,” said Lieutenant Goranh-
son. “He stole Convict’ Roy Budway’s
shirt, thinking he could hide his identity—
that’s the way it looks to me.”

In the 1927 riot, Lieutenant Goranhson
had been ‘beaten on the head and knifed
several times.. He recovered, however, in
time to be the star witness at the trials
that sent the five ringleaders to the gal-
ows,

In the prison hospital, Dr. Day discov-
ered that Warden Larkin had been knifed
twelve times and Captain Ryan seven, The
doctor performed an emergency operation
on Larkin.

“Captain Ryan needs an immediate blood
transfusion,” the physician said to a hos-
pital assistant.

The word quickly spread throughout the
prison, and more than a score of guards
and convicts offered their blood. - Dr. Day
examined prison records and found that
the blood of Convict William L. Rosser,
a Los Angeles burglar, was the most suit-
able. Rosser rushed to the hospital and
donated his blood.

After an hour in the operating room, Dr.
Day grimly announced :

“Warden Larkin has only a fifty-fifty
chance to survive. Captain Ryan’s chances
aren't even that good. Three of the con-
victs—Barnes, Kessell and Eudy—may
never live to stand trial for this escape
plot. All five are in a critical condition.”

While Dr. Day was fighting to save the

INSIDE DETECTIVE

lives of the wounded, I had telephoned
Judge T. HH. Harvey, chairman of the State
Board of Prison Directors, at his home at
Bakersfield, nearly 300 miles away.

Harvey instructed other members of the
board to rush immediately to Folsom for a
special meeting. He also directed Warden
Court Smith of San Quentin prison to
leave at once for Folsom to assist in run-
ning the prison.

Within two hours, after a hurried trip
from San Quentin, Warden Smith and
Frank C. Sykes of San Francisco, a board
member, arrived at Folsom. They went
directly to the hospital.

Just before they had arrived, Warden
Larkin had regained consciousness. He
grinned at me, and said:

“They sure gave me an awful sock in the
belly !’”

It was only too true. Merciless in their
fury, the attackers had not tried to pierce
his heart, but had aimed at his vital organs.

Warden Larkin wanted to know if every- °

one had been locked up, and he smiled
when I said they had. Despite his agony,
he wanted to know “how everything was
running” in- the institution which he
took so much pride in operating.

Larkin grinned at Warden Smith, his
former boss. When Smith had been
warden at Folsom, Larkin was his captain
vil the guard. They were intimate “bud-
dies.”

“Whatever happens to me,” said Larkin,

This earlier picture shows Clyde “Mad
Dog” Stevens (left) chatting with Albert
Kessell while en route to Prison. Stevens
is now dead, Kessell badly wounded.

“I’m glad that we caught them all and
that none escaped.”

He rested a minute, then continued :

“I cannot give too much credit to the
bravery of the guards who came in there
with their canes and prevented the con-
victs from rushing the gates... It was
a terrific battle inside the captain’s office
. . . The cons, when I refused to order
the tower guard to throw down the guns,
stabbed me repeatedly and twisted the wire
around my neck.

“I’m deeply concerned about the condi-
tion of Captain Ryan...”

Larkin could talk no more. His wife,

seated by his bed, held his hand and wept.
A $28,000 cache of stolen diamonds ! That

‘was the possible lure that prompted the

seven convicts to attempt the break.

This information was relayed to Folsom
by Detective Lieutenants Jerry Devine and
Eddie Mansfield of Los Angeles, who had
originally picked up Benny Kucharski.
They revealed that Kucharski and two con-
federates had robbed the Bridges Jewelry
Company in Springfield, Illinois, in 1934,
and escaped with a fortune in gems, which
never had been located.

Kucharski, reported Devine and Mans-
field, had been a member of the notorious
“Egan's Rats” gang of St. Louis.

But in death, Kucharski still held the
secret of the whereabouts of the cache.
And the surviving plotters refused to talk,
or couldn’t. Thus, we were never able to
substantiate this theory.

Besides the possible “diamond cache”
lure, there was the dream of Clyde Stev-
ens, a good-looking Kentuckian, to become
America’s greatest gangster. Back in 1934,
Stevens had declared, while an inmate at
San Quentin prison:

“When I get out, I'll become better
known than Dillinger!”

And as soon as he was released from
San Quentin, he started out to fulfill his
promise, Already he had picked key men
for his mob. Kessell, whom he had met in
San Quentin, was to be one of his lieu-
tenants. Stevens and Kessell were then
free, but the remainder of Stevens’ pros-
pective gang members were still in prison.
These prospects were Fred Barnes, Ru-
dolph Baker Straight, Fred Landers, Alex-
ander Mackay and Joe. Kristy, all men
with bad records.

BEFORE he had left San Quentin, Stey-

ens outlined a plan for “springing”
Barnes and the others. To get sufficient
money to put his plot into action, Stevens
and Kessell ‘staged nearly a. dozen bank rob-
beries in Séa Preetiocs. Each was a bold
holdup, and in one of them Stevens dis-
armed a policeman who sought to capture
him.

Stevens and Kessell recklessly spent
their loot on loose women. Then they
went to the brother of Convict Straight,
borrowed $100 and with it purchased four
automatics and several extra clips of bul-
lets. Straight’s brother didn’t know what
the $100 was to be used for.

One day Stevens went to San Anselmo,
near San Quentin prison, and sneaked into
the garage of a contractor who was build-
ing a new prison cell block. He secreted
the “rods” in the cowling of the con-
tractor’s automobile, mailed Straight a note
telling about being on a “jag” and signed
it “Chick.” That note was the tip-off to
the five men in prison that the weapons
were in the contractor’s machine.

Locating the car inside the prison one
day, Convict Mackay got the pistols from
the cowling and hid them. The convicts
then made plans to kidnap the parole board
members at their next session.

On January 16, 1935, the board met, but
Barnes was locked in a solitary cell for
breaking a prison regulation. He was
slated for transfer to Folsom, as officials
listed him as a “trouble-maker.” So the

Here is one of the most sensational ex

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On sale at all news stands December 10th.

62

other four ¢
without Bar:

Flashing tl!
warden’s hc
James B. |}
parole board
Into the war
forced their
prison groun
fire in fear o

A wild 1(
scores of guz
highway pat:
bullet crippk
mobile, whic!
battle follow:
death. The
dered.

In the exc
chase, Parol
Sykes and J«

That same
were seized
gun battle \
Stevens and
Straight and
them so they
their “reign «
the court se!
home of Ste,
seventy years
_ “For their p
and Mackay
convicted on ;
naping, which
fornia. Lan
others from }
let off with :

Thus, Clyd
“new Dillinge
of September
persons, inch
San Quentin |
More deaths

UDGE H:
from Bak:
ference with
cock of Sacr
the members
After exar
by the Folson
inclined to be!
Viadimir Pri
who is “too t:
Pruszynski
bizarre attem;
he was ward:
tipped guards
within the pr
warden attend
A shakedown
found in Pru
phonograph.

“An’ to thi:


cAlester 1"
ct Bennie Ku-

State Prison at
freight car out
then discharged
before the law.
r, and with re-
ae warden kept

» this,” he said
ison mob would
e'll be shooting
itdless of what

* shouted Con-
con gets out it
it will be over

* snarled Can-
« to the War-

velying his cool
is pocket. He
round Warden
ns he had used
ed the warden
nd his pals got
a automobile.
he said softly,
“Tf any bull
vire so damned

nd in this tor-
me ruse, some
in the prison.
meanwhile, he

you!” gasped

mentarily. So
‘ had secretly

They had
den... . Now
were willing to
to obey orders.
Lucky for you
uu. First, tele-

phone that bull, Joe Brady, in the tower above us to lower his
rifle to the ground with a rope.

“As soon as we get that rifle, we'll have you order your
automobile and arrange clearance through the commissary
gate.

“Now—phone that damned gun-bull!”

With the words, Davis tightened the wire noose. A twinge
of agony crossed the warden’s face. But again his mind was
only spurred by pain. And suddenly he realized that the
convicts were unaware of one very important fact.

There is no telephone in the captain’s tower, manned by
the veteran Joe Brady! ;

Never a hint of this did Larkin give. Davis loosened the
wire noose, and the warden took up the telephone.

“This is the warden speaking,” he said. “Give me Joe
Brady in the captain’s tower.”

T. W. Nutcher, prison telephone operator, wasn’t puzzled
by that request—a request impossible to fulfill, For only a
moment before, a tower guard who had seen the convicts
storm the office and the trusties flee, had telephoned in this
alarming message :

“Some cons have rushed the captain’s office, and the war-
den’s in there!”

Nutcher, knowing that something was wrong, now replied,
“Yes, Warden, I’ll ring Joe Brady.”

Then, quick as a flash, the operator plugged in .another
line to the warden’s office, where I sat at my desk as yet
unaware that anything was amiss. I answered the ring.
Nutcher’s voice came to me, low and anxious.

“The tower guards just tipped me that a bunch of cons
have rushed the captain’s office,” he said. “Ana now the
warden, using the captain’s phone, is on the line asking for
Joe Brady !”

“Put the warden on my line,” I directed.

“Hello—is that you, Joe?” It was Warden Larkin’s voice.

“Yes, this is Joe!” I answered.

The warden, I knew, had recognized my voice. I further
knew that he was anxious to give the impression to those in
the office with him that he was talking to Brady. I began to
get a picture of what must be going on. He had been taken
captive by the rebellious convicts, who were now menacing
him... .

“Joe,” said the warden to me, “there are some boys in here
who want to get out the commissary gate in an automobile.
They want you to drop your yun oon a rope.”

| realized that Warden Larkin was speaking under orders,
and I tried to get as much information as possible without
endangering him.

“Have they got knives?” [asked in a low voice,


INSIDE DETECTIVE

“Yes,” replied Larkin, fulfilling my fears. Only three days DEAD SHOT
before, guards had picked up a convict with a foot-long Harry B. Trader, prison
“shiv,” the word cons use for knives. : hangman and guard at

“Who is in there with you?” I asked. _ Tower 13. picked “Mad

‘ . ” Ste t and put
“Ed Davis and Barnes and five or six others,” was the pgs Bn Anan his Si

reply.

ce understand you, warden,” I said, to assure him that I
knew he wanted the convicts to think he was talking to Joe
Brady.

Then Larkin, still holding the phone open, spoke to the
convicts :

“Joe Brady says he won’t throw down his rifle—that he
is going to stick by my written orders never to sur-
render his rifle’. . .”

Larkin laid the phone down on the desk, so that
by straining my ears I could still hear what was
going on.

“He better put down that rifle,” roared Davis. “We
mean business. Remember, you’re at our mercy !”

I heard those words. And almost at the same moment,
a wail of mighty sound began to fill the entire prison grounds.
The siren, shrilly screaming ever higher and higher, har-
binger of violence and bloodshed... .

THE FATAL DOOR

Left: Guards survey the door to the captain’s office,

where the violence began. Below: Scene taken from

Tower 13 shows (1) Tower 21; door from captain’s

office (2): and Joe Brady’s post (3). Intervening steel
roof kept Brady from firing on the rioters.

PRISON BREAK! Hell was tearing loose
at Folsom!

Within thirty seconds, fifteen guards rushed
with high-powered rifles and machine guns down
the wall to positions above the main gate. The
machinery of a great prison against its greatest
enemies—convicts lusting for blood and freedom
—swung into action as the siren shrieked on
and on.

In Gun Post No. 21 and Gun Post No. 13,
where the guards had a direct view of the door
to the captain’s office, sharpshooters leveled their
rifles. Guard Joe Brady, directly above the
captain’s office, could not see the door because of
a large roof projecting outward under him.
Meanwhile, hundreds of convicts who had been
taking their ease in the yard unaware of the
plot, ran for safety, knowing that soon bullets

_ would be flying.

Guards in the yard, who were policing the

a oll prisoners, ran toward the captain’s office, armed
, ete : ) Sie only with their leaded canes. Guard H. E. Mar-
es ¥ 9 fs 5 ‘(ie Ng tin was the first to reach the door.

“Don’t come in!” roared Warden Larkin as
soon as, he saw Martin. “These men are armed
with knives!” :

But the courageous Martin saw only his duty
to save his chief. He opened the door and ad-
‘vanced, swinging his cane. But he was hope-
lessly outnumbered.

A group of the convicts rushed upon him,
knives upraised. One of the blades found its

i i FG A a ON ETT

mark—and Mar
his heart spurt:
Then, berserk
the defenseless 7
John Solberg.
see Martin fall.
“Come in he
one of the conv

OLBERG s:
groans of (
floor, and the |
merciful Eudy
rioters into com
have a chance
And strangely
just that—despi
the wall by gu:
“We'll use the
at the warden :
as long as Lark
The door wa
Convicts Cann
Ringleader Davi
“This is the
loss of blood.
But Cannon a
throat, while D:
“Throw down
den, and we'll k
Brady tempor
can see,” he sai
The watching
started jeering.
their weighted ¢
Folsom’s bloodix
Canes swung.
Knives flashed :
staggered as the:
perately to War
repeatedly with

“If I die, so
Cut in the nec
ground.

From his stat
from the wild


fe) gathered ;

f his pack,
‘o the river

ar,
‘yes stared
saper with-
e machines
i out a de-
figure; an
the state
evens!”
of January
allea, run-
tip, joined
rossed the
ind on the
ng silently
ith drawn
spotted the
lights and

g ahead,
ind peered
panes for

th what he’

gnaled the
1, and they
a human

the shad-
mes John-
dangerous
Francisco
1e tip that
ers’ island

spered.
° Johnson
set Stevens

. Go ahead

ond of de-
r Johnson
imsy door,
bin like a
1 dam, en-
in a flurry
ens, dazed
he raiders,
Johnson’s
ithing and

his wrists
sutlaw was
the frown-
while Cap-
es Malloy,

and Van
the posse,

rehing for.

ting in an-
ile distant,
id his thin

‘d oonly a

d Kessell’s
dropped to
eized him,
ought him
rime. The
xy several
hysterical
boats and

e near-by -

‘eat, Where
licers was

aay

eo

2

et.
ses #e

waiting for the posse’s return.

Suddenly, whirling like a. rabbit,
Stevens broke away from the group and
bounded down the main street of An-
tioch in mad flight. One of the deputies,
raising his gun, was about to fire when
Captain Dullea interfered.

“Don’t shoot!” he snapped.
him.”

The detective raced over the pave-
ment, slowly gaining ground. .-At that
moment, dashing into a vacant, lot on
the left side of the street, Stevens ran
head-on into a barbed wire fence. He
cried out in pain and was backing away
with his coat in tatters when Dullea,
spinning him around, brought up his
right hand in a terrific smash to the
bandit’s jaw.

Stevens buckled up and pitched to the
ground, white and stunned, and offered
no further resistance for the Teeter
of the night.

A week later, after pleading ality to
bank robbery, the desperado was sen-
tenced to Folsom Prison for a term of

"Tl get

thirty-five years to life, and Deputies .

Mike Jordan and Martin Swan were as-
signed to deliver him to the penitentiary.
.They had driven perhaps fifty miles
when Stevens, huddled on the back seat
with Swan, suddenly turned into a rag-
ing beast. He lifted his foot, aimed a
smashing kick at Jordan’s head, and at
the same time brought his handcuffed
fists down on Swan’s neck with a piston-
like sweep.

Jordan, jamming on _ the ‘brakes,
stopped the car and went to Swan’s aid.

Stevens fought like a maniac,. blas-
pheming the two deputies and twisting
like a reptile until Swan brought. up his
club and swung it against the prisoner’s
skull, Finally, panting and exhausted,

‘they were able to truss up the’ dazed

bandit and continue the journey to the
prison.

Thus concludes the prolégia “in this
amazing chronicle of blood and death.

Clyde Stevens, a black panther whose |

narrowed shifting eyes mirrored:a mind
distorted with hate for the law, went to
the city of numbered men with’ ‘venom
dripping from his lips. are

“Listen, Jordan,” he rasped. _ ae
tell you one thing more before you go.
They can’t keep me here—get it? And
one of these days I’ll be back to even
up things with you and that tough guy,
Dullea. Keep it in mind!”

Jordan, watching him vanish behind
the great stone walls, turned to a guard
at the gate. ‘oe

“Keep an eye on him,” he said quietly.
“He means it.”

“Aw, they all talk like that,” the guard

said dryly.
Jordan shrugged. BOR
“Maybe so. But this one’s different.
So long.”

Months later, when Clyde Ptevens’
brain erupted and spilled an appalling
plot that rocked California with its fe-
rocity, its loss of life and tragic’ pitch,
they'-would remember that ominous
prophecy on the night of January, 22nd,
1935,

‘Folsom is a
despair. .

It sprawls in the heart of California’ s
Sacramento (Continued on page 68)

forgotten citadel of

(Left to right) Benny Kucharski, serving five years to life; Robert Cannon,

twen i ve years for burglary and poet Clyde Stevens, thirty-five years
to life; Wesley Eudy, twenty-five years for burglary and robbery; Albert
Kessell, seventy years fe robbery; and Fred Barnes, thirty years for robbery

Grenier:

aecepEg os ole te Rice

net age

i Tibia 9

Pepe

~

(Continued from page 45) Valley, a city
of piled granite, clinging to the rocky banks
of the swirling American River that rushes
down from the canyons of the Sierras. In
the summer months the stinging sun dries
up the earth, and men’s eyes and throats
fill with dust when they walk. And when
- winter comes the river runs to a white
froth, and the mountain wind lashes the
skin like a whip.

Folsom—last outpost of men who sin.

Twenty-eight hundred convicts then
lived behind its unyielding walls, the most
vicious, incorrigible criminals in the state
—recidivists whose black records have long
since barred them from the comparative
respectability of San Quentin, California’s
other big house. Folsom housed the chronic
killers, the stick-up men, big time safe-
crackers, kidnappers—the scum of the un-
derworld. All of them, from the newest
“fish” to the lifers who had grown old in
their cells, wanted “out”—wanted freedom
so desperately that reason and logic were
blurred and tottering in their minds,

For that reason the great leather-bound
records of the prison are studded with
amazing episodes relating the deeds of men
who sought escape—men inoculated with
the dregs of melancholia and embracing
any risk to forget the unending, never-
changing crawl of the days and weeks and
years.

There was Claude Kohl, who tried to
steer a homemade pulley trapeze across a
cable high above the river, only to smash
to bloody oblivion on the knife-like rocks
of the quarry below. There was Johnny
Burke, who traded places with a corpse in
the prison morgue and went out the gates
in a coffin, only to be captured in flight.

They tell of Martin Coulson, who labored
for a year to make a gun from wood, a
piece of pipe, match heads and a watch-
spring. He wasn’t sure it would work un-
til, trapped in the telephone exchange room
when he threatened a guard, his courage
snapped and he placed the strange weapon
against his head. There wasn’t much noise
when the trigger jerked—but Coulson went
out of Folsom feet first.

Carl Reese, after watching a motion pic-
ture depicting the thrills of deep-sea diving,
left the Folsom Auditorium one night with
an idea. He stole a basketball bladder, pried
the pistons from a cornet and used canvas,
rubber tubing, and thick pieces of glass to
manufacture a diving suit. He slipped into
the prison canal one night with lead weights
on his feet and the crude diving dress over
his prison-grays, and started pumping for
air. But he forgot that the bladder wasn’t
big enough for the pressure of the water.
They fished him out the next morning, dead.

The books tell of Carl Otto, who stole
the prison work engine and drove it like
a madman through the iron gates; of George
Sterling, known as “The Demon,” who
spent three hundred back-breaking nights
digging a tunnel under his cell with a spoon
—an inch at a time. It must have been a
bitter, brain-numbing moment when they
saw him emptying dirt from his shirt
pocket in the yard—and found the tunnel
under his bunk.

They still remember Zollie Clements,
who painted out the white stripes of his
convict garb with shoe blacking, stole a
guard’s cap—and tried to walk out the gate;
George Davis, who wrapped mail order
catalogues around his body, plunged into
the river, and laughed when guard bullets
failed to penetrate the wet paper. There
was only one little oversight—he didn’t
wrap them around his head, and the water
ran crimson where a slug ripped open his
brain.

Folsom—and ESCAPE.

It stirs their sullen, poisoned minds—

this thought. It brings incredible efforts,
such as these and a hundred others. And
sometimes the hellish brew overflows and
splashes the walls and yard with red, and
the Folsom hills echo to the whine of shells
and the cries of raging men.

Some years ago, on a Thanksgiving Day,
six men caused the most appalling prison
carnage in the annals of the lusty West—
armed only with one smuggled gun, knives,
pipes and clubs. Before that memorable
two-day riot was quelled with the help of
the state militia, twelve convicts and guards
were dead, twenty-seven others were
wounded, and the squat prison was like
a dynamited shack. And later, when the
law cracked down, five of the plotters paid
for their folly on the rope.

Folsom—and into its bubbling cauldron
Clyde Stevens had come with hate and de-
feat shrinking his black heart.

@ HE HAD been there only a few months,

still defiant, still snarling, when a new
warden was installed, Captain Clarence
Larkin. There was no man in California
more familiar with Folsom’s powder keg
than this 250 pound, six-foot, six-inch giant
—a hard-boiled, fearless veteran who tem-
pered swift justice with an understanding
of the men.

Captain Larkin had begun his career be-
hind the frowning stone walls long years
before, rose to the powerful post of Cap-
tain of the Yard, and was named Warden
to replace Court Smith, transferred to San
Quentin when Warden Holohan left there
for a well-earned rest.

On the day that Clarence Larkin was
sworn in, he summoned his guards and
said:

“There are just two orders that I’m going
to give. First, if there is ever any trouble,
I do not want any of you to surrender your
guns, even if I phone or tell you to. Sec-
ond, if I am kidnapped by prisoners trying
to escape—shoot to kill!”

“Warden, you mean——?”

Larkin nodded grimly.

“Yes. I mean even if I’m in the line of
fire. If I’m hit, that’s too bad. Remember
now—that’s my order.”

It ‘took only one day for the new War-
den’s ominous orders to flow along the
grapevine to every teeming cell, and there
was not one man in the pulsing, restless
city of gray who doubted Clarence Larkin’s
word, Not one—except, perhaps, Clyde
Stevens. He heard, he sneered, he did not
believe, and fate went on shuffling the cards
for a ghastly deal.

Two-years passed.

Clyde Stevens sulked and fumed with
impatience, searching the barren, warped
shelves of his mind for some solution to
the problem of escape. He had considered
swimming the turbulent river, but the
chances were a hundred to one in that
deadly, sucking current. He had cast wary
eyes on the machine gun nests which dotted
the walls like cheese boxes, and knew that
those things never dropped. He had turned
over a dozen reckless ideas and found fault
with each.

If there were no guns!

Stevens was forced to a wry smile with
the thought.

“Oh, well,” he shrugged, “one of these
dave. «6

It was about this time that Stevens met
Benny Kucharski, a human rodent who
had been sent up from Los Angeles for
staging a series of robberies, and Ed Davis,
one of the few eastern gangsters at Folsom.
Davis crashed the big time under the ruth-
less tutelage of “Pretty Boy” Floyd, was
suspected of having had a hand in the in-

famous Kansas City Station massacre, He
took part in the disastrous Memorial Day
riot at the Kansas State Prison in 1933,
and was, in fact, the only member of the
escaping convicts who was not killed or
captured in the subsequent manhunt that
spread over three states. Fleeing to Cali-
fornia, Davis perpetrated half a dozen kid-
nappings, robberies, and other crimes, and
was finally trapped and sent to Folsom.
He was a “hard guy”—steeped in crime, and
a fit companion for the Mad Dog from San
Francisco.

Talking in the yard one day, the three
men brought up the subject uppermost in
their minds. ’ :

“One of these nights the screws are going
to wake,up and find I’ve gone away ona
trip,” Stevens said rashly.

“Oh yeah?” Davis retorted between his
teeth. “I suppose ya got it all figured-out?”

Stevens shook his head.

“No, not yet. First I’ve gotta find a way
of getting a rod in here.”

“A rod?” Davis snorted. “What do you
want that for—with all the bulls up on the
walls ready to spray you with slugs. Lis-
ten, when we broke outa the Kansas pen
we didn’t need a rod.”

“No?” Kucharski cut in scornfully.

“No! We tied a wire around Warden
Prather’s neck, led him right out in the
yard and forced him into a car. It was
easy after that. They didn’t have the guts
to shoot .with Prather between us.”

Kucharski’s wizened face darkened.

“You can’t get away with that here. You
know what Larkin said. Told the bulls to
shoot anyway. I’m telling you, he’d rather
get bumped off than lose a single con.”

“Aw, nuts!” Stevens snapped. “They all
get the chills when they’re right up against
the squeeze. Larkin’s only bluffing.”

In passing days the three convicts spent
hours wrangling over the problem of find-
ing a loophole in Folsom’s net of steel and
stone. Stevens, stubbornly upholding the
need for guns, described in detail how he
bought four automatics in a San Francisco
pawnshop, hid them in the cowling of a
San Quentin prison car, and then told his
pal, Straight, where to find them in the
machine at the prison garage.

@ “SURE and what happened?” Davis said
sarcastically, “Your pal Rudy got away,
huh?”

“No, he didn’t,” Stevens said with nar-
rowed eyes and clenched fists. “Rudy never
did have any nerve. He should have
knocked off the parole board, one at a
time, until they quit following him in the
car.”

Kucharski blanched, for murder was a
thought that froze his veins.

“Listen, you guys,” he said. “If I have to
pack a rod, count me out.”

“Cold feet, huh?” Davis taunted.

“No. I just don’t wanna go out in a
hearse, that’s all. Think it over. I'll see
you later.”

The next day, after a sleepless night,
Kucharski approached Stevens and Davis
in a penitent mood, urged them to forget
what he had said, and pledged assistance
and cooperation in any plan suggested by
them.

Then, after they had voiced approval,
the slim, nervous convict revealed his own
secret—the motive for escape that was
gnawing and burning in his mind. It wasa
story of robbery, three years before in the
distant town of Springfield, Illinois, a job
that Benny had planned and carried out
alone.

He had walked into a downtown jewelry
store one day just after sundown, when the
skies were sheeted in dusk and the streets
were alive with men and women, shop
and office workers hurrying home. Benny
found the proprietor alone, as he had ex-
pected, whipped out a gun and quickly

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“And that’
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Stevens said
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First to jc
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napper, av.


70

oo
-

a complaint about food, work, cellmates,
privileges, or anything else in the regular
prison routine. Larkin invariably made
notes on each convict’s case, investigated
the following day, and made decisions which
were rarely disputed.

On this fateful morning Captain Ryan
was in his office with two trusties, Richard
Harrison and Vernon Chidester.

“Morning, Warden,” Captain Ryan said.
“We're all set.”

“Hello, Captain. Many in the line this
morning?”

Captain Ryan looked out in the yard.

“No, only a dozen or so. I see Ed Davis
right up in front there with Clyde Stevens.”

Warden Larkin’s expression changed.

“Davis and Stevens, eh?” he repeated.
“Wonder what they want?”

“I don’t know, Warden. I’ve seen them
talking together a lot lately, but they
haven’t been in trouble.”

“All right. Let’s get started.”

Ryan opened the door, signaled to the
waiting line of gray-clad men, and they
began shuffling forward toward the office,
chatting and smoking. It took only a few
minutes to dispose of the first two cases,
and then, strangely tense and tight-lipped,
Ed Davis stepped up for his turn. At that
moment, gliding across the yard like cats,
five’ other men suddenly converged on the
office and made Davis the apex of a human
wedge which jammed through the small
doote ‘

It was an incredibly rapid mové—so
swift and silent that. watchful tower guards
did not know until later what had taken
place beneath their posts.

Davis, who had been followed first by

Stevens, made a leap for the door and

slammed it viciously in the face of the
gaping convicts outside. Simultaneously
the other desperadoes went into action, as
though each move in this drama of madness
had been carefully rehearsed and timed.

Eudy, crossing the room with two strides,
swung his fist and brought it up like a
hammer against Trusty Harrison’s mouth,
sending the prisoner reeling and crashing
through a glass partition at his back.
Kucharski lunged at Trusty Chidester with
a gleaming knife and was about to slash the
latter’s throat when Cannon interfered.

“Lay off him, Benny!” he ordered. “He
won't talk. Let him go.”

Kucharski released his grip reluctantly
and Chidester, backing away in horror,
made a dive for the back door leading to
the interior of the prison and escaped.
Harrison, rubbing his torn lips, ducked a
terrific swing of Davis’ steel jack

Captain Ryan said no more for at that
moment five razor-like blades flashed in as
many murderous hands, cutting his flesh
to raw strips and ‘splashing his towering
figure with blood. Then, even as he grunted
with the excruciating pain, the jack handle
thudded against his skull and he went down
like a broken pedestal.

“That’s what happens to smart guys,”
Stevens muttered. “Now, Warden, we’re
gonna take care of you if you don’t do what
we say. Phone the guard in the tower above
us. Tell him to throw down his guns. And
tell the other guards to open the gates.
We're going out—now!”

Larkin, feeling the prick of Davis’ knife
against his throat, looked up with a faint
smile.

“Boys, I’m telling you it’s no use. You’re
committing suicide. You can’t get away with
it. Listen. As God is my judge, I’m telling
you the truth. I told those guards that if
any prisoner ever used me for a hostage,
to shoot and kill—even if they kill me.”

Davis glared at Larkin with flaring
nostrils.

Larkin, shrugging in resignation, reached

for the desk. telephone which, unnoticed......
by the’ convicts, was’ already off the hook.

The Warden, ‘with extraordinary presence
of mind, had slipped the receiver off just
as the prisoners surged into the office and

at that moment his secretary, Jack Whelan,.,
was listening in with throbbing ears, in the ;’
near-by Administration Building.

“Hello,” Larkin said calmly, “give me

‘Joe Brady in the guard tower.” He paused

a’moment, then continued, with Whelan
straining to catch every word. “Hello, Joe.

-This is Warden Larkin. The boys want you

to lower. your guns. Yes, they’re going out.
Sure, it’s okay.” .

Whelan, realizing that an appalling catas-
trophe was in the making whispered a
hurried word into the phone to let Larkin
know that he understood, hung up and
ran out to summon help. Meanwhile, Trusty
Harrison, who had broken away from the
office momentarily expecting the burn of
bullets in his back, was running around
the yard toward Guard Tower 13, where
H. B. Trader, one of the prison’s best marks-
men, was on duty with his high-powered
rifle.

“Hey, some cons have the Warden locked
in the Captain’s office,” he cried. “They’ve
got rods! Look out!”

“Don’t worry, I will!’ Trader snapped.
“Notify the others.”

Harrison nodded, hurried out and sprinted
to two other towers overlooking the yard,

where he told his breath-taking story to
Guards R. T. Howard and A. J. Strong.
And then, like a screech from hell’s own
mouth, the great penitentiary pulsated with
the piercing crescendo of the escape siren,
and armed men came running into the yard
from a half dozen points.

Two hundred convicts, milling around the
opposite end of the yard, were filling the
sultry morning air with a swelling discord
of sound—booing, whistling, screaming,
suddenly infected with the fever of danger
and riot and pent-up emotion. Folsom
Prison tottered on the threshold of carnage
and wholesale death at that blood-freezing
moment, but Whelan had prepared for that
crisis. eo,

The phalanx of guards sweeping the
jeering prisoners with their riot guns,
barked out sharp orders.

“Back in your cells! Get back! C’mon,
move fast!”?.

The convicts hesitated, staring sullenly
at the ring of guns and then, yielding,
backed away and walked inside the cell-
house where steel doors closed behind them
a moment later. The guards next turned
their..attention to the little office where the
seven rioters were ready for their final dash.
J..J. Solberg, running around the rear of
the building, was about to crash through
the door when he was spotted by Davis.

“Damn you, Solberg!” the gangster cursed.

“I£,you come in here we’ll kill you, and

the Warden, too!”
Larkin; desperately anxious to avoid more

‘bloodshed, called out to the guard.

“You can’t do anything in here,. Solberg.
Stay away, you'll only get yourself killed.
Do your .stuff outside!”

Solberg nodded to himself, backed’ away
and headed for the yard. Just as he left,
Guard Harry Martin, leading a squad of
men in the -yard, hurled himself blindly
through the office door and aimed his cane
at the nearest gray-coated figure in reach.
Warden Larkin, blanching at Martin’s sud-
den appearance, shouted at him to stay
away, but the warning came too late. The
knives flashed again and Martin, clawing at
the yawning gash in his abdomen, crumpled
up and died without a word.

Davis and Stevens looked down at the
reddening floor with defiance. “We'll give
you the same dose, Warden, if you try a
double-cross!” Davis snarled. “Take off
your coat and vest, and make it snappy.”

Larkin, resigned to the inevitable, obeyed
the order and handed the clothes to the
gangster. Davis slipped on the coat and
then stepped around behind the Warden,
deftly slipping a thin wire noose
around his neck. He drew it taut

handle and staggered out the
same door, leaving Larkin and
Ryan alone with the murderous
seven.

Eudy, now white and shaking
with kill lust, pressed the tip of
his long knife against Warden
Larkin’s throat.

“Warden,” he snarled vicious-
ly, “your time has come!”

Captain Ryan, ignoring what
he thought were real guns aimed
at his head, could contain his
rage no longer. He grabbed his
ponderous leaded cane, jumped
to his feet, and began swinging
it like a pendulum of doom.

“Tll take care of you—” he
roared. “No con is going to tell
me what to do!”

Warden Larkin, who saw
death staring from the twitching
faces of the rats, heard Captain
Ryan’s bellow of fury with fro-
zen veins.

“For God’s sake, Ryan,” he
begged, “don’t fight now. You
haven’t got a chance here. They’1l
kill you!”

“No, they won’t. I’1l——”

"Pardon me, but does this subway pass under the

Hudson River?"

until Larkin’s face purpled and
his throat fought for air, and
then prodded the Warden’s neck
with a knife.

“Now—get up and march!”

Clarence Larkin stood up and
turned accusing eyes on each of
‘the seven white-faced men until
their own gaze wavered and
broke and they knew at last that
he was master of them all—
whether he lived or died. He
asked no mercy, he wanted none
from these human rats whose
destiny he had once held in his
hand.

“All right,” he said slowly.
“I’m ready. But I’m going to tell
you one more thing, boys. If
you go out of this prison today—
it. will be over my dead body!”

And with that valedictory of
flaming courage, Clarence Lare
kin went forth to die.

It is almost indescribable, the
holocaust that followed. The
convicts, surrounding Larkin,
came out into the yard confident
that their hostage would be a

passport to the ¢
inexorable orders
were only a bluff.
he wouldn’t play

For instead of |
men and guns, the
engulfed by a squ:
swinging vicious c
blow felled Cann:
Larkin’s chin with
lead, was sent spi
with a terrific bl
his jaw.

Eudy, foaming
that his turn was :
in his twisted bre
bestial surging in
turned him into a
urge to kill. He
knife, turned the
Larkin’s shirt, an
behind a maniac
steel deep into tr
gasped once, plu
abdomen, and sp:
a cascade of bloo:

Wesley Eudy |
contemplation, f«
clenched, a bulle:
and struck his ne

™M@ CLYDE STEV

ego had createc
his mad dreams
and crushing, leac
end, his canary s
started running,
rat he was.

He stumbled t«
its stone breast «
his knees buckle
stark fear chain

Escape ... ESC

Guard Trader,
the bandit’s cring
He raised the gu
until Clyde Stev:
took solid shape
Then, and only
Clyde Stevens, t
know what it was
his brain.

There were
the seven mani:
Kucharski.

Kucharski, run
seeking a hole,
lead that tattoo:
with little round
ing his knife agai
was shot through
stretched uncons
neck.

Ten minutes .

Ten minutes of
four more clingin
and still others s

Thus ended B
years to the day
Folsom holiday °
man perspective:
beasts.

Warden Larkir
to the Sutter H«
mento, the state c
ists began a he:
life.

But it was a
Clarence Larkin
only once, whisp¢

“I don’t care
knew what I wa
the job, and the
that the prisoner

It was his ow
duty.

Clarence Lark:
the morning of S
hours after the
State Prison Bo:
lethal gas cham!
stalled at Folsom

issacre. He
morial Day
on in 1933,
nber of the
ot killed or
inhunt that
ing to Cali-
dozen kid-
crimes, and
to Folsom.
1 crime, and
g from San

. the three
»permost in

vs are going
away ona

.etween his
gured out?”

. find a way

‘hat do you
!s up on the
slugs. Lis-
Kansas pen

nfully.

nd Warden
out in the
ar. It was
ve the guts

the bulls to
he’d rather
le con.”

i. “They all
t up against
ing.”

ivicts spent
lem of find-
of steel and
holding the
tail how he
n Francisco
owling of a
1en told his
hem in the

’ Davis said
y got away,

i with nar-
Rudy never
iould have
. one at a
him in the

rder was a

If I have to
e

nted.

o out in a

er. Ill see

pless night,
and Davis
m to forget
1 assistance
uggested by

d approval,
led his own

that was
id. It was a
efore in the
inois, a job
carried out

own jewelry
n, when the
the streets
»men, shop
me. Benny
he had ex-
nd quickly

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scooped up a tray full of precious stones
he had been spotting for weeks.

The whole process took only a few min-
utes and Benny, briskly stepping out of the
store, lost himself in the crowds, That
same night he boarded a train for Chicago,
remained there a few days, and then headed
for Los Angeles.

“And that’s where you got hooked,” Davis
interrupted.

“Wait a minute, Ed,” Stevens frowned.
“Go ahead, Benny. What’s the rest of it?”

Kucharski hesitated, searching his com-
panions’ faces for reassurance.

“Well, that’s all except——”

“Except that you hid the sparklers, huh?”
Stevens said, finishing the sentence.

Kucharski smiled lamely.

“Yeah, that’s it. I got ’em hid in Los
Angeles. But I’m letting you guys in on it.
I'll split the stuff with you—it’s worth
twenty-eight grand with any fence.”

“Whereabouts in L. A. did you put ’em?”
Davis asked, trying to mask his sudden
greed.

“Time enough for that later. Ill show
you—if we make it.”

“Okay, Benny. We’ll make it.”

The spring months sped quickly, and
summer embraced Folsom with its stifling
heat until even the hillside grass was like
the brown baked crust of a mud pie.
Stevens and Davis, now determined to break
loose at the earliest opportunity, had en-
listed four more prisoners in their vil-
lainous company. All of them were human
outcasts of sinister history, men who had
spent long years of their lives in stir and
would kill with no rousing of conscience.

First to join was Kessell, Stevens’ partner
in crime, who was doing a minimum of
seventy years. The others, no less infamous,
were Fred Barnes, a notorious killer; Wes-
ley Eudy, thin-lipped Navy deserter, kid-

napper, and robber; and Robert Cannon,

a baby-faced burglar from Los Angeles.

Gathering in the great yard where they
could talk, the seven rats began to make
plans. Eudy, whose resentment against
punishment had grown like a poisonous
plant into fuming hatred for Warden
Larkin, made no secret of his personal
plans.

“Listen,” he said to Stevens, “if you guys
are gonna grab the Warden, lemme handle
that job myself. I’ve been aching to get
him for a long time.”

Davis, eyeing Eudy’s
grinned derisively.

“What you gonna do? Beat him up?”

Eudy edged closer to the group after
glancing warily around the crowded yard,

“No,” he whispered. “Take a look.”

He slipped his right hand beneath his
coarse prison shirt and drew out a ten-
inch dagger whose murderous blade glinted
in the bright sun. Stevens gasped in amaze-
ment.

“Jeeze, Wes,” he breathed, “that’s about
four inches longer than mine.”

“Oh. You got a knife, too?”

“Sure.”

“Me, too,” Kessell broke in. “I’ve got one
I made from a spit.”

Barnes, whose eyes had been darting
around the yard while the others talked,
suddenly nudged Stevens.

“Break it up!” he hissed.
guard comin’ this way.”

“Okay,” the bandit nodded as the con-
spirators began to separate nonchalantly.
“Same time tomorrow.”

Labor Day came and went, with the seven
plotters taking advantage of the holiday
to work out their hellish scheme in detail.
They were growing impatient, and Davis,
coolest of the lot, had trouble holding them
in check, even with the reminder that a
mistake might bring swift punishment and
possible death.

slight figure,

“There’s a

They had definitely voted to kidnap War-
den Larkin, using his huge body as a shield
and a pass to freedom. Stevens and Davis,
arguing hour after hour, had persuaded
the others that this plan offered the least
possible risk. They proposed to use Larkin’s
car in a dash through the gates, drop the
Warden en route, and switch automobiles
somewhere on the famed Mother Lode High-
way into the mountains.

Stevens promised to make arrangements
for the second getaway car through friends
on the outside, adding that he had already
picked a spot for a hideout near Fresno,
in the heart of California's lush raisin valley
two hundred miles to the south. Each of
the seven men was now carrying a con-
cealed knife, while Davis had augmented
his weapon with a jack handle and a coil
of wire.

Barnes and Eddy had also added to their
armament. Working in the somber dark
of the night, when Folsom’s branded men
slept, they fashioned diabolically clever
imitation automatics from wood blocks,
carving and whittling until their eyes and
fingers ached. The fake guns were amaz-
ingly real, with bits of metal and pipe
adding a convincing touch. Truly, disaster
was brewing, and Folsom was like a mon-
ster Pandora’s box, with Clyde Stevens’
fingers itching to rip off the lid and un-
leash the human fiends within.

So we come to Black Sunday—Septem-
ber, 19th, 1937.

Following a custom established months
before, Warden Larkin left his office a little
before noon and walked over to the head-

. quarters of Captain of the Yard William

J. Ryan—a small, glass-partitioned cubicle
which faces the vast enclosure where the
prisoners are herded during leisure hours.
It was in this tiny office that Larkin held
court on Sundays, willingly listening to any
prisoner who had a “beef,” whether it was

69


ng the viciously beaten
n be seen in foreground.

15

arbara

The lovely nurse, who, police say, might

‘have been buried alive. Before being put

in the grave, she was choked and clubbed.

L. was a routine petition for annulment
that was presented to Judge E. Perry
Churchill in the Ventura County Superior
Court on August 7, 1958. But in.less than
five months it was to be linked to one of
the most vicious and cold blooded murders
in the history of Southern California.

In the courtroom on that warm August
day, a shifty-eyed, seedy looking man
stepped forward and identified himself as
Frank Duncan, 30, an attorney from Santa
Barbara.

He told the judge that although he had
been married to Olga Kupezyk Duncan, 30,
since June 20, the union had never been
consummated. The woman, who was pres-
ent, did not corroborate this testimony, but
her signature was affixed to the petition and
the decree was granted. At the conclusion

BY FRANK ROBERTS

0%

She liked
wedding bells
for herself.

But when they
rang for her son,
his bride

disappeared

One of the accused walks into
courtroom after, officers re-
port, he told them the kindly
appearing woman, below,
hired him and a friend to
murder her daughter-in-law.
He was first to make a state-
ment to police concerning
the killing. Officials said he
told them that $6,000 was
agreed upon as fee for job.

Second man officers accused of being a hired
killer, left, tells his story of plot to Sher-
iff's Investigator Ray Higgins in jail cell.

2 SSS Ak a iat os a


is while hunt-

puties said to
i you to show
and held the
yuld do except
who was not
know whether
weapon.
1 a queer sort
aded for the
three bodies

arrived, but
through the
id on top of
Danny Brock
king off the
-d out of the
vas two-thirds
1e crime before

> gate.
ods where the
in. This time

1e police were
find the other

| had found to

and in a few
igh the tangle
dy of the boy
uldn’t see his
g. I am glad it
ht bullet holes
<j soon caught

ambulances

e victims, who
ton, his son
.ee Hanson of
as there, with
he arms. Then
‘hind him and
s corpse was
ppleton, was a
the Interna-
rp., with his

a

<new nothing
- ambulances,
ed assigned to
to brief me in.
to a house,
to call the
iculty making
tale about a

| Suzan came
it he had just
the bodies in
gone to look

aded on the
or the Apple-
fow could any-
hat both her
dead.
vanted to hate
he did kill
as he told
er cried night
.che and there
tist. Moon had
Kern that he
arget shooting
) try his aim,
ied to him, he
all three and
vO men.
ne of the triple
found Apple-
at the base of
>y had had to
n order to re-
ey had landed
em through a
In a closet in
J. D. Walters
y and personal

ms.

Black Angel of Santa Barbara

[Continued from page 8]

pretty nurse in the chambers of Superior
Judge Atwill Westwick in Santa Barbara
on June 20. ;

According to reports reaching the
police, Duncan and his wife lived together
only a short time—a little more than a
month—when Duncan suddenly moved
out and went back to his mother. Then
Olga took an apartment by herself.

One woman, whom police have refused
to identify, reportedly told them that on
one occasion, Elizabeth Duncan came to
Olga’s apartment and when she didn’t find
her home flew into a rage.

“She told me that she would kill Olga
if it was the last thing she ever did,” the
woman was quoted as saying. Then Eliza-
beth Duncan shrieked that her son and
the nurse were living in sin.

The woman told police, ‘When I remon-
strated and said they were married, Eliza-
beth Duncan said, ‘All you have to do is
check with Ventura. The marriage has
been annulled.’”

Captain Wade had heard rumors of the
annulment before and asked Duncan
about them. The attorney said he had re-
ceived a phone call from an attorney in
Ventura, Hal Hammons Jr., some time
before.

He said Hammons told him he had
been talking to a Santa Barbara lawyer
and mentioned that he had gotten an an-
nulment for Duncan the preceding August.
The second attorney expressed surprise
and said he thought Mrs. Duncan was ex-
pecting a baby.

It was then that Hammons called Dun-
can and asked him, “Did I represent you
in annulment proceedings on August 7?”

Duncan said he denied getting the an-
nulment and thought nothing more of it.

Wade then checked with the office of
Ventura County’s district attorney, Roy
Gustafson, who assigned his top investi-
gator, Clarence Henderson to the case.

It didn’t take long to determine that an
annulment had been granted Olga and
Frank Duncan on August 7, but Attorney
Hammons explained that the woman who
had appeared in his office and identified
herself as Mrs. Olga Duncan did not ap-
pear to be pregnant. In fact, the grounds
for the annulment were that the union
had not been consummated.

-It was also pointed out that although
the fraudulent Mrs. Olga Duncan gave
her age as 30 she looked closer to 50.
Santa Barbara police obtained a photo of
Mrs. Elizabeth Duncan and showed it to
the Ventura County judge who had
granted the annulment and also to Ham-
mons. Both were positive she was the one
who had obtained the annulment in the
name of her daugher-in-law.

On December 11, Captain Wade
dropped around to have a chat with Eliza-
beth Duncan. Her son had quit his job
with a local law firm a few days before
and was living in Los Angeles.

Mrs. Duncan denied having anything to
do with the annulment and declared she
knew nothing of her daughter-in-law’s
mysterious disappearance.

But as the detectives were leaving the
apartment house they met Mrs. Emma
Short, 84, who identified herself as a friend
and neighbor of Elizabeth Duncan.

In a chatty sort of way Wade ques-
tioned her and quite matter-of-factly she
told them that she had accompanied Mrs.
Duncan and a man she knew only as
“Ralph” to Ventura on August 7 when
they applied for the annulment.

With this unexpected windfall of infor-
mation, Wade and Chief Cooley got in
touch with Los Angeles Police Chief Wil-
liam Parker and asked if they could take
Mrs. Short to the crime lab for a lie de-
tector test.on the following day.

It could be that the elderly woman’s
memory was faulty, and Wade had to be
sure. On December 12, J. A. McAllister,
polygraph technician, gave the test and
the results stunned Wade. Mrs. Short, in
the course of the questioning, mentioned
a Mrs. Maria Andova, owner of a Santa
Barbara nightclub, who was given a poly-
graph test in Los Angeles the very next
day. The results of both tests were kept
secret.

But that same day Mrs. Elizabeth Dun-
can was arrested in Santa Barbara on
charges of bribery, falsification of a legal
document, perjury and forgery.

The same day Wade and his men
rounded up two Santa Barbara men,
Augustine Baldonado, 25, and Luis Moya,
22, and booked them in the Santa Barbara
city jail on holding charges. Police tried
to brush off the arrest as a routine pickup,
but word leaked out that they were being
questioned in connection with the disap-
pearance of Mrs. Olga Duncan.

In the meantime reporters were sur-
prised to find that bail for Mrs. Duncan—
a woman who had never been arrested be-
fore—had been set at $50,000 which
seemed an exhorbitant amount in view of
the charges against her. That briefly was
the situation on Sunday, December 14.

But when the FBI announced it had
been called into the case at the request of
the Santa Barbara police, Wade gave this
much explanation:

“We are now searching for the body of
Olga Duncan. We are trying to pin point
where it may be.”

This was as close as Wade got to saying
Mrs. Olga Duncan had been murdered,
but it was close enough for the press.
However, none of the three persons under
arrest in connection with the case was
booked on anything remotely resembling
a murder charge.

On the 15th, police released Baldonado
from his cell in the city jail and trans-
ferred him to Ventura where he was
rearrested by the District _Attorney’s
Investigator, Clarence Henderson, who
immediately booked him on a failure to
provide warrant.

In that way Baldonado was held avail-
able for further questioning. Moya was
being held as a parole violator from San
Diego. :

Wade and Ventura District Attorney
Gustafson now made known that they
were looking for the man identified only
as “Ralph” by Mrs. Short. It was he who
had participated in the phony annulment
with Mrs. Duncan.

However, in Los Angeles, D. K. Brown,
chief special agent in charge of the FBI
office, announced the federal agency had

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stepped into the case under a two-year-
old Federal statute under which a sup-

sedly kidnaped person is assumed to
tc crossed state lines if he fails to ap-
pear within 24 hours.

Then Brown added significantly, “Santa
Barbara police have information of the
possible forcible abduction of Mrs. Olga
Duncan although the evidence is not yet
sufficient to justify definite conclusions.”

There was no doubt in the minds of the
Ps pg that police had assumed Mrs.
Olga Duncan was dead and that Mrs.
Elizabeth Duncan, Baldonado and Moya
were suspected of knowing something
about it.

But no responsible authority would say
so. All three prisoners were safely tucked
away in jail on charges that would keep
them there for some time.

Meanwhile Wade and his men began
laying the foundation of their case. And
the newspaper reporters continued to
build their story. They contacted Olga’s
father, Elias Kupzcyk in Manitoba, Can.
and told him that there were unofficial
fears that his daughter had been mur-

‘dered and that it appeared that her
mother-in-law. might be implicated.

Kupzcyk replied by sending a packet
of his daughter’s letters to two family
friends, Mr. and Mrs. Steve Woytko of
Los Angeles.

These missives revealed that the pretty
nurse had a premonition she was living on
borrowed time for she had written her
parents, “Don’t dwell on my troubles. Life
is short and I want to enjoy the rest of it.”

In another letter shortly after her mar-
riage the nurse wrote, “All is not well
with Frank and me, or I should say Frank
and I and. his mother. As I told you
Frank’s mother lived with him so long
that she had an uncanny hold on him.
She is a very possessive woman and has
not allowed tem out of her sight. There-
fore, Frank is not really grown up.”

According to Olga’s letters, when Mrs.
Duncan learned ‘that the nurse and her
son had married secretly, she:

1, Came to the apartment and
threatened to kill both Frank and Olga.

2. Phoned a half dozen times a day
calling Olga all sorts of names.

3. Went around the neighborhood say-
ing Olga was squandering her son’s
money.

4. Accused Olga of having two children.

5. Elizabeth Duncan also inserted an ad
in a Santa Barbara paper saying Frank
was no longer responsible for Olga’s bills.

One of Olga’s letters concluded, “I
could go on and on, but all I can say is
that she has not allowed Frank to live
here. He has a great problem but. it
doesn’t help me. I have a lawyer, and a
doctor has told me to annul the marriage.
Thank God I found out now instead oF a
year from now.”

These and other letters left. no doubt
how Mrs, Duncan felt toward her daugh-
ter-in-law but they were no. proof that
she had anything to do with Olga’s disap-
pearance.

On Wednesday, December 17, Duncan
appeared in court and won a reduction
of bail for his mother from $50,000 to
$5,000. His eyes flashing in anger, the at-
torney told Municipal Judge Richard
Heaton:

“This is the time for the people up
north, the federal authorities, state and
county to put up or shut up,” regarding
their allegations that his mother had any-
thing to do with the disappearance of his
pregnant wife.

The prosecutor resisted the bail reduc-
tion and referred to the celebrated bail
jumping case of L. Ewing Scott, suspected
Los Angeles wife killer, who fled into

Canada and was captured only after an
extensive search.

On the advice of her son, Mrs. Duncan
refused to talk to the reporters as she
was taken back to jail pending payment
of her bail.

But Duncan himself was quite talkative
in his first meeting with the press since
the sensational story broke. He said his
mother had never told him she had ob-
tained the fraudulent annulment and
said, “I was informed by the authorities.”

He added, “I wanted no divorce. I
wanted no annulment. I wanted to live
with Olga.” Asked if he thought his young
wife was alive, he said, “I truly believe
she is alive. At least that is my hope.”

Duncan told newsmen that nothing
would make him happier than to be able
to go back to live with his wife. He said
he didn’t have the slightest idea why his
mother obtained the fraudulent annul-
ment and he said he had questioned her
many times about Olga’s disappearance.

“Believe me,” he said. “I’m an excellent
cross-examiner and I gave her the most
rigorous cross-examination possible. She
broke down. She cried. But she told me
positively and absolutely that she had
nothing to do with it and I believe her.”

During the course of their investiga-
tion, police discovered that Mrs. Elizabeth
Duncan had been married at least five
times since 1950.

She was first married in 1932 in San
Diego to Frank P. Duncan. How this mar-
riage ended is not clear, but information
in the possession of authorities indicates
Duncan went to Casablanca, North Africa,
in 1951,

Two. of Mrs. Duncan’s later marriages
were to young marines in their 20s. An-
other was to a handsome 25-year-old law
school classmate of her son. All three of
these marriages had ended in annulments.

In 1957 a Santa Barbara man obtained
an annulment from her on the grounds
that she was 54 instead of 44 and that she
had told him she was able to bear chil-
dren.

Against this background of tangled
marital affairs, police were unable to
reconcile her possessiveness for her son.
Perhaps after her alliances with other
men failed, she had turned to her son for
comfort and support.

On December 18, Ventura County Dis-
trict Attorney Gustafson announced that
he had learned the identity of the man
who had applied for the annulment with
Duncan’s mother.

And at the same time the 84-year-old
Mrs. Short, the witness who had furnished
them with the information, was spirited
away to a secret hideout and kept under
heavy police guard.

The man who played the role of Frank
Duncan in the annulment proceedings had
been identified as Ralph Frank Winter-
stein, Gustafson said. He was a Skid Row
dish washer and had been paid $60 for
the job.

Shrewd detective work on the part of
Investigators Henderson and Tom Os-
borne of the district attorney’s office led
to Winterstein’s identification. Mrs. Short,
who had been in the lawyer’s office with
Mrs. Duncan and her companion said she
knew the man only as Ralph. But she
added that he had mentioned that he had
worked in a Santa Barbara cafe and
groused all the time about having to sup-
port his children.

The investigators checked through the
Santa Barbara court files on failure to
provide cases involving a Ralph and
eventually came upon the name of Ralph
Frank Winterstein of Santa Maria.

Checking with the police, they learned
Winterstein had once been arrested on a

vagrancy charge
mugged and finger;
his photo to Mrs. Si
him at once.

Gustafson imme
plaints against Wint
with two counts of ;
of forgery. But at ¢!
been located.

By now the tang
began picking up ;
Barbara Captain Wa
registered to a Sant
been found three b!
can’s apartment on

Some of the upho!
out. Los Angeles
Pinker went to Sant:
ing day and repor
bloodstains in the ca

During the inves:
unable to raise bai!
she remained in ths
Friday, December 19
Duncan and the tw:
Moya, was sudden
Spiracy to kidnap ar
can.

Santa Barbara
Cooley called a pre«
day and declared
nesses in this case }
of the grave in whic!
may be found.”

Making no mer
sons in custody, he
have further inforn
persons whom we h:
if we are to make {

Continued Coole,
posed of during the
of November 18, pr
a.m. and 5 @.m.”

Refusing to divul;
information Cooley
placed—you will] not
—I am not sure of t
a pipe. This pipe may
it was located near ;

“The pipe is som:
and at the time the
posed of another ca)
used to dispose of
Chevrolet, faded, di
It had blue primer

Cooley said he was
to the driver of the
just as the body of M
being disposed of. T
joined in this appeal |
who expanded sor:
that Baldonado had
night club propriet«
dova, one of the two
tector tests in Los
Duncan’s arrest, tha:
behind a pipe.”

Baldonado had be:
Andova’s cafe as a ja:
cated that most of }
come from the lie
Mrs. Short and the ;

Brown said, “Ther:
ditches in Santa Ba
the crime and Oly:
been buried in any

He said Baldonad
poison oak about ¢}
peared and this ind
Mrs. Duncan might
with that plant.

The police and the
ing their cards close +
out only what inform:
help their investigat
agreed that under ir
Mrs. Duncan, Baldor
nied having anythin;
Duncan’s disappearar

Shortly after Chie/

This is general view of area
where grave site was located.
Police said the two hoodlums
took turns beating and chok-
ing the nurse before dumping
her into a crudely made grave.

Frank Duncan, whose es-
tranged bride disappeared and
was found in a shallow and
lonely grave, was mystified by
the tragedy. He was equally
puzzled to learn of the fradu-
lent annulment of his mar-
riage disclosed during probe.

of the hearing, the man turned and
walked out of the courtroom. He
hasn’t been seen since.

In December, 1958, during a routine
missing persons investigation for Mrs.
Olga Duncan, it was discovered that
the annulment had been a complete
fraud. It had been requested by neither
Frank nor Olga Duncan, but by Dun-
can’s doting mother, Mrs. Elizabeth
Duncan, and a shadowy Skid Row
character who had posed as Duncan
for $60.

‘Although Duncan had been es-
tranged from his bride of six months,
he was stunned by the news of the
annulment and was unable to explain

‘his mother’s actions. The Santa Bar-

bara police were more concerned with
the disappearance of Olga Duncan who
was well along in her pregnancy when
she vanished from her Santa Barbara
apartment November 18.

She had been last seen on the night
of the 17th when she entertained two
fellow nurses, Sylvia Butler and
Doreen Corraini, in her apartment at
1114 Garden Street. The nurses left at
11 p.m.

The next morning when Olga didn’t
show up at the hospital to assist at an
operation, her collegues became
worried because of her condition and
went to her apartment.

They immediately noticed that the
woman’s door was open and a drapery
was blowing out into the hallway. In-
side the apartment the lights were on
and nothing seemed out of place. Her
bedroom slippers were in the bathroom.
Nothing seemed to have been taken
from the closets or drawers.

The dress she had worn the previous
evening was hanging in its usual place.
So far as could be determined, Olga
Duncan was wearing only her nightie
and a negligee when she vanished. Her
friends filed a missing persons report
and her husband was notified.

Duncan, a bespectacled, scholarly
looking man, could offer no explana-

‘tion and said the last time he had seen

his wife was on November 7 when he
visited her at her apartment.

He confirmed that he and his wife
had been having marital difficulties and
suggested she might have gone to stay
with friends or perhaps her parents in
Canada.

At any rate, the missing persons in-
vestigation dropped into the regular
routine until strange stories began
reaching the ears of Santa Barbara
Police Chief F. W. Cooley and Capt.
A. C. Wade.

Friends of the missing woman told
police that Olga lived in constant fear
of her mother-in-law, Mrs. Elizabeth

‘Duncan. The mother-in-law was pic-

tured as an extremely possessive
woman who was beside herself with
rage and jealousy when her only child
married the [Continued on page 83]

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70

In closing the state’s case, Roy Gustaf-
son told the jury that Frank Duncan’s
wife could have been “anyone’s daughter
or sister,” and, “if Frank had married
any other woman the same thing was
likely to have happened . . . She (Mrs.
Duncan) didn’t want anyone to have her
son.” He said the case was “shocking and
amazing. It’s almost unbelievable.”

The prosecutor claimed the evidence
showed that the affection between Frank
Duncan and his mother was much greater
than normal, citing how Mrs. Duncan
served her son breakfast in bed and laid
out the day’s clothes for him.

He called Duncan a “spineless jelly-
fish, liar and lady-killer,” and claimed,
“it is obvious. Frank Duncan did not
love Olga Duncan. Olga Duncan loved
Frank and paid with her life.”

The methodical prosecutor finished by
demanding the jury find Mrs. Elizabeth
Duncan guilty of murder in the first de-
gree.

When he finished and walked across
the courtroom, in front of Mrs. Duncan,
she snapped, “You son of’ a bitch.”

Gustafson stopped. “Pardon me,” he
said. “I didn’t hear you. Will you say
that louder?”

Mrs. Duncan glared but remained
silent. ‘

perenae attorney S. Ward Sullivan said
Luis Moya and Gus Baldonado were
not paid assassins, but bungling, free-
lance kidnapers who intended to hold
Olga Duncan for .ransom.

“She offered some resistance,” he said.
“And instead of having a victim .
they’ve got a corpse on their hands...
Now it’s easy to accuse her (Mrs. Dun-
can) of participation in it, avenge them-
selves, and try to save their lives.

“Ts there anything wrong with a mother
having intense love for her son?” he
asked the jury. “True, the love of each
for the other may have been more than
in the normal family, But that doesn’t
mean it would cause either one or the
other to resort to physical violence.”

Concluding, he said, “I submit that
there’s only one verdict you can reach in
this case—a verdict of not guilty.” |

HE next morning, March 16th, Elizabeth
Duncan stood calmly and looked
straight ahead while the jury announced
that they had found her guilty of murder
in the first degree. Then she turned to her
son and said softly, “Don’t worry. too
much, Frank.” But after being led back
to her cell she broke down and wept.
The next day, the jury heard arguments
to decide the sentence. Gustafson asked

the death penalty and claimed. the lurid:

past of the defendant was one of the rea-
sons she deserved no mercy. Prosecution
witnesses told of her vice arrest in 1953.
Gustafson also called several of her ex-
husbands and a psychiatrist.

Elizabeth Duncan’s marital record was
confused and contradictory and neither
the prosecution nor the defense attempted
to clarify it. The number of husbands
mentioned ranged from twelve to’sixteen
and the testimony included references to
many annulments and misrepresentations
by the defendant.

Mrs. Duncan added to the confusion
herself, saying at one point, “I think
D’Amato was before Sollenne,” when dis-
cussing two of the men she married.
There were other marriages she could not
recall.

The psychiatrist testified that Mrs. Dun-
can was impulsive, egocentric, maladjust-
ed, unable to stand frustration and unable

to maintain her equilibrium—but,. “My

findings are that she is not insane.”
Frank Duncan said, “If 1 had a choice

. . . | would choose the same mother.”

(x March 20th, the jury decreed that
the penalty should be death in the gas
chamber.

On March 24th, Judge Blackstock, in
a hearing taking less than five minutes,
found Mrs. Duncan sane on the basis of
the psychiatrists’ findings.

While she waited in jail, Mrs. Dun-
can’s attorney, S. Ward Sullivan began
working on an appeal. He called her
trial, “The clearest case of a miscarriage
of gastice that | have ever had in more
than thirty years as a lawyer.” Frank
Duncan decided to serve as attorney for
his mother, and began to work on the
600-page transcript of the trial, looking
for errors on which the appeal could be
based.

District Attorney Roy Gustafson
claimed,:“The verdict of death is just.”

In an exclusive interview with a New

_ York City newspaper reporter, Duncan

revealed that he was working on an ar-
rangement with a motion picture com-
pany to depict his mother’s life on the
screen.

On April 9, 1959, a jury ruled that
Augustine Baldonado was to die for his
part in the murder of Olga Duncan. And
on April 30th, the death penalty was
decreed for Luis Moya.

Then the fireworks started.

N execution date was set for Eliza-

beth Duncan, Augustine Baldonado

and Luis Moya. It was to be August 16,
1961.

Then an appeal before the U. S. Court .

of Appeals contended that newspaper
publicity had influenced the jury. Judge
Frederick G. Hamley granted a stay
order for Mrs. Duncan and her accom-
plices.

On July 3rd, 1962, all hell broke loose
in San Quentin when six desperate killers
on Death Row beat two guards into
bloody. submission. and held them hos-
tage for three hours. Two of those des-
perate killers, who hoped to escape as
a result of holding the guards were Luis
Moya. and Augustine Baldonado. The six

‘killers never had a. chance to escape.

They were forced to give up when a
tear-gas barrage forced their surrender.
Luis Moya’s role was an interesting one.
It was he who warned the guard, Ser-
geant Roy B. Kardell, on pain of death,
not to let the office know, in his regu-
lar one a.m. report, that anything was
amiss. But Kardell blurted out, “There’s
trouble on the row,” when he got the
operator on the;phone. He later said,
“I figured it was better to die than let
the boys get loose.”

If Moya and Baldonado ever had a
chance of beating the rap, this desperate

“maneuver had just about killed. their

chances.

BY July, 1962, the Duncan case be-
came a political headache to Gov-
ernor Pat Brown, who was seeking re-
election against one of the toughest ad-
versaries in the political arena, Richard
Nixon. Just at the time that Brown was
having his hands full with a difficult leg-
islature, the Supreme Court turned down
Mrs. Duncan’s appeal and ordered the
court to set a date of execution.
Capital punishment is a big political
issue in California. It raged during the
Chessman appeals, and Governor Brown,
known to be against capital punishment,

CONFIDENTIAL DETECTIVE CASES

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68

“I guess I just didn’t want to lose
Frank. I was going to keep him for a few
days and talk to him.:I know it was
foolish.”

Under Sullivan’s careful examination,
she admitted she did not like Olga Kup-
czyk and did not want her son to marry
the girl. She called Olga on the tele-
phone, she said, and “I accused her of
sleeping with him (Frank) at night and
she admitted it. . . She called me a bad
name and said she would marry my son
if I liked it or not.”

The defendant admitted going to the
newlyweds’ apartment but denied that
Frank had said “Come on, doll, let's go
fehl She insisted, “He never called me
doll.”

She glared at the judge when he over-
ruled her attorney, and she covered her
face with her hands and shed tears when
Sullivan questioned her about her daugh-
ter, Patricia, who died at the age of
fifteen, in 1948.

After arguing with Frank in November
of 1957 over an annulment from one of
her husbands, Mrs. Duncan said, she
attempted suicide by taking an overdose
of sleeping pills. It was that attempt that
sent her to the Cottage Hospital where
Frank met Olga.

Elizabeth Duncan then emphatically
denied hiring the killers of Olga Duncan.

(ya and gay during the noon recess,
the witness broke into tears again
during the afternoon session when she
sobbed, “I was just lonesome for him. I
just wanted him.”

As for the witnesses who testified she
had tried to hire them to harm Olga, they
were all wrong, she claimed. And she
never asked a witness to spy on Frank,
she said. “I don’t think my son would
stoop so low as to go to a lovers’ lane.”

Mrs. Duncan disposed of the Moya and
Baldonado claim that she had hired them
by saying they were trying to “blackmail”
her. She hadn’t identified them at police
line-ups because, “I don’t believe in put-
ting anyone in jail.”

wre Gustafson took over the question-
ing, he brought shouts, sobs and angry
retorts from the defendant as he asked
her about husband after husband, until
she had admitted to eleven marriages.

“What has that got to do with all of
this?” she yelled at the prosecutor.

When Judge Blackstock told her,
“Never mind,” her answer was, “I cer-
tainly do mind.”

Sullivan objected that the questions
were designed to prejudice the jury. “And
to degrade my son,” the witness added.

Later, the judge ordered that the jury
disregard all testimony pertaining to the
many marriages.

Over and over again, Mrs. Duncan
denied to Gustafson that she had hired
the two men to kill Olga Duncan.

“Don’t you say that to me,” she yelled
at the prosecutor at one point. “That’s
a lie! A lie!”

Then the D.A. asked her what the “bad
name” was that Olga had called her
during a telephone conversation.

Mrs. Duncan shook her head defiantly.
“I won’t answer that,” she said.

“Oh, yes, you will,” retorted the pro-

‘| secutor.

“Make me,” she challenged.

Ordered by the judge to answer, the
defendant said “She said I was no good.
She said I was a son of a bitch for not
wanting Frank to go ahead and marry
her.”

She continued snapping angry retorts

at the prosecutor throughout the day.
During the afternoon Frank Duncan join-
ed her by jumping to his feet and shout-
ing at Gustafson that his name was
“Frank—not Frankie,” as the D.A. had
been calling him.

“You sit down,” Gustafson said. When
the young lawyer obeyed, his mother took
up his defense, telling the prosecutor that
her son was an officer of the court and,
“You should show him some respect.”

“Where is your intelligence?” she asked

Gustafson when he asked her if she had
attempted to hire a carhop to kill Frank’s
wife. At another point she cried out,
“That is not true. And don’t you sit there
and lie.”
* To Judge Blackstock she yelled, after
being told to answer a question, “How
can I, when you sit there and overrule
everything?” Then she told Gustafson,
“Get away from me. I don’t want you
close to me.” When he walked away, to
the far end of the jury box, she told him,
“That’s a good place for you.”

Towards the end of her cross-examina-
tion, Gustafson asked why she hadn't
identified Moya in a lineup as her “black-
mailer.”

Her answer was “I don’t believe in
prosecution. I really don’t, and now I
don’t for sure. Now they’ve got me.”

| bape next day Frank Duncan took the
stand and said he “went back and
forth like a yo-yo” between his mother
and his wife. He didn’t’ tell his mother
of his plans to marry because, “Mother
was always proud of me. I was the apple
of her eye. She did not want to lose me.”

When he returned after his wedding
night, he said Mrs. Duncan, “was crying
in uncontrolled hysteria. I tried to con-
sole her—but I was unsuccessful.”

He described the argument in the
apartment as “A Donnybrook” and said
he left Olga and went back. with his
mother.

Asked if he had lived with his mother
most of his life, he answered, “I have,
sir.” Then he added, “I am proud to say
it.” Gustafson objected to the last part
of the statement, and ‘it was stricken from
the record.

Sullivan asked, “Has there ever been
an occasion in your adolescence, young
manhood or manhood when you ever

slept in the same bed (with your
mother) ?” .
“Never,” Duncan snapped, denying

further that they had ever lived in an
apartment with only one bed.

His mother had never made a threat
against Olga’s life to his knowledge,
Duncan testified.

“I love my mother, but I loved my
wife, too,” he said.

i goat Duncan left the stand, the defense
rested its case, but Gustafson told the
court, “I intend to show that (Frank’s)
testimony that he loved his wife is false.”

“You're a liar!” Elizabeth Duncan
yelled from her seat.

“You keep quiet,” Gustafson snapped
back.

Insurance man Valentine Ponomaroft
was then called as a rebuttal witness. He
testified that Frank told him, before his
marriage, “I’m in a little deep with Olga.
I wish I could palm her off on someone
else.” The witness also said that he told
Frank about the fraudulent annulment
almost a month before Frank admitted
hearing about it. When Ponomaroff ad-
vised Duncan to leave his mother and go
live with his wife, Frank answered, “You
don’t know my mother.”

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72

lower

had called the legislature into session in
February, 1960, in an effort to abolish
the death penalty in California. The leg-
islature had voted against Brown then.
Now, Brown had to face appeals for a
commutation of sentence at a time when
his political future was hanging in the
balance. It was not a pretty prospect.
The fifty-seven-year-old Elizabeth Dun-
can was to be only the fourth woman
ever to be executed in the state of Cali-
fornia, and the first one to to be exe-
cuted in Governor Brown's term of of-
fice. Also, since Mrs. Duncan and her
accomplices were all scheduled to die on
August 8th, it was to be the first triple

execution in the state. For a man who

is against capital punishment, three peo-
ple executed on the same day was a.dev-
astating prospect.

In addition, the foes of capital punish-
ment in the state were beginning to kick
up a big row. After all, Mrs. Duncan
did not have a direct hand in killing her
daughter-in-law. Baldinado and Moya
had done the dirty work.

At San Quentin, all the prisoners on
Death Row went on a_ hunger strike
against “Mother” Duncan’s execution.

On the other hand, there were strong
forces demanding that the death pen-
alty be carried out. Among those who in-
sisted that Governor Brown was weak
and full of “indecision” in the Chessman
case was Richard M. Nixon.

The Southern California section of the
American Civil Liberties Union, however,
stated that the rash of publicity about
the strange relationships between Eliz-
abeth Duncan and her son, Frank, had
caused an unfair trial.

Governor Brown’s decision was: “I am
unable to find circumstances to warrant
commutation.”

Meanwhile, Elizabeth Duncan was liv-
ing in semi-isolation at the State Institu-
tion for Women at Corona, where she
had been tending flowers and watching
television.

On August the 7th, one day before
her scheduled execution, Frank Duncan
appealed personally for a stay of execu-
tion to the U. S. District Court in Los
Angeles. The stay was denied. The
grounds for the appeal, Frank Duncan
averred, was that his mother was drugged
at her trial. “She might have been physi-
cally present at the trial,” he said, “but
these drugs denied her mental presence.”

Mrs. Duncan was removed from the
California Institution for Women to a
cell near the gas chamber at San Quentin.

On August 8, 1962, Elizabeth Ann
Duncan died in the San Quentin gas
chamber. Three hours later, Baldonado
and Moya went to their deaths together,
side by side.

on Outwardly calm, Mrs. Duncan entered
the death cell after insisting on her in-
nocence. She said she wished she could
see her son Frank once more. Up until
the very last minute, she was sure that
he would arrange a reprieve for her.

Seven minutes before she entered the
gas chamber, Judge Walter L. Pope of
the U. S. Court of Appeals in San Fran-
cisco turned down a final appeal from
Frank, who described Mrs. Duncan as
the “best mother a boy ever had.”

At 10:02 a.m. Mrs. Duncan was led
into the gas chamber by two male guards.
She wore a simple dress of red and white
striped seersucker and her grey hair was
tied in a tight bun. She didn’t cry or
look at the witnesses.

Moya and Baldonado joked with each
other and their guards as they were led
into the gas chamber. Baldonado said to
one guard as he left the death chamber,
“Be sure to close the door when you
leave.” But when the fumes began ris-
ing Baldonado said, “I can smell it and
it doesn’t smell good.”

Note: The names Marie Cortes, Mary
Lou Kirk, Evelyn St. John, Adele Martin
and Winnie Hahn are pseudonyms, to
conceal identities of persons involved.

STATEMENT REQUIRED BY THE
ACT OF AUGUST 24, 1912, AS
AMENDED BY THE ACTS OF
MARCH 3, 1933, JULY 2, 1946 AND
JUNE 11, 1960 (74 STAT. 208)
SHOWING THE OWNERSHIP,
MANAGEMENT, AND CIRCULA-
TION of Confidential Detective Cases,
published bi-monthly at New York,
N. Y., for October 1, 1962.

1. The names and addresses of the
publisher, editor, managing editor,
and business manager are:

Publisher, Sterling House, Inc., 260
Park Avenue South, New York 10,
N. Y.; Editor, Ruth Manoff, 260 Park
Avenue South, New York 10, N. Y.;
Managing Editor, none; Business
Manager, Estelle Tucker, 260 Park
Avenue South, New York 10, N. Y.

2. The owner is: (If owned by a
corporation, its name and address
must be stated and. also immediately
thereunder the names and addresses
of stockholders owning or holding one
per cent or more of total amount of
stock. If not owned by a corporation,
the names and addresses of the in-
dividual owners must be given. If
owned by a partnership or other unin-
corporated firm, its name and address,
as well as that of each. individual
member, must be given). Sterling
House, Inc., 260 Park Avenue South,
New York 10, N. Y.; Morris S. Lat-
zen, 260 Park Avenue South, New
York 10, N. Y.; Hannah Latzen, 260
Park Avenue South, New York 10,

oy.

3. The known bondholders, mort-
gagees, and other security holders
owning or holding 1 per cent or more
of total amount of bonds, mortgages,
or other securities are: none.

4, Paragraphs 2 and 8. include, in
cases where the stockholder or se-
curity holder appears upon the books
of the company as trustee or in any
other fiduciary relation, the name of
the person or corporation for whom
such trustee is acting; also the state-
ments in the two paragraphs show
the affiant’s full knowledge and. belief
as to the circumstances and conditions
under which stockholders and security
holders who do not appear upon the
books of the company as _ trustees
hold stock and securities in a capacity
other than that of a bona fide owner.

5. The average number of copies of
each issue of this publication sold or
distributed, through the mails or
otherwise, to paid subscribers during
the 12 months preceding the date
shown above was: (This information
is required by the act of June 11, 1960
to be included in all statements re-
gardless of frequency of issue.)
100,659 copies.

ESTELLE TUCKER,
Business Manager.
Sworn to and subscribed before me
this 21st day of September, 1962.
David Gassner, Notary Public. My
commission expires March 30, 1964.

CONFIDENTIAL DETECTIVE CASES

BEAUTY AND CHAR

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(Ventura County) August 8, 1962.

The saga of Elizabeth Ann Duncan,
last woman in the gas chamber...

rae

P Elizabeth Duncan, described as ‘a crazy |

by LESLIE STUART CARTER

alifornia’s San Bernardino Superior Court Judge Don A. Turner sentenced Cynthia

Lynn Coffman, 26, to death on August 24, 1989, for the murder of 20-year-old Corinna

Novis of Redlands. Coffman and co-defendant James Gregory Marlow, 32, an ex-con-

vict with a long arrest record, face a similar fate in nearby Orange County for another
strangulation slaying, that of 19-year-old Lynell Murray in Huntington Beach.

The case of Coffman, who sported Wolf” tattooed on her backside in rec- echoes of the last woman to die in a
a shaven head at the time of her arrest ognition of Marlow’s self-bestowed California gas chamber.

and who has “Property of Folsom jail nickname, evokes indelible Coffman, predictably, claimed she

was forced into participating with
Marlow, whom she met in a Bar-
stow prison as she was visiting a
friend while he served a sentence for

urder
car theft. But Judge Turner made no

victim with anything handy, secret of where he stood by stating
first a shattered sun, then a “She was in this thing up to the hilt,

. . and enjoyed it right up to the last min-
rock. When it came time to |»:

Cynthia Coffman, clearly, is no
clone of the late Elizabeth Ann Dun-
can, from California’s tranquil and
scenic resort, Santa Barbara. Not for
Mama Duncan the cop-out, the whin-
ing courtroom accusations. Mama
was ripe, mature manipulator, a born

DETECTIVE DRAGNET, April, 1990.

davce Xf, Atretins Caace pore 774

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