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FRONT PAGE DETECTIVE

NUDE CORPSE IN THE BRIAR PATCH

(Continued from page 81)

Was the killer back again?

No official report had been made, but
Constable Miller, in whose territory the
girls lived, heard of the case and in-
vestigated. The girls, remembering the
fate of Thelma Young, had fled upon
seeing the man. But the constable got
descriptions of the prowler from them
and they tallied in each case. ‘

Michael J. Powell was sworn in as
chief county detective on January 1,
1936, and W. B. McBride went in as his
assistant. They took up the trail where
I left off, with Constable Miller and
Sergeant Will Hanna aiding. They
were on a red-hot trail now, and they
didn’t let it get cold. Officers hounded
the vicinity of Thelma’s murder at
night, and even sent decoys through
the death. lane in the hope of luring
the suspect into the open. But seem-
ingly he knew his ground and sensed
when officers were about, which sub-
stantiated my own theory that he was
a local man. But this:was not all_—

O* JANUARY, 18, 1936, at Walkers

Mills, a little village twenty-six

miles from Washington in Allegheny
-County, Elizabeth ‘Louden, sixteen,

. mysteriously disappeared while on her

way home along a lonely road. She
had been seen walking down the road,
even as Thelma Young had been, but
‘she never reached home, nor did she
return to the place where she was em-
ployed as a domestic.
On top of this, from Carnegie, Penn-

; ‘sylvania, came a report that a railroad

worker who was a former resident of
Washington: had attempted to attack a

’ girl in a restaurant. He had followed

her into the kitchen and thrown her
against a wall before her screams
brought help. The man was employed

’ in the Scully shops of the Pennsylvania

Railroad.
More important, Chief Powell

learned that this man had been em-

ployed in the Pennsylvania shops in
Washington, only a few hundred yards
from Oregon Avenue, the night Thelma
Young was murdered!

Moreover, he was a man of huge
stature, and he answered the descrip-

| tion of the man who had been seen by -
‘the other girls where Thelma had met

death. :
Chief Powell decided to wait no
longer.

On the night of January 22, Robert -

Dreamer, burly thirty-eight-year-old
railroad shopman, stepped off a train at
the Washington station. As he walked
up the platform he was surrounded by
Chief Powell, Sergeant. Hanna and
Private John Gettier, of the state po-
lice, Constable McBride and Assistant
County Detective Miller. He offered no
resistance as he was taken into custody,
and he didn’t ask why he was arrested.
“Perhaps he knew exactly why!
Three days later I was summoned to

the state police barracks just outside
of Washington and asked—since I was
the one most familiar with the case—

if I would question Dreamer. The offi- .

cers believed that here, at last, was the
killer of Thelma Young.

Would I question him? Assuredly—
my interest in. the case had never
waned,

But before I started, I wanted that
package from the courthouse — the
package containing the torn clothes of
the murder victim, and the coat button.

Dreamer was a large man weighing |

over 200 pounds, but it was the pecu-
liar quality about his face that im-
pressed me the moment I dropped into
a chairbefore him. The man’s counte-
nance was imperturbable. His gray
eyes expressed no feeling, though they
did not avoid my gaze, and I realized

at once that here, was a man whose .

features did not reflect his. thoughts.
They formed, instead, a mask to con-
ceal them. «
While we faced each other before
the grilling began, I observed another
detail, perhaps trivial. Robert: Dreamer
apparently had a strong liking for the
color brown. It appeared in his hat, his
necktie and his shoes.
In my pocket lay the old button
which had undoubtedly been lost by

Thelma Young’s: killer. And its color

was brown... .

A weak link to tie a man to murder?
It: obviously was, Nevertheless, I
steered my. questions around to the
crime in the fog with a subtle feeling
that we were nearer solution’ than ever
before. : ;

“What were you doing on-the night
of December 29, 1927, Dreamer?” I
asked.

His answer was cautious, thoughtful.

“I was working in the railroad shops
near Oregon Avenue.” °

“It was cold that night, wasn’t it?”
I remarked. .

Dreamer looked up. “I don’t renem-
ber if it was cold or not,” he said. “But
it was foggy.”

I could tell that he regretted having
mentioned this immediately after he
spoke. For the first time a sharp gleam
flickered in his calm eyes. It was a
gleam of hostility.

“Nevertheless,” I pursued quickly,
you wore your brown overcoat that
night, didn’t you?”

The remark sounded almost inane,

66.

‘perfectly casual. But Robert Dreamer

stared at me as if I had slapped him
in the: face: For long seconds his jaw
was rigid, the room tense in utter
silence, . a

I allowed the silence to continue and
his nervousness to grow. At last he
muttered quietly: :

“I don’t rememiber what I wore.”

“But it must have been your brown
coat, Dreamer,” I replied. “After all,
you lost something from it that might

—anc
after:
lost!”
Thi
dark,
a crir
porta
at the
certa:
it aft
Ic
start
arous
to de
he wc
of Tr
a | ‘
denly
cautic
Ag:
silenc
“back
the sz
hypot
“Ol
“You
for w
overc
were
those
Par
ily bl
“It’:
“Ne
we ca
you e:
—the
As i
dropp
Dre
gasp.
a tigh
object

HE ]
in
sion v
that i:
murde
consci:
In f
steadi!
dence
the co:
huge
shakin
over
“T di
right—
Now
Drearr
his mc
an eis
broug!
‘Tw
an evi
eyes.
home t
and I
soon, {
“usual |
where
The
were a
structi:
in the
When
he had
torn o!


-ATCH

acks just outside
sked—since I was
r with the case—

‘reamer. The offi- .

e, at last, was the
ing.

iim? Assuredly—
case had never

d, I wanted that
courthouse — the
1e torn clothes of
d the coat button.

ge man weighing ©

it was the pecu-
s face that im-
at I dropped into
1e man’s counte-
dable. His gray
ing, though they
2, and I realized
Ԥ @ man whose
‘ct his. thoughts.
a mask to con-

ch other before
bserved another
Robert Dreamer
ig liking for the
2d in his hat, his

the old button
ly been lost by

». And its color .

man to murder?
Nevertheless, I
around to the
a subtle feeling
‘ution’ than ever

ag on the night
', Dreamer?” I

ous, thoughtful.
> railroad shops

tht, wasn’t it?”

I don’t remem-~
,” he said. “But

-gretted having
iately after he
: a sharp gleam
eyes. It was a

rsued quickly,
overcoat that

almost inane,
obert Dreamer
d slapped him
sconds his jaw
‘ense in utter

vo continue and
w. At last he

hat I wore.”

‘n your brown
od. “After all,
1 it that might

Sa antennae ce ah te

a sn IB nae aan Ae ase <4

street em a

—and you went back several times
afterward looking for what you had
lost!”

This was, of course, a stab in the
dark, based upon the knowledge that
a criminal will attach tremendous im-
portance to anything he has forgotten
at the scene of a crime and will almost
certainly conduct a furtive search for
it afterward.

I could see by Dreamer’s nervous
start that some memories had been
aroused in him. Also, he had neglected
to deny my repeated assumption that
he wore a brown overcoat on the night
of Thelma’s murder.

“I didn’t go back!” he snarled sud-
denly, anger getting the better of his
caution.

Again I looked at him in momentary
silence. Then, instead of asking him

' “back where?” I taxed him further on

the same seemingly trivial point of his
hypothetical loss.

“Oh yes, you did, Dreamer,” I said.
“You returned several times, looking
for what you had lost from your brown
overcoat. We know that. Why, you
were searching in that lane even when
those girls saw you, eight years later!”

Panic crept into Dreamer’s ordinar-
ily blank eyes.

“It’s a lie!” he exclaimed hoarsely.

“No it isn’t,” I retorted, “and I think
we can help you, Bob. I’m going to give
you exactly what ‘you were looking for
—the thing you lost that night!”

As if it were.an object of no value, I
dropped the brown button into his lap.

Dreamer’s breath came in a quick
gasp. Involuntarily his hand closed in
a tight grip over the round, hard little
object.

E DIDN'T realize then how damn-

ing that convulsive act of posses-
sion was. Yet he should have known
that it linked him irrevocably with a
murder that had haunted his dimmed
conscience for eight years.

In feigned coolness I watched him
steadily, wondering if this frail evi-
dence would cudgel him into making
the confession we needed so badly. The
huge bulk of Robert Dreamer was
shaking, and he suddenly drew a hand
over his eyes.

“T did it!” he almost shouted. “You're
right—I did it!”

Now eager to unburden himself,
Dreamer’s words came tumbling from
his mouth—words that wrote “finis” to
an eight-year-old murder hunt and
brought a killer to final justice.

“I wanted that girl,” he whispered,
an evil lust-gleam even then in his
eyes. “I had seen her often walking
home that way. That night it was foggy,
and I knew she would be returning
soon. So I went out earlier than my

‘ usual lunch hour in order to catch her

where no one would see.”
The details of his attack on Thelma

. were almost identical with our recon-

struction of the crime. He had waited
in the fog, and then leaped upon her.
When she fought and tried to cry out,
he had bludgeoned her with the brick,
torn off her clothing, and, like a beast,

FRONT PAGE DETECTIVE 121

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DREAMER, Robert, white, elec, Pennsylvania State Prison
(Washingéon County) on February 1, 1937.

TRUE DETECTIVE MYSTERIES, August, 1937.

Nore: This is the only story on the Young-Dreamer case
authorized by ‘Constable Miller to appear under his name—
Eprror, '

William B, Dinsmore, then Chief of Detectives in Wash-

ington County, Pennsylvania, received word that the body

of a girl, savagely beaten and ravished, had been found
in the Kalorama district of Washington.

His informant was George Haines, Desk Sergeant of the
local Police Department.

Middle-aged, stocky, gray-haired and possessing: keen blue
eyes behind horn-rimmed spectacles, Dinsmore is genial and
courteous. But that geniality, as many criminals have found,
covers an underlying layer of steel,

A Captain in the A. E. F., an amateur photographer of
note and a collector of first editions, Dinsmore is also a
profound student of crime. In his thirteen years as Chief of
County Detectives his record pre his efficiency in the
field of crime detection. :

Before leaving his residence Dinsmore notified District
Attorney Warren S. Burchinal, Sergeant William Jones of
the State Police and County Detective William Hamilton.

The scene of the crime proved to be an abandoned alley

iB was eight a.m. Friday, December 30th, 1927, when

connecting: Oregon Street with Baltimore Avenue. Long in.

popular disuse because of the absence of sidewalks or pave-
ment and the steepness of the’ upgrade extending from Oregon
Street to Baltimore Avenue, the alley is used chiefly by
residents of the neighborhood as a short-cut between these
two thoroughfares.

BY CONSTABLE

30

WORy-FF-3

In this re-enactment
of Thelma Young's
last night (left to
right) she receives
money and a maga-
zine; is seen passing
a hot-dog stand and
billiard parlor. The
man pictured is Wijl-
liam B. Dinsmore, for-
mer detective chief

TRAPPING

IOUS

THE YOUNG-

Already at the scene when Dinsmore arrived were Joseph
Verderber, Chief of Washington Police, and several of his
officers. y

The body of the pitiful victim was nearly nude, her torn
clothing, fragments of which clung to her body, indicating
the desperate but losing struggle the unfortunate girl had
waged for her honor and life.

A clearer picture of the scene may be had, I think, if I
quote directly from Chief Dinsmore’s notes, before me as |
write this story:

“Girl’s body near upper end of picket fence. Lying on
back. Left foot almost touching fence. Bloomers almost com-
pletely ripped from body. Shirtwaist turned back. Skirt ripped
entire length, lying wide open. Garter belt intact. Hose torn
and left sleeve of jacket torn loose. One shoe missing.

“Cuts on forehead, back of head. Blood over face, hands,
left. sleeve, girdle, bloomers and stockings. ...”

Concludin» their grim study of the ravished and battered

victim, ©! Dinsmore, Chief Verderber and Detective
ami! ded with a careful survey of the immediate
ne
‘© arrival of more city police a cordon was
thr the locality to forestall possible destruction
of ey

On the right the alley was bordered by two frame garages,
while directly opposite stood a telephone pole and a picket
fence,

Examining the telephone pole Chief Dinsmore uttered 3
stifled exclamation:

“Mo: ood!"

CLARK MILLER
AS TOLD TO

short-c:
killer lay
Thelma 4

PE

DR

He poin
the weath
manner in
Of a strugg!
of the stee
Rn man's fee
the body \
of the slave

Chief 1);

“The mu
leaped at }
Quickly he
pole, then
assault too!

However,
in- renderin
Was indicat:
of the bank

Here wer:
to inflict the
shoe; a. stri
magazine an
objects be a

Chief Din
the body. C
his handker

“I've ai}
evidence,” }y:
killer's coat

The grim

WAS
VIRG

a a a

Sead

32
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- FRONT PAGE DETECTIVE

had ravished her there upon the path.

Fearing that a chance passerby might
observe him, he had then dragged the
limp form through the bushes to the
spot where it was found. There, the
depraved killer admitted, he had again
assaulted the nude body of his victim,
who was perhaps even then dead.

After that he had sneaked back to
work. The next morning at his home,
which was near that of the girl’s par-
ents, he decided to burn the clothes he
had. worn. because they . contained
bloodstains. But he resolved first to see
if he could find the lost button, so-he
started back through the fog, to the
scene of his crime. It was still dark, he
said, and as he neared the briars, dogs
began to bark. He fled then, fearing
discovery, and later on in a shack over
‘the hill he burned the clothes.

Three days afterward he discovered
a bloodstain on his underwear, so he
burned that also in a nearby shack. In
his nervous haste to wipe away all
evidence of his guilt, he carelessly ig-
nited the shack, which quickly burned
down. Dreamer fied as firemen came up
the hill.

DREAMER admitted that the missing
coat button had: worried him. He
had tried from time to time to hunt for
it without attracting attention. But
when he heard nothing moére of it, he
managed to “get it off his mind.”
Suddenly remembering the coat from
which the button had been torn, how-
ever, he quickly got rid of it by ram-
ming it into a hole in the kitchen ceiling
-Of his home.
We went to the house, now occupied.
by another family, and found that the
hole had been repaired; but the people
living there affirmed that they had
pulled an old brown overcoat from the
hole and thrown it away.
Dreamer’s story checked also with
the fire department records, which

.| showed ‘that a few days after Thelma

Young’s murder, the firemen had been
called to a burning shack on the hill.
As final proof that this latest confession -
was not the product of a twisted imagi-
nation, we checked Dreamer’s hand

with the plaster cast of the hand print
we had found at the murder scene.
Though the cast was not a good one, it

- fitted the man’s hand well enough to

give us final corroboration.

Thus, eight years and one month
after Thelma Young’s murder, her
slayer had been trapped. And hard on
the heels of this startling solution came

.& gruesome find.

The body of Elizabeth Louden, who
had disappeared a month before at
Walkers Mills, was found nude and
battered in an icy creek on February
26. In almost every way her. killing
resembled that of Thelma Young.

Elizabeth: Louden, too, had been the
victim of a sex attacker, and Allegheny
County detectives were able to place
Robert Dreamer in Carnegie, a few
miles from where the girl had been
killed, on the day before she dis-
appeared!

Again Dreamer was questioned, but

he flatly denied any connection with
this later killing, and we couldn't shake
him on that. Furthermore, he repudi-
ated his confession in the Thelma
Young case when he went to trial, -but
it was too late. . :
Robert Dreamer was speedily sen-
tenced to a fate he richly deserved—
electrical death in the wired chair.
Appeals to the trial court and the
supreme court were of no avail, nor

. was a plea for commutation to the par-

don board. He went to the death house
at Rockview Penitentiary on January
30, 1937, over nine years: after his
savage murder in the fog.

Early on the morning of February 1,
he lurched with faltering steps down
the corridor to Pennsylvania’s electric
chair. His eyelids flickered as two
guards guided him to the seat of doom,
and his face was as gray as the squat
stone which would presently mark his
grave. He tensed rigidly as thousands
of volts poured through ‘his body—
then he was limp and quiet.

Was Robert Dreamer guilty, too,-of
the murder of Elizabeth Louden? We'll
probably never know. But if he was,
there is no more penalty that he can

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Pennsylvania police wrote “finis” to the mystery murder in the briar patch shown
above when they convicted and electrocuted Robert Dreamer.

to the s
than fic
study t’
waiting
was as
seen a

“ ER
ey
indicat
treatin;
my Ro!
The }
ment a
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equally
quickly
“Why
can you
boy’s fz
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By tt
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Krieger,
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back to his job. No one seemed to no-
lice the dirt on his clothing. He said
he was away from the roundhouse only
forty minutes. Later that night when
he returned to his shack he carefully
burned his clothes in a stove.

The heartless killer admitted that he
had been a friend of the dead girl’s
brother, Clyde, but that after the mur-
der he “stopped going around with
him.” However, twice a day through-
out all the eight years he had passed
the Young home and waved a cheery
greeting to the fourteen brothers and
sisters and the parents of the girl
whom he had so cruelly tortured and
killed. .

When he. finished the confession,
Dreamer led the investigators over the
same path he had taken eight years
before. He showed them where he had
picked up the brick, where he had
hidden in wait for his victim, and
where he had burned his bloodstained
clothes.

Willingly, according to Chief Powell,
he signed a confession. Then, before
Alderman William L. Knox, he pleaded
guilty and was held on a charge of
murder.

Chief Powell then had Dreamer’s
estranged wife, Mrs. Mary Caldwell
Dreamer, brought into his office. Mrs.
Dreamer had been a schoolmate of
Thelma’s. Dreamer had married her
five years after he killed her friend.
Chief Powell asked the young woman
if she had ever heard her husband
mention Thelma Young. Mrs. Dreamer
nodded her head.

She said that one night when her
husband was intoxicated he had seized
a friend of hers by the throat and
yelled: “I’ll fix you like I fixed
Thelma.”

As I listened to Chief Powell’s story
I was taking notes, notes that startled
me by what they showed. For this
story of the killing of Thelma Young
was a strange parallel to the murder
of Elizabeth Louden.

First: Dreamer admitted that he had
watched Thelma’s movements for sev-
eral weeks before he finally attacked
her, Elizabeth Louden had told her
friends of “the big, dark man” who
seemed to be watching and following
ler,

SECOND: Both bodies had been rav-
ished.

Third: Both girls were apparently
<illed by blows on the head before
hey could summon aid with their
creams.

Fourth: Dreamer admitted he had
ourned his clothing after the first kill-
ng. We had never found Elizabeth’s
lothes,

Fifth, and most important: On the
east of Thelma were teeth marks just
s deep and clear as the vampire prints
n Elizabeth’s dead cheek.

I showed Chief Powell my notes and
1d him my story.
hoe does Dreamer look like?” I
sked. .

“He’s a giant of a man—weighs more
1an 200 pounds and is a little over six
ret tall,” he answered. “Here's a pic-
ire we took of him just after we
crested him.”

He showed me a photograph. Again
started with surprise. For the big,
ik-complexioned man in the picture
ore an overcoat with a turned-up
lar and a hat with its brim turned
»wn. That was the description Eliza-
sth had given her friends of the man
ho followed her.

I wanted to talk to Dreamer, I
anted to find out where he was on
e cold, snow-filled night of January

I did. He was no longer the nervous
an he was when the Washington
yunty detectives questioned him. He
id an attorney now, Thomas Christ-
an, of Washington. But in the pres-

ence of Allorney Christman and some

of the Washington officials, Dreamer.

answered, or rather parried, the ques-
tions I had to ask.

He just smiled, and his blue eyes
seemed to stare through me as he ad-
mitted that he had worked neither on
January 18 nor January 19. But he
smiled even more broadly when he told
me that he spent January 18 at the
home of Mrs. Eliza Ullon, at No. 236
Park Avenue, Washington, where he
usually ate his meals. ‘He said that he
was at Mrs. Ullon’s until his bedtime,
except for a few minutes when he went
to his shack to feed his dog.

I telephoned District Attorney Park
and he immediately had men check
Dreamer’s time sheet with the railroad.
It was true. He had not been working
on the day Elizabeth Louden disap-
peared. .

I went to see Mrs. Ullon, asked if
Dreamer had been at her home,on Jan-
uary 18,

She shook her head. She could re-
member the night because it was the
night of the big blizzard, the night of
the heaviest snow of the Winter and
she had been “very alarmed” when
Dreamer, who always ate his meals at
her home, failed to show up for dinner.
She said that on that Saturday he ate
breakfast at her house, then did not
come back until Sunday afternoon at
4 o’clock. She said she was so worried
that she asked her husband to go over
to Dreamer’s shack “to see if he was
all right,” but that he did not go be-
cause of the heavy snow.

| FOUND other people who on that

Saturday knew that Mrs. Ullon ‘was
worried because Dreamer had not
come around for his meals. That was
the end of his alibi. Or so I thought.

But I had reckoned without Dreamer
and his attorney. They quickly pre-
pared another story. But again I de-
stroyed it. Calling on people who knew
Dreamer, I visited a highly respected
colored woman named Mrs. Joseph
Wheeler. In her home at No. 160 Blaine
Street she had formerly washed
Dreamer’s clothes. She, too, remem-
bered January 18 because of the snow-
storm. She said that on the following
Sunday morning Dreamer had come
into her house early in the morning
and asked if she had an old pair of
his pants.

“The trousers he had on were dark
and ragged in the rear and torn at the
right knee so you could see his bare
flesh at the knee and he had on a big
dark overcoat,” Mrs. Wheeler said.
She remembered that when she asked
Dreamer where he had torn his clothes
he had told her “at work” the night
before—an obvious lie, since the rec-
ords showed he had not been working.

I made one more attempt to obtain
a confession from Dreamer. Again his
attorney was present. This time I
threw up to him the fact that there
were teeth-marks on Elizabeth Lou-
den’s cheek just as there were on
Thelma Young’s breast. For the first
time since I had been questioning him,
he seemed shaken. His hands trembled
for a moment. He stared at me for a
second, then lowered his eyes. But he
regained his composure, and I decided
it was useless to spend any more time
in Washington. I went back to Car-
negie to try to place him at the scene
of the crime.

I revisited Spiker. He again told me
that he had known Dreamer for a num-
ber of years. He said he met him when
they were both working for the rail-
road. Then he gave me a bit of infor-
mation that seemed to tie Dreamer in-
directly with Elizabeth Louden.

“I used to bunk with John Herleman
over in Walkers Mills,” he said, casu-
ally. “Elizabeth came there a couple
of times while I was there.”

Could Spiker have mentioned Eliza-

beth to Dreamer, perhaps told him of
her intimate relationship with Herle-

,man and thus suggested to the giant

railroader that the pretty fifteen-year-
old girl might be an easy prey? Spiker
had already told me that Dreamer had
asked him about the women in
Walkers Mills.

Going back to the day when Spiker
said he had rescued the waitress, Marie
Forkey, from Dreamer’s clutching
hands in the Steel City Cafe, I asked
Spiker if he was sure just when that
had been.

“T think it was the Saturday before
the big snowstorm,” he answered,

But when I talked to the waitress
herself, Marie Forkey, she wasn’t sure
just when Dreamer choked her. She
said she thought it was eight or ten
days before January +22. That was the
nearest she could come to giving me
the day. .

“Why did he choke you?” I asked.

“Well, he had bought me some shoes
and stockings and he wanted me to go
to Washington with him,” the waitress
answered. “I wouldn’t go. So he
jumped at me and started choking me.”

Then, pushed by my questions, she
admitted Dreamer was also trying to
attack her when Spiker pulled his giant
hands from her throat.

It was an easy matter to place
Dreamer in and about Carnegie, but a
hard task to place him there on the
exact night of the crime. Finally I got
a break.

Mrs. Ethel Sturgeon, who lived near
the Allots in Rennersdale, sent me
word through neighbors that she
would like to see me. I went to her
home. She said that on the night of
Elizabeth’s death she had seen a big,
heavy man in a dark overcoat walking
along the Noblestown Road.

“Would you be able to identify
him?” I asked.

“Not his face,” she answered, “but
his walk.”

On a long chance I took Mrs. Stur-
geon up to Washington. We had her
stand on the steps of the courthouse.
Then we had six men walk up the
street before her. One of those men
was Dreamer. And as I saw him walk,
swinging his powerful frame along,
his arms thrashing at his sides, I real-
ized that he did have a distinctive
walk, a walk that anyone who had ever
noticed him particularly would remem-
ber.

Mrs. Sturgeon picked him out.

Next we put Dreamer’s heavy dark
overcoat on a tall, heavy State Trooper
and had him walk up the street.

“That’s not him,” Mrs. Sturgeon said
with conviction.

We tried the test several other ways.
Mrs. Sturgeon never failed to identify
Dreamer,

I was sure now we had the right
man.

I was even more sure when Detec-
tive Chief Powell told me that shortly
after I had questioned Dreamer for the
last time, a dentist went to the jail to
do some work on a prisoner’s teeth.
Dreamer, apparently driven by the
knowledge that teeth marks on the
cheek of Elizabeth Louden were the
clew to her murderer, asked the den-
tist to pull several teeth that he
claimed were “hurting like hell.” The
dentist told him to wait. When he

“came back a few days later to take the

mold of Dreamer’s teeth for District
Attorney Park, he gave every tooth in
the prisoner’s mouth a careful examin-
ation. Dreamer’s teeth were in perfect
condition.

I was sure that Dreamer’s trick was
the action of a guilty man.

I returned to Pittsburgh with my
complete record on the case to add to
what other detectives had gathered. I
told District Attorney Park that I was
sure the Louden case was solved. He

agreed with me. And the reason he
gave me for his conviction clinched the
case: The mold of Dreamer’s tecth
matched perfectly the mold of the
teeth-marks on Elizabeth Louden’s
cheek.

Dreamer had been indicted by a
Washington County Grand Jury for
murder in the Young case. We did not
want to interfere with the authorities
of that County. So we decided to pre-
pare our case and only demand trial
of Dreamer in the Louden case if he
escaped the electric chair for the mur-
der of little Thelma Young.

Dreamer went on trial on May 14,
charged with Thelma’s murder. He
stood before Judge Howard W. Hughes,
and in his booming voice shouted, “Not
guilty!”

| WAS sitting in the courtroom beside

Washington County District Attorney
James C. Bane when that brilliant
prosecutor arose and made his opening
speech to the jury. He pictured
Dreamer as a giant fiend who had
made a career of attacking women, as
a brute who reveled in his ability to
escape the law. }

Dreamer’s confession was the most
important testimony offered against
him. The court refused to permit any
testimony on the Louden case.

Dreamer’s defense was that he had
been given the third degree and forced
into the confession.

“I told the cops I killed her just to
help them out a little,” Dreamer
shouted. “But I did not do it.”

Each of the men who had been pres-
ent when Dreamer made his confession
took the witness stand and swore that
the. prisoner had not been beaten or
abused.

Dreamer did not seem concerned. I
know that he was sure he would beat
the case. Several days before the trial
he had indicated that it was only the
Allegheny County case that he feared.
I was sure it. was those marks on little
Elizabeth’s cheek—the marks he knew
we could prove had been made by his
own teeth—which drove fear into his
heart. But at his trial he was calm,
often smiling and laughing as he was
being questioned by District Attorney
Bane.

On May 19, the jury retired. It re-
turned in four hours. Samuel Yohe of
Monongahela, foreman, arose and read:
“We find the defendant, Robert
Dreamer, guilty of murder in the first
degree, and we fix the penalty at
death!”

Dreamer glanced calmly into the
faces of the eight men and four women
who had decided that he must give up
his life in payment for the lives he had
taken.

The State Supreme Court upheld
that death penalty on November 24.

The doomed man was taken to the
death house at Rockview Penitentiary,
Bellefonte, Pennsylvania. There were
no friends or relatives who begged to
say a last farewell. He was alone in
those last hours. Our hope that he
would make a last-minute confession
to the Louden murder was unfulfilled,
At five minutes past midnight Febru-
ary 1, 1937, he died in the electric
chair.

Dreamer never confessed to the kill-
ing of Elizabeth Louden. He was never
tried for her death. But I am abso-
lutely positive that the brutal giant
killed the little country girl, stripped
her of her clothing, ravished her and
hurled her small, pathetic body into
the icy waters of the little creek along
the Noblestown Road. I am satisfied.
District Attorney Park is satisfied. We
are sure Elizabeth has been avenged.
Dreamer himself left the positive clue
to his vampire crime—his own teeth-
marks on his victim’s cheek.

For additional pictures with this
story see Pages 43, 45 and 49.

The Next Issue of ACTUAL DETECTIVE STORIES of
Women in Crime Will Be on Sale Wednesday, February 9

AD5

she came home and me and her got to
fussing again and I hit her with my
fist.
“She followed me down the cellar

.with the ice-pick and that is where I

got the crowbar or shaker, and then
me and her goes upstairs and she laid
on the bed and told me I was going
to bed with her and I tells her I
wasn’t. I’m an old man 70 years old.
(He was really 61.) Then I hits her
over the head with the crowbar twice
and she was on the bed at the time.
I was standing by the bed. The first
time I hit her with it she turned over
and then I hit her again. I don’t re-
member hitting her more than twice
with that crowbar, or shaker. Then I
left her and went on downstairs with
the shaker and washed it off in the set
tub with soap and kerosene, and I put
the shaker back on the furnace and
then I went to bed. That’s all I know
about it.”

I questioned McAffee at length to
clarify what he had said. Some of his
answers follow:

“I told her I would kill her last

week when she told me she was going
to marry the fat man who came to the
house. He is the one who carricd her
a to the beach and they stayed all
night.

''] WASHED the blood off the shaker
because I didn’t believe the police
or anyone else would believe I did it.”
McAffee signed this lying confession
in a crude but perfectly legible hand.
When his name and the initials of
Sergeants Shimon, Britton, Christian
and myself were on every page we
signed it at the bottom and locked it
in the safe.

We took McAffee back to the Third
Precinct and Doctors Rosenburg and
Murphy went over him. They could
not find a scratch on him. Every killer
who is trapped through bloodstains
sooner or later asserts that he cut him-
self shaving. I intended that, McAffee
should be able to offer no such ex-
planation.

Doctors Rosenburg and Murphy re-
ported that they found microscopic
bits of human blood under his finger-

nails. This was mixed with kerosene
from his painstaking washing of the
furnace shaker. The drain trap of the
cellar sink yielded other evidence—
discolored fluid which was shown to
be human blood, fragments of bone
and strands of human hair which
matched Mrs, Anderson’s.

MacDonald established that Mrs.
Anderson had not been raped and all
suspicions against other people were
dropped.

United States District Attorney Les-
lie C. Garnett took the McAffee case
promptly to the grand jury, declaring,
however, that the slanderous confes-
sion was packed with malicious lies.
The killer was immediately indicted
and went on trial for his life October
22, two months to -the day after his
crime. gies:

The presiding justice, after detailed
testimony, declared that McAffee’s
confession was perfectly lawful and
placed it before the jury. As defend-
ants invariably do, he repudiated his
statement. Then, bewildered by the
mass of other evidence against him, he

acknowledged that he had said the
things in the confession and categor-
raring admitted that every slander was
a lie.

He had told the story, he explained,
in the hope of diverting sympathy from
the murdered woman. His aim was
both to discredit her and raise a doubt
of his guilt by creating the impression
that the “fat man” might have killed
her upon discovering that she had
yielded to a Negro. As a matter of
fact, he admitted, there was no “fat
man,’

HE Negro said that he knew noth-

ing about the killing, that he was so
drunk he did not know what did hap-
pen and never did explain the blood
on the ice-pick. Unimpressed, the jury
returned speedily a verdict of guilty,
without mercy. This made a death
sentence mandatory. McAffee was re-
manded to the District Jail to await
the electric chair. Justice Jesse C.
Adkins sentenced him to die on Feb-
ruary 7, 1938. He will be allowed an
appeal.

Clew of the Human Vampire (Continued from Page 29)

flicted with a sharp instrument such
as a miner’s pick. Her skull was frac-
tured in five places.

Doctor McMeans was as startled as
I by the deep and clear teeth-marks on
her cheek. We made a wax mold of
them at once. Perhaps they would be
the clew to the killer.

District Attorney Andrew T. Park
assigned a squad of detectives to the
case at once and we began a systematic
check-up of Walkers Mills and Renner-
dale. Busses and automobiles were
stopped. Passengers and pedestrians
along the highways were questioned as
to whether they had been in the vi-
cinity on that stormy night of January
18. We could not locate a person who
would admit having seen anyone on
the Noblestown Road on that night.
The several weeks that had elapsed
since Elizabeth’s disappearance seemed
to have erased from every mind any
pertinent information.

Nor were we able to find a trace of
the girl’s clothes. Her mother said that
besides the clothing listed.in the initial
description, little Elizabeth was wear-
ing a dark-blue skirt with a black cot-
ton blouse trimmed with collar and
cuffs of red gingham.

There was no doubt that Elizabeth
had been seized in front of the Wallace
house as she walked home along the
lonely road. She must have dropped
her umbrella and purse at once. Then
probably her attacker carried her into
one of the outbuildings on the Wallace
place, killing her on the way to silence
her screams, stripped her of her cloth-
ing, ravished her and dumped her body
into the creek. Later he must have
disposed of her clothes.

The Wallaces had not been home all
evening, so they could not have heard
the girl’s screams, I checked on their
whereabouts and discovered that they
had been shopping and visiting in Car-
negie and had not returned home until
about 10 o’clock. However, when I
learned that no one in the whole neigh-
borhood had heard a single scream I
began to believe that the murderer
must have killed his victim as soon as
he seized her.

We found a Carnegie woman, Mrs.
Sophie Stetz, 52, who told us that just
three weeks before Elizabeth disap-
peared she was walking along the No-
blestown Road when a big man
grabbed her, dragged her from the road
and stabbed her. But, she said, when
he saw the lights of an automobile
coming along the road he let her go
and fled. However, she said she knew
she could not identify him.

I decided to find out more about
Elizabeth’s boy friend, John Herleman.
I learned that he had been in Miller’s
Hotel in Walkers Mills until about 7
o’clock the night of Elizabeth’s disap-
pearance and that at 9 o’clock he had
gone to the Louden home to find Eliza-
beth. But Elizabeth must have been
killed at about 7:15 or 7:20 o’clock.

46

Where was Herleman at that time?
Herleman had once been a miner. And
Elizabeth’s head looked as though it
had been struck by a miner’s pick.

W4th several other detectives, I made
a surprise visit to Herleman’s home,
three partly furnished rooms in a
frame tenement in Walkers Mills near
the Louden home. Herleman was in
bed, shaky and nervous from a hang-
over. While other detectives questioned
him concerning his movements on the
night of January 18, I made a careful
search of the squalid quarters, where
he lived with his brother, Carol, also
an unemployed miner.

I made what looked like an impor-
tant discovery. Underneath his bed I
found a tire iron, the blade of which
looked as though it might have been
the instrument used to strike the girl’s
skull, and also a coat and shirt with
large, dark stains that looked like old
bloodstains. I gathered them up to be
sent to the county chemist for tests.

I didn’t know what to think of the
young miner’s story. He told us that
he sat in Miller’s Hotel, the social
gathering place of the men of Walkers
Mills, from 6 until a little after 7
o'clock, drinking. Then one of his
friends, Charlie Zetaslo, got drunk, he
said, and he took him home. He said
he did a little more drinking at Char-
lie’s house, then a few minutes before
9 o’clock set out for Elizabeth’s home.

“When she wasn’t there, I figured
she must have had to work late,” Her-
leman told me. “So I went back to the
hotel and waited for her to telephone
me. I got pretty drunk and as far as
I know was taken home. I don’t re-
member anything until the next
morning.”

I ordered Herleman detained at the
Carnegie Police Station while I set out
to check his story and his reputation.
Everyone seemed to know the tall, thin
young miner. He was called “Shecat.”
I was pretty disappointed when I dis-
covered Elizabeth was not the innocent
little girl I had at first believed her to
be. Everyone in Walkers Mills seemed
to know, once I got them talking, that
Elizabeth had spent several nights in
Herleman’s shabby rooms. Members
of her own family told me that on sev-
eral occasions she had climbed out of
the window of her room after her par-
ents were in bed and had run off to
Herleman. But I was not inclined to
blame the little girl as much as Herle-
man. Mrs. Allot, her employer, had
described her as a hard-working girl,
“little more than a child and at times
just a tomboy who wanted to play and
jump around.” I decided right there
and then that if no more serious charge
could be placed against Herleman, I
was going to have him jailed for con-
tributing to the delinquency of a minor.

Herleman admitted that he had been
intimate with Elizabeth but added:

“I was crazy about that girl. I was
going to marry her as soon as I could

get a job and her family thought she
was old enough. You don’t think I’d
have harmed a hair of her pretty head,
do you?”

But I wanted to know exactly what
he was doing between a. little after 7
o’clock when he said he took his
drunken friend home and 9 o’clock
when he inquired at the Louden home
for Elizabeth. Frank Miller, the owner
of the hotel, said that Herleman was
in the hotel when he, Miller, went to
dinner at 6:30 o’clock but that he
wasn’t there when he returned from
dinner sometime between 7 and 7:30
o’clock. Herleman came back, he said,
a little after 9 o’clock “pretty drunk”
and soon was so drunk that George
Robinson, who lived in a lonely shanty
near by, had to take him home. Miller
insisted that there was nothing
“strange” about Herleman when he
returned to the hotel at 9 o’clock and
that “his clothes weren’t mussed up.”

I next went to see Robinson. Robin-
son said that he was sure Herleman
was in the hotel at 7:20 o’clock and
that when he came back at 10 o’clock
he was very drunk. “He left about
7:20 with Charlie Zetaslo. He was
drunk when he came back. Pretty soon
he was so drunk he couldn’t sit up.
I took him home,” Robinson said.

I had a feeling Robinson wasn’t
telling all he knew, so I had him locked
up in the Carnegie Police Station.

bs gcvons of the detectives now were
working on the theory that Elizabeth
might have been murdered some place
else and her body carted to the creek
in an automobile by her slayer. Per-
haps the fiendish murderer merely had
planted her umbrella and purse beside
the Wallace’s mail-box to cast sus-
picion on someone in Walkers Mills.

Margaret, Elizabeth’s older sister,
gave strength to that theory when fin-
ally she admitted to us that Elizabeth
several times had taken automobile
rides with two young men without
the knowledge of Herleman. She knew
the men only by their first names, Bill
and Jack, and only that they lived in
one of the towns near Walkers Mills.
But it was something to work on, and
District Attorney Park immediately
sent more detectives into the surround-
ing towns to check up on the men who
had known the murdered girl.

But then I found a clew that made
me spike the theory that an automobile
had been used by the killer. Alvin
Schafer, whose home is on the Nobles-
town Road, two doors from the Allots,
told me that on the night of Elizabeth’s
disappearance he was driving along the
road and passed the girl walking along,
swinging her umbrella.

“I didn’t speak to her,” Schafer said,
“because often before I’d seen her
walking home and stopped to ask her
if she didn’t want a lift. But she would
never get in my car, even when it was
bad weather like that night.”

Then, Schafer said, as he drove a
little further towards Walkers Mills,
just beyond the Wallace house the
lights of his car picked out the figure
of a tall, heavy man, bundled in a dark
overcoat. He said it was misty and the
rain was turning to snow so that he
could not see the man’s face. But he
said he was sure that the two figures,
the man and the girl, would have met
approximately in front of the Wallaces’
house.

I had still another break. Elizabeth’s
two best friends, high school girls, fin-
ally talked to me. They were Mary
King, fifteen, and Rita Schoenemann,
sixteen, both of Walkers Mills. They
said that Elizabeth had often told them
she was afraid to walk home because
“a big, dark man” had followed her on
several occasions.

“She said he had his hat pulled down
over his eyes and his overcoat collar
turned up,” Rita told me. “She said
he never talked to her or tried to stop
her but that he just frightened her be-
cause he seemed to be following her.
She said that once he was waiting at
an old coal mine, the McHugh mine,
along the way, and when she passed he
started to walk after her. Then, after a
little way, he just disappeared.”

If this story of the “big, dark man”
were true, then the crime must have
been planned for weeks before the
little girl met her death in the storm.
And most important, if it were true
and the “big, dark man” were the
killer, then the fiend whose teeth
marks were cut into Elizabeth’s cheek
was someone she had never seen
before.

I felt as though I had to start all
over again in the light of this new in-
formation. And I did. I began again
the long hours of questioning everyone
who had known Elizabeth. District
Attorney Park himself came to the lit-
tle town and with his two assistants,
Roy T. Clunk and Jacob F. Kalson, and
three detectives, Lawrence Kline, John
Moses and John Duderstadt, took state-
ments from scores of people. We dis-
covered that Louis Barbour, 41, who
lived near the Loudens, had disap-
peared from his home on the very day
Elizabeth’s body was found. We began
a search for him.

Meanwhile, molds of the teeth of
Herleman and Robinson, still in jail,
were taken for comparison with the
mold of the vampire marks on Eliza-
beth’s cheek.

A rumor that patients from Wood-
ville, the County Home two miles away
where many insane patients are incar-
cerated, were often seen in the woods
and fields around Walkers Mills was
investigated. But a check-up showed
that every patient could be accounted
for on the night of the murder.

I was spending day and night on this
unusual case of a pretty young girl
murdered by a human vampire. Some-
times I had only a few hours’ sleep.

ADS


And there was so little of tangible
value as a reward for my work,

Then we suddenly found two young
men from a near-by town, John Kop-
sick and Mike Garan, who said that on
the night of January 18 they had been
driving in the Noblestown Road when
about 25 feet from the Wallace home
they saw a man they recognized. They
said he was Jesse Pippens of No. 144
Center Street, Camp Hill, near Carne-
gie. So surprised were they to see him
at that lonely spot that they even
yelled at him as they drove by, they
told me.

At once several other detectives and
I arrested Pippens. The surprised man
stuttered out a frightened denial that
ie had been on the Noblestown Road
that night or that any men in a car
had spoken to him. But by the time
we had locked him up in the Carnegie
jail he had recovered from his fright
and seemed unconcerned about the
whole affair. He insisted that as usual
he had spent the Saturday night of
January 18 in the hill district of Pitts-
burgh. We had a mold made of his
teeth as we had of the other men we
had jailed. I was doubly interested in
checking his alibi when I learned that
two years before he had worked at
the McHugh mine, 200 feet from the
spot where Elizabeth’s body was found
and the very place where she had told
her -girl friends that the “big, dark
man” was waiting one night. Could
this man from Camp Hill be Elizabeth’s
brutal slayer? Certainly he was fami-
liar with the neighborhood and we had
two witnesses who insisted that they
had seen him near the scene of the
crime on the fatal night.

Yet the hill-district alibi of Pippens
was finally verified. Furthermore, I
received official word that the molds
of his teeth had no similarity to the
marks on the dead girl’s cheek. Our
case against all the suspects was blow-
ing up fast. In quick succession I re-
ceived official notification that Robin-
son’s teeth could not possibly have
made the vampire marks on the dead
girl and that neither could John Herle-
man’s teeth. Then tests made by
County Chemist F. C. Buckmaster
proved that the stains on Herleman’s
clothes were not bloodstains at all.

But as our three prisoners were
freed, detectives brought in a middle-
aged man with straggling hair and
popping eyes whom they had found
wandering in a field several miles from
the creek where Elizabeth’s body was
discovered. He said he was Joe Uzar,
a WPA workman.

"MY WIFE she is drowned. I look
for her,” he said, over and over,
When detectives found Mrs. Uzar in
her home, at No. 209 Fifth Avenue,
Carnegie, they immediately jailed the
strange man. They had nothing on him
so far, but they were taking no chances
of losing some clew to this horrible
and baffling crime.

That same day another group of de-
tectives learned that Mrs. Mary Wilk,
63, of No. 415 Jane Street, Carnegie,
had charged William Wolosnowicz, 28,
of Camp Hill, with aggravated assault
and battery for attempting to attack
her, then pushing her in a creek. They
immediately picked up Wolosnowicz
and took him to the District Attorney’s
Office in Pittsburgh for questioning.
Then they returned to Walkers Mills
with a picture of him and vainly tried
to find someone who had seen him in
the district at the time of Elizabeth’s
disappearance. It was no use. They
finally had to give up all hope of con-
necting him with the: Louden case.
Strange, pop-eyed John Uzar was also
released, free of all suspicion.

Meanwhile, discouraged and tired, I
was again interviewing men and
women in the community. I was mak-
ing a round of the beer parlors in Car-
negie when I heard two men discussing
with loud roars of laughter a girl
around town referred to as “Marie.”
The men were telling and re-telling
the story of how Marie was so good-
looking that a customer in the beer
garden where she worked had tried to
attack her and when she resisted, al-
most choked her to death.

ADS

I tried to draw them out. They told
me that Marie used to work in the
Steel City Cafe in Carnegie, but had
been discharged recently. They didn’t
know where she was. However, they
suggested that “a guy named Spiker
who works for the railroad might know
where she is. He said he was in the
cafe when Marie got herself choked.”

On a slim hope of learning something
—I was pretty discouraged now—-I lo-
cated a John E. Spiker who lived in the
First Avenue Hotel, Carnegie. He was
a fireman on the Pennsylvania Rail-
road, working out of Carnegie, and he
didn’t seem to mind in the least being
questioned by a detective. Sure, he
was there when the customer choked
Marie. :

“Her name’s Marie Forkey and she
lives in Bridgeville,” he told me. ot

railroad workman named
Dreamer?

He looked at me quizzically, as
though I were pulling a joke. When I
didn’t smile he said: “Dreamer—Bob
Dreamer—sure. We have him. He’s
safe in jail.”

In jail! Things were happening too
fast. Had the District Attorney tele-
phoned ahead for them to bring
Dreamer in? Or had these Washington
County detectives fallen upon a clew
themselves that, had made them arrest
Dreamer for the death of Elizabeth
Louden? I must have shown my amaze-
ment in my face, for Chief Powell
grinned and said: “What’s wrong? We
have a confession from him, It means
an open-and-shut case.”

I could not stop myself from snap-
ping out: “What do you mean arresting

yard

When officials feared that Elizabeth Louden had been murdered, posses were
formed to find her body. Here is one huddled together from the bitter cold

was a guy named Dreamer who
grabbed her. He had her pretty near
choked to death when I jumped at
him and pulled him away. He’s a big
guy. Hurt her throat pretty bad.”

“Is this man Dreamer pretty fond of
girls?” I asked as casually as I could.

“Yeah, he’s always asking about
where he can find some women. Even
had the nerve to ask me if there were
any he could have around my home
town.”

“You mean in Carnegie?” I hadn’t
much hope that this was going to. lead
anywhere near Elizabeth Louden and
her icy death-bed.

“No.” Spiker shook his head. “I was
born and raised in a little joint a
couple of miles from here, Walkers
Mills.”

Walkers Mills! The name that had
etched itself on my mind in the last
few weeks of desperate work! I know
that I jumped forward in my chair.

“And what did you tell this Dreamer
about the women in Walkers Mills?” I
asked, holding my breath for the
answer

“Told him there was pretty good
Pickings.” Spiker*grinned and winked.

I wanted to see this Dreamer. Ac-
cording to Spiker he lived alone in the
college town of Washington, Pennsyl-
vania, the home of Washington and
Jefferson College, about 20 miles from
Carnegie, and worked in the Scully
yards of the Pennsylvania Railroad five
miles from Carnegie. I also wanted
Spiker watched.

I telephoned District Attorney Park.
He assigned several detectives to tag
Spiker, and I left at once for Washing-
ton. That was on March 11, almost
two months after Elizabeth’s disap-
pearance.

I went directly to the office of the
chief of Washington County detectives,
John Powell. 1 asked if he knew of a

this guy without telling us? I’ve been
pd on the Louden case night and
ay ”

It was the Chief’s turn to look
amazed.

“Louden? What are you talking
about? We’ve arrested Dreamer for at-
tacking and killing a good-looking
young waitress named Thelma Young
eight years ago.”

We just looked at each other for a
long minute. Then the Chiet told me
his story.

He. said that more than a month ago
an hysterical young woman had come
to him and told him that she had been
attacked in a lonely field in an outlying
section of town. Then a few days
later another young woman came in
with exactly the same story—except
that she said she had recognized her
attacker as she broke away from his
grasp and that he had fired three shots
at her.

At first she refused to give the man’s
name, claiming through her sobs that
“If he is arrested and I testify against
him, he’ll kill me if he gets off.” But
the Chief assured her she would have
protection. She named Robert Dreamer,
37, a railroad yard workman, who lived
alone in a shack at No. 152 Blaine
Street, Washington.

Dreamer was arrested by Constable
Clark Miller, State Trooper John E.
Gettier and Detective Chief Powell as
he stepped off a train in Washington
on the night of January 21 on his way
home from his place of employment
near Carnegie. His arrest was kept
quiet.

Dreamer — denied throughout long
questioning that he had attacked either
of the young women. Then suddenly
Constable Miller had an inspiration.
He remembered that eight years before,
in the very field where the two women
had been attacked, Thelma Young, 21,

an attractive young waitress, had be
ravished and murdered. He called t
other investigators into another roc
and told them of his hunch,

They all remembered the case th
had horrified the college town. On t
night of December 29, 1927, Theln
had been on her way home from o
of the Washington and Jefferson Cc
lege training-houses, where she wait:
on .table. She was walking along
lonely path through a field when s)
was attacked. Apparently her attack
struck her on the head at once wi’
some kind of sharp instrument to s
lence her screams, then ravished he
Her twisted body was discovered ne:
morning. Beside it lay a button fro
a man’s coat. Her head was crushe.
and there were teeth-marks on hi
breast.

SEVERAL suspects were arrested bi
no case was ever made out again:
anyone.
_ The investigators decided to try 1
see if there was any possible connec
tion between Dreamer and the deat
of pretty Thelma. But they went abou
their questioning carefully. Takin
turns, they shot questions at Dreame
hour after hour, careful never to men
tion the Young case. Question afte
question they put to the frightene:
man, who slowly but surely seemed t:
be weakening his grip on himself, Fi
nally on Saturday, five days after hi
arrest, Chief Powell held before hin
the coat button that had been foun
beside Thelma’s ravished and lifeles
body. :

“Did you ever see this?” he asked

“Sure,” Dreamer answered. “It’s of
a raincoat I used to have.”

“Where did you lose it?” Chief Pow-
ell pushed the question at him.

“I guess the night of the murder,’
Dreamer answered calmly.

“What murder?” the Chief snapped
back.

“The night I killed Thelma Young,”
Dreamer answered, his glance dropping
before the bright, clear eyes of his
questioner. $ :

The investigators hadn’t imagined
that it would be so easy. The man
before them had wilted. He was will-
ing to talk, to tell them the whole story.

He confessed that he had _ killed
Thelma Young eight long years before.
He said he had noticed the pretty girl
one night when he was walking around
town during his lunch hour, a late
lunch hour. He saw her several times
and followed her. Finally he made it
a habit to leave the railroad round-
house, where he worked every night,
at his lunch hour and hurry to the field
through which he knew Thelma passed
nightly on her way home. There, Jurk-
ing in the shadows, behind bushes and
trees, he would watch the slim, pretty
girl scurrying along. He timed her
movements. Then on the night of De-
cember 29, he acted, he said.

He said he made his plans carefully
to avoid any chance of being discov-
ered. He left the roundhouse ten min-
utes early. On his way to the field he
picked up a piece of brick. Then as
Thelma, humming happily, tripped
along the darkest section of the path,
he pounced upon her. She struck at
him, at first so terrified that she could
not scream.

“Then she started to yell,” Dreamer
told the investigators, “but before she
got any noise out I hit her on the head
with the brick. She dropped. She
didn’t make a sound.”

Then, his hands and face twitching
as he told the horrible story, he said that
he ravished the dying and unconscious
girl. Afterwards, to make sure she was
dead, he hit her again with the brick.
Then he discovered there was blood
on his clothing. He scooped up a hand-
ful of dirt and wiped it on the blood-
spots. Just as he was preparing to
leave, he saw two men coming down
the path. He hid and waited until they
had passed. , :

The police remembered those two
men, for they had picked them up as
suspects during the investigation of
the case.

Dreamer said that he then hurried

47

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Detective Ritz,
left, and coroner's
deputies carried
, Elizabeth Loudea's
body from its bed
in a frozen stream

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She was thrown against the tele-
phone pole, with the hand of the
attacker over her mouth. He started
to hit her head against the pole when
Dinsmore and Miller and Sergeant
Hanna closed in on him. He went
down, a writhing bundle of fury when
Constable Miller’s fist connected with
his jaw.

Dinsmore reached down, grabbed
the man’s shoulder and pulled him to
his feet.

“Bob Dreamer!”
claimed..

And Robert Dreamer, a well-known
engineer who worked in the round-
house of the. Pennsylvania Railroad
yards, looked at Dinsmore, whom he
had know for years, and said nothing,

At headquarters Dreamer still re-
fused to talk. Dinsmore looked at

Dinsmore’ ex-

him as if he still couldn’t believe his”

eyes. Robert Dreamer was known as
something of a genius in Washington,
a man with a brilliant mind and the
last man in the world anybody would
have suspected of being a rapist.

“How long has this been going on,
Dreamer?” Dinsmore asked.

Dreamer shrugged and said noth-
ing, and while Dinsmore was ques-
tioning him, Constable Miller and
Sergeant Hanna were learning things
about Dreamer that hadn’t been
known before. With his arrest, the
women in the Kalorama district were
willing to talk. A number of them
named him as their ‘assailant. And
other girls, who had willingly gone
out with Dreamer, found that he was
an oversexed brute, bestial in his
advances.

He had been married, but his wife
had ‘left him, and when Miller and
Hanna talked to her she admitted
readily that she had to leave him on
the advice of her doctor or her health
would have been ruined.

When this information was relayed
to Dinsmore, he ordered Dreamer
locked up dnd charged with rape and
criminal assaults on women. Then
Dinsmore gave his attention to the
button. Nine years had passed, and
any overcoat Dreamer might have
had then was probably long since
discarded. Dinsmore questioned Ruth
Dreamer, the former wife of the
attacker.

“Yes, Robert did have a brown coat
about the time Thelma Young was
murdered,” she said. “I remember
now that it disappeared very sud-
denly. I asked him what had hap-

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Dreamer wet his lips and his face
got whiter and he continued to stare
‘at the brown button and the stain of
blood in the center of it.

“It’s funny how a killer will make
one mistake,” Dinsmore continued.
“He burns a coat and then is certain
that all traces of his crime have dis-
appeared. After you killed Thelma
Young, you were sure that the burn-

} ing of your brown coat would save

you. But you overlooked that button,
the little telltale clue you left be-
hind.”

The eyes of the pale Dreamer never
left the button.

“We have other evidence against
you now, Robert,” Dinsmore went on.
“You were working at the round-
house that night. It wasn’t far from
the alley. Your insane sex cravings
overwhelmed you, and you went out
looking for a girl. Thelma Young
came along. You attacked her, and
you had to kill her. You got blood
on your brown overcoat and you de-
stroyed it, but you noticed a button
was missing. ou searched franti-

you ever since.”

Dreamer gulped as he said weakly:
“Wait a minute. Can I have a drink of
water?”

A drink of water was brought him
and his eyes were still on the button.

“Tll make a statement of my own
free will,” he said hoarsely. “I know
that anything I say may be used
against me. It doesn’t matter. You
have that button. How I searched
for it, day and night! It made my life
hell for months after that murder. I
burned my overcoat, but that didn’t
pon me any.” He laughed bitterly.
“Well, I guess I won’t need an over-
coat to keep warm in that Hot Seat,

cally for that button. It has haunted:

will I? I never stopped thinking
about that button, and here it is—
right in front of me, with the blood-
stain on it, I’ve been living a life of
fear—of terror. Sometimes I thought
I'd get away with it all in the end, but
all I’ve been doing, really, has been
taking a walk to the electric chair for
the past ten years.”

He continued in a low, lifeless tone.
He said he hadn’t known Thelma
Young. On the murder night’ he left
the roundhouse and walked down the
alley and waited, and after a while
Thelma Young came along. He didn’t
intend to kill her. He thought she was
unconscious from the battering. of
her head on the telephone post. She
came to when he started to attack
her, and she struggled. He hit her with
the brick, and she stopped struggling,
and then he attacked her. When he
had finished, he knew she was dead.

He destroyed his overcoat two days

‘later, burning the garage down by a

mistake, as he did. He was so fright-
ened at this murder that for several
years he was afraid to attack any more
women. But so many years had passed

that he felt free, several months be-~

fore, to start eT Hy them again.

On May 15th, 1936, he was brought
to trial. He repudiated his confession,
but the jury didn’t believe his story
and found him guilty of murder in the
first degree and the penalty of death
was fixed by the’verdict.

On January Ist, 1937, Robert
Dreamer, the man everybody believed
was a genius, walked to the death
chair, and a few minutes later was
pronounced dead. .

The brown overcoat button is now
a souvenir at Police Headquarters in
Washington, Pennsylvania, and no-
body cracks any jokes about it.

DETECTIVE

here and she staggered to Doctor

Rendleman’s office while the man
made his escape.”

“This is a big building and it would
take him some time to get down,”
Detective Forthman said. “The men
after him should trap him before he
gets out.”

But the man wasn’t trapped. The
14 detectives blocked every exit and
searched the building from top to bot-
tom. No trace of him was found.
Offices were searched without result.

This search was not half over when
a phone call to Detective Mathews in
Doctor Rendleman’s office reported
that Theresa Cope died as she was
being taken to the operating room. The
date was June 15th, 1938.

HIEF OF DETECTIVES John Car-

roll arrived to take charge of the
investigation, and with him came the
photographers, the fingerprint men,
and the technicians, who took charge
of the hallway and the two doctors’
offices.
Felix, the taxi driver who had warned
Patrolman Lehr, in an office down-
stairs, questioning him. To Chief
Carroll and Detective Mathews, the

case didn’t appear difficult. Felix had

Chief Carroll had Edward -

LOVE MADE ME

Continued from page 57

seen the man and should be able to
identify him. Also, the killer had been
in Felix’s taxi and fingerprints were
possible.

But Chief Carroll and Detective
Mathews didn’t talk to Felix long be-
fore they realized that this lead wasn’t
going to get them far. Felix was
vague about his passenger, claimed he
never got a good look at him.

“You know how it is,” he said to
the two officers. “A’ fare gets in the
back of your cab and you don’t bother
to look around. You don’t care much
what the fare looks like. I picks this
chap up at Tenth and Franklin and
he don’t look any different than any
other fare to me,-so I let him get in
and I sit facing the wheel while he
gives me my instructions, which was
to take him to the Eighth Street en-
trance to the Arcade Building. I keep
hearing him talking to himself, but
you get so many nuts that you take
them as they come.”

“Did you get a look at him?” Chief
Carroll asked. “You warned Lehr that
he had a gun, and you saw that, and
how could you see all that and not
see the.man?”

“That’s not so complicated,” Felix
answered. “When the chap gets out,

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this would have ‘scared the attacker
away. “The only way to catch him
is to lay a trap,” Dinsmore insisted.
“If we show our hand, we won't get
anything.”

e laying of the trap, however,

‘had to be postponed for some weeks.

On the night of January 29th, 1936,
Mrs. Carl Botteonger was “walking
home through the Kalorama’ district.
It was 10 oclock, and she was walking
hurriedly, looking to the right and
left. She had heard the rumors about
this Strange attacker, but she had con-
fidence in her ability to take care of
herself.

She got to the alley where Thelma
Young had met death. From behind
a telephone post came a _ lunging,
lurching form. His shoulders struck

. Mrs. Botteonger in the waist and

knocked her back. Before she could
scream, a powerful hand was closed
over her mouth and she was being
backed to the telephone post. In one
frantic, desperate twist of her body,
she broke the grip of the attacker and
slipped away from him.

ree steps away he caught her
and threw her to the ground, but in
that moment a car came down the
rie gh the headlight falling on the

t where the attack was taking
p ace. The mysterious attacker leaped

ack and disappeared in the night.
Mrs. Botteonger struggled to her feet,
staggered out in the road, waving for
the car to stop. It did, and she got in
it and was taken her home.

She had no reluctance whatever in
reporting the attack to the police.
She wasn’t able to describe the at-
tacker, except that he was powerful
and seemed fairly well-dressed. At
no time had she been able to get a
view of his face.

“That experience,” Dinsmore said
to Miller, ‘may scare the man away.
So we'll wait a few weeks before lay-
ing our trap.”

O* THE night of February 16th the
trap was set for the attacker. Re-
ports from the neighborhood indi-
cated that he was at work again.
Dinsmore and Miller were hidden in
a garage that was at the opening of
the alley between Oregon Street and
Baltimore Avenue. In another build-
ing, further down the alley, Sergeant
William Hanna of the State Police

_crouched, ready for quick action.

It was 11*.o’clock. A covering of
snow lay. over the ground, giving the
night almost the brightness of day.
Down Oregon Street a young woman
walked slowly. She was pretty in
her coat, and looked very desirable.
But her right hand was in the pocket
of the fur coat, clutching a small
automatic. She was Lucile Dayton, a
well known policewoman from Pitis-
burgh, who had come to Washington
at the request of Dinsmore to aid in
_ trapping the unknown rapist.

Dinsmore and Miller saw her com-
ing, and their bodies tensed. They
had_seen no signs of any man in the
alley or on the street, yet they sensed
that somewhere in the murky white
darkness the rapist lurked.

Then it came, so,swiftly and with
such diabolical fury that it caught
both Dinsmore and Miller, and also
Sergeant Hanna, off guard. A streak
of cyery had come out from behind

a telep hone post, arms closing around
the slim body of Lucile Dayton so
quickly that she never had a chance
to yank out the automatic.

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sel

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!

N THE city of Washington, in the south-
western corner of Pennsylvania, the mur-
der of Thelma Young became known as

“the case that will never end.” For many months it did

appear that the rape-slaying of the pretty high school

girl might remain forever in the “open” file.

' More than eight years went by, and additional hor-

rors were perpetrated, before the police tracked down

BY LEE TRAVIS the hulking killer. In the end, the echined came through
an overcoat button and a handprint in the mud.

The mystery which was to become an epic of per-
sistent detective work began on the fourth night after
Christmas—Thursday, December 29, 1927. '

Up to the moment when she encountered her as-
Sailant it was easy to trace Thelma Young’s movements
that evening, for at 17 the girl possessed the attention-
drawing full-blown beauty of early maturity, She had
wavy brown hair, wide-spaced brown eyes and provoca-
tive lips. Sheer hose enhanced her slim ankles and deli-
cately tapered legs, and her young breasts strained
against the tightness of her dress.

At 7 o'clock she left the frame dwelling on Altamont
Street where she lived with her parents, Mr, and Mrs.
Sylvester Young, and several brothers and sisters,

_ . Half an hour later she met a friend outside a skating
rink in the downtown section and borrowed money for
a movie. She entered the Regent Theater alone—the
ticket-taker smiled at her and said hello—and when the
film:was over she left alone. ; :
At about 10 an admirer saw her outside a restaurant
on Main Street. A little later, other youths greeted her
on West Chestnut Street and on Rouple Avenue—the:
route she would normally take walking home.
Aside from her murderer, apparently the last person

Shrouded in the swirling mist, the
hulking terror lay in wait for a girl—any girl—and tien Thelma
pits Young took her short-cut to death

al


3
?
$

sylvania and Baltimore & Ohio Rail-
roads, Chief Dinsmore and the other
investigators did not overlook the pos-
sibility that a tramp had been the slay-
er, They raided hobo jungles and
brought in a score of vagrants for
questioning. Here again, however,
the results were nil.

~ The officers next concentrated on
men who were in the habit of using
the short-cut from Oregan Avenue,
but days of questioning throughout
the neighborhood failed to turn up a
single individual who might be con-
sidered a suspect. i

Clyde Young, a brother of the vic-
tim and a war veteran, enlisted the
aid of his American Legion buddies in
trying to get a lead on the killer.

Three times in the ten days follow-
ing the slaying the authorities heard
reports of a man being seen at the spot
Where the body was found. He was
described as.a husky character, furtive
in his actions, and with his overcoat
collar turned up and. his hatbrim
pulled down over his eyes. This man
was sighted at dusk or after nightfall.
When he saw anyone approaching he
turned and ran.

“He seemed to be looking for
something,” one informant declared.

“Could be the killer returning to the
scene of his crime,” Chief Dinsmore
commented, “to look for a telltale bit
of evidence, such as the overcoat but-
ton.” a

A watch was established over the
old picket fence near the short-cut,
but the suspect failed to pay another
visit.

As the days went by, public clam-
or for solution of the shocking murder
continued unabated, with rewards
for arrest and conviction of the slayer
rising to more than $2,000.

Responding to this pressure,
Dinsmore and Prosecutor Burchinal
sought the assistance of Ora Slater of
Cincinnati, one of the country’s best-
known private detectives.

Slater worked closely with the lo-
cal authorities for more than a week,
but failed to turn up anything new in
the mystery.

“All you can do,” the private eye
told Dinsmore and Burchinal before
he left Washington, “is to play a game
of watchful waiting. It may take
months, even years, but if you’re alert

~ you will eventually get the break you

need. Perhaps this murdering rapist
may attempt another outrage and give
himself away.” '

A second homicide rocked the city
the latter part of January. Was this a
fulfillment of Slater’s prediction? Al-
though there was no sex motivation,
it seemed likely that the killer might
be the same man who had attacked
Thelma Young.

The victim in the new case was Is-
rael Slotsky, a factory timekeeper. He
was waylaid at night shortly after
leaving his fiancee’s home and beaten
to death with an iron bar. The mur-
derer took his wallet and some jewel-

Verderber, Dinsmore and Consta-
ble Miller put every available man to
work on the Slotsky murder, but for a
time it seemed they were going to
draw as many blanks as in the Thel-
ma Young probe.

Then, in mid February, a domestic

. quarrel provided them with a suspect.

A young woman named Mrs. Ray
Wormsley reported that her 20-year-
old husband, from whom she was es-
tranged, had burglarized a number of
homes in recent weeks.

On the night Slotsky was slain, the
investigators learned, Wormsley had
been seen in a poolroom flashing a
large roll of bills.

TEXAS “SNAFU

Taken into custody, the suspect had
an alibi covering his actions every
minute of the night of the murder. Un-
der investigation it failed to hold up,
however, and when subjected to re-
lentless questioning he finally con-
fessed that he beat Slotsky to death
with an iron bar,

“You killed Thelma Young, too,
didn’t you, Wormsley?” Dinsmore
accused.

“No, no—you can’t pin that on
me!” the terrified prisoner protested.
“That was before my wife split up
with me. I was home that night.”

Mrs. Wormsley told the investiga-
tors that, to the best of her recollec-
tion, this was true. But still the police
were not entirely convinced.

Wormsley went to trial for the
Slotsky murder, was found guilty,
and sentenced to die. A few months
later Chief Dinsmore quizzed him in
his cell at the state penitentiary at
Rockview minutes before he went to
the electric chair.

“If you are guilty of the Thelma
Young killing, this is your last chance
to clear your conscience,” the detec-
tive told him.”

“So help me, I didn’t murder that
girl,” the condemned man answered.
“If I did, I'd tell the truth, I have noth-
ing to lose now.”

Wormsley went to his death, and
the last doubt was cleared from
Dinsmore’s mind—the murderer of
Thelma Young was still at large!

On the eighth anniversary of Thel-
ma Young’s death—December 29,
1935—a true solution of the case
seemed more hopeless than ever.

On January 1, 1936, a new district
attorney, James C. Bane, took office
in Washington County, and Michael
Powell became chief of county detec-
tives. The big regret Burchinal and
Dinsmore had upon leaving their
posts was that they had been unable

- to solve the Thelma Young mystery

during their terms. _

In the first weeks of the new year,
both local authorities and the state po-
lice received reports of several cases
of attempted rape. The complaints
were filed in Carnegie, a Pittsburgh
suburb twenty-five miles northeast of
Washington, as well as in Washing-
ton itself. :

The young women who fortunate-
ly escaped molestation unanimously
described their would-be assailant as
a big, powerful man with ‘staring

(continued on page 58)


and Lieut. H.C. Joliffe of the city
force; State Police Sgt. William
Jones; Constable Clark Miller of
North Franklin township, and Coro-
nerG.W. Ramsey.

It was evident immediately that
Thelma Young had been the victim of
a sex maniac. The dead girl was al-
most naked. Her dress had been
ripped down the front and was
spread beneath her. Her brassiere and
panties had been torn to ribbons. She
wore only one stocking. A little dis-
tance from the body was a pump, the
mate to the shoe Grisslow had seen in
the path.

Beside the battered head was a
blood-stained rock—obviously the
murder weapon. There were marks
of a struggle in the soft earth, and in
the mud, a foot or so from the corpse
was the imprint of a large hand.

“The hand of the killer,” Chief
Dinsmore muttered. “We’ll make a
plaster cast of that.”

Leaning down, he saw .something
else—a button apparently ripped from
a man’s’ overcoat, which still had a
shred of light brown material at-
tached to it. The detective carefully
put it in an envelope and dropped it in
his pocket.

After going over the ground care-
fully the investigators were able to re-
construct the crime in detail.

“It’s possible the killer knew Thel-
ma Young, knew that she would be
coming through the short-cut last
night,” said Chief Verderber. “On the
other hand, he might have been wait-
ing for just any girl to come along...”

Dinsmore nodded. “I think that’s
more likely. He hid behind the tele-

Robert Dreamer left a pair of
damaging clues behind his
otherwise perfect crimes.

phone pole until Thelma came within
reach, then leaped out at her. He
knocked her head against the pole un-
til she was unconscious, then dragged
her through the briars.”

“But she regained her senses,”
Lieutenant Joliffe pointed out. "The
marks in the ground near the fence
prove that. She put up a fight, and in
doing so tore off the overcoat button.”

Chief Dinsmore expressed the
sentiments of all the officers when he
said, “In all my years on the force this
is the most bestial crime I have ever
witnessed in Washington County.
There’s only one punishment that can
fit it—and that’s the electric chair!”

Police photographers shot pictures
of the murder scene from every angle
and then Dr. Ramsey superintended
removal of the body to the morgue for
an autopsy.

Dinsmore and Verderber and their
men, with the co-operation of the
State police, launched a many-sided
investigation. They began with a
roundup of all suspected sex crimi-
nals, questioned friends and relatives
of the dead girl, sought to trace her
movements in the hours which imme-
diately proceeded her death.

The grief-stricken parents told of
Thelma’s leaving the house at 7
o’clock the previous evening.

“I’m sure she didn’t intend to meet
anyone,” the father said. “Thelma

would rather go to the movies alone _

than out on a date. Of course she had
boyfriends but they were only casual
acquaintances—she’d never had a
“‘steady’.”

“Can you think of anyone who had
pestered her for dates repeatedly and
been turned down, possibly an older
man?” Chief Verderber asked.

Sylvester Young shook his head.
“I’m sure there was no one like that.
If there had been, Thelma would
have told us. She was very frank
with us.”

The victim’s married sister, Mrs.
Henry Miller, and a score of other rel-
atives and friends bore out these
statements.

Mrs. Miller told of meeting Thelma
and talking with her briefly on a
downtown. street corner the previous
evening before the younger girl went
to the movie theater. Others who had
seen her—including the ticket-taker at
the theater—enabled the investigators
to piece together her actions.

Definite proof that Thelma was
alone as she went toward her home

District Attorney James Bane
saw a familiar pattern that led
to the capture of the fiend.

was provided by the railway crossing
watchman, Tony Greco. He said it
was between 10 and 10:30 when she
spoke to him, —

“Did you see anyone lurking about
the streets—anyone acting suspicious-
ly who walked up Oregan Avenue a
short time before Thelma did?”
Dinsmore asked. “Not a soul. There
weren’t many people out last night.
Those that went over my crossing I
recognized as men and women who
live around here.”

Greco named several persons he
had seen. They were all respected cit-
izens, and when they were ques-
tioned they readily proved themselves
above suspicion.

At this stage of the investigation
Dr. Ramsey made his autospy report.

“As near as I can determine,” he
said, “the girl died between 10:30
and 11:00. Causes of death were mul-

tiple fractures of the skull and loss of .
’ blood. There were bruises around her

throat. As we suspected, she was a
victim of sexual assault.”

Thelma Young had been strong and
healthy, according to the coroner.
Therefore, it seemed likely that her
assailant was a big, powerful man—
one who could overwhelm her before

she was able to scream—and not a.

mere stripling she may have known
in high school.

The roundup of suspected sex per-
verts in Washington County was
completed over the weekend. But the
result was a complete disappointment
as all were able to establish sound al-
ibis for the murder night.

Since the scene of the crime was
not far from the tracks of both Penn-

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Triangle Squared With Murder

(continued from page 57) “3

scared stiff to go back straight through. He got there early
the next day and drove over to their

an explained that place around 6 a.m.” It took a while,

pent many years as a. but they talked him into giving him-

ar, and the devastating self up to the police.

| haunted him. “He agreed to this,” a San Antonio

an and her husband detective said. “He said he was going

) going back to San An- to get his clothes out of his car, take a

ctive close to the case shower and wait for me.” But he

je must have driven didn’t.

The thought of once again being
penned up behind bars apparently be-
came unbearable for the Vietnam war
hero. When the detective arrived at
4:45 a.m. he found Nguyen slumped
over a the steering wheel of his grey
Toyota Cressida. His brains were
| splattered all over the windshield.
The gun he allegedly used to kill
Duong and her suitor was clasped

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When informed of the tragedy ,
Nguyen’s San Antonio friend tearful-
ly said, “He told me that this was the
hardest year of his life, losing his
business and his girl. Losing someone
you love, he said, is even harder then
being in a prison camp in North Viet-
nam.”

A woman and the sea have often
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Both can be beautiful and deadly,
and things can happen to a man at sea
as well as a man in love that are in-
explicable.

He can vanish, go insane, change
in ways that can never happen in a
safe harbor.

The Sex Fiend —
Of The Fog

(continued from page 9)

eyes, about 40 years of age.

Chief Powell, Miller, the state po-
lice and Prosecutor Bane agreed the
nocturnal prowler sounded like the
slayer of Thelma Young. But efforts
to trap him went unrewarded.

The terror striking in parts of
Washington and Allegheny Counties
was climaxed on January 18 by the
disappearance of Elizabeth Louden, a
17-year-old domestic worker. That
night she left the residence where she
was employed and started walking
along a lonely road to her home in the
hamlet of Walkers Mills.

The fate of the pretty, dark-haired
girl was revealed when her nude

(continued on next page)

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body was found beside a brook near h

y
the road. She had been ravished and 4

beaten to death.

Three days later a report of still an- u
other attempted «assault was given to
the Carnegie police by a waitress em-
ployed in one of the restaurants in the
suburb’s business section. Her story
was similar to all the rest—the big
man leaping out’at her as ‘she walked
along a darkened street, her screams,
her escape. But it varied in one tre-
mendously important respect. She had | |
recognized her assailant! |

“I know him because I’ve served | |
him a lot of times in the restaurant,”
she declared. “His name is Robert |,
Dreamer, and he commutes here from |
Washington every day to work in The |,
Pennsy Railroad shops.”

The Carnegie authorities immedi-
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and the Washington detectives. It
was agreed that an undercover check
should be made on the suspect prior to
an arrest.

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dividends. Dreamer, 38 years old,
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The Sex Fiend Of The Fog

4. . (continued from page 59)

overcoat. An attempt obviously had
been made to burn it, they recalled,
one button was missing! They had
thrown the coat away.

Further, in December, 1927,
Dreamer was employed not in Carne-
gie but in Washington—in the Penn-
sylvania Railroad roundhouse located
just a few short blocks from the mur-
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Witnesses placed Dreamer at a
point only a few miles from Walkers
Mills the night Elizabeth Louden dis-
appeared. Was he, then, guilty of one
murder—or of two?

Having collected their ammunition,
Chief Powell, Constable Miller,
members of the state police and other
officers closed in on Robert Dreamer
when he returned from Carnegie to
Washington the evening of January
22, 1936. He was taken for safe-
keeping to the troopers’ barracks out-
side the city.

With Miller, Powell, Prosecutor
Bane, the state police, Former Chief
Dinsmore and other key officers par-
ticipating, Dreamer was questioned
at intervals for the next three days.

At first he was led to believe he
was suspected only of the attempted
assaults. The Carnegie waitress con-
fronted him, as did other women

(continued on next page)

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who had been terrorized. All of the
were positive in their identificatio
of the prisoner.

But then the quizzing veered to t
eight-year-old murder of Thel
Young. The officers matched his ha
with the plaster cast of the print fou
at the crime scene. It was a perf
fit.

Caught off-guard, Dreamer a
mitted having a vivid memory of t
night of December 29, 1927. It w
quite warm, he said, and there was
fog. He admitted, too, that he’
owned a light brown overcoat at th
time.

“You have a very good memory
Dreamer,” Dinsmore told him
“Now, suppose you try your recollec
tion on this...” The retired detectiv
opened his fist and held the brow
overcoat button under the suspect’
startled gaze. “Remember where yo
lost it? And when?”

“That’s what I missed!” he gasped.
“That’s what I went back looking f
so many times!”

The trick completely breached his
reserve. In the next half-hour h
poured out a full confession to th
murder of Thelma Young. The cri
had taken place exactly as the inves
tigators reconstructed it. One questio
he cleared up was whether or not h
had known Thelma. He hadn’t. H
was waiting at the Oregon Avenu
short-cut that night for a girl—an
girl—to come along.

Dreamer stubbornly denied that h
had killed Elizabeth Louden as wel
as Thelma.

“We think you did murder her, bu

we haven’t got as much proof as in.

the other case,” one of the office
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6 BISTOR: OF THE RABER MURDER.

a Justice of the Peace, in East Hanover
township, and made oath that he had seen
his father-in-law, Charles Drews, and
Frank Stichler drown old Raber in the
manner before detailed.

In pursuance of this information
Drews, Stichler, Brandt, Hummel. Wise
and Zechman were arrested on the 4th of
February and brought before ‘Squire
Murray in Lebanon, who committed them
to prison.

The demeanor ot these men while in
the “Squires office was characterized with
much levity, showing that they did not
realize the gravity of the charge that was
hanging over them.

On the 12th of February, 1879, a hear-
ing under a writ of habeas corpus was
given Wise, Hummel, Brandt and Zech-
man before Judge Henderson, which re-
sulted in their being remanded back into
the custody of the sheriff to await trial at
court,

These men having been jointly indicted
for the murder of Raber, elected to be
tried together at the April term of the
Court of Oyerand Terminer, 1879,and were
all found guilty of murder in the first de-
gree, mainly upon the evidence of Joseph
F, Peters, and Lenah Peters, his wife and
daughter of Charles Drews. The trial
was perhaps the most exciting that was
ever held in the county and absorbed
nearly two weeks’ time. While it was in
progress, the court room was dail y
thronged with a crowd of eager listeners
- ready to drink in every word as it fell from
the lips of the witnesses. The excitement
reached its climax on the evening of the
day when the jury rendered its verdict:
at which time the eagerness of the people

was so vreat that the tipstaves could with
diffculty keep the surging mass of hu-
manity outside of the bar. A motion
was at once made for a new trial in the
ease of each of the condemned. but.
after argument, the application was re-
fused to all except George Zechman. to
whom a new trial was granted on the
4th of August, 1879

On Monday afternoon, August 18th, all
the prisoners with the exception of Zech-
man, who was vranted a new trial, and
Wise, who made a confession to the Com-
monwealth’s counsel on the Saturday pre-
vious, were sentenced to death by Judge

Hewilepeon, The count in pronouncing
the sentence made use of the following
impressive language :

‘We have patiently and calinly consid-
ered and reconsidered everything that has
been advanced in your defense. Your
cause has been most zealously guarded
by most able counsel.

** Your asservations of innocence do not
impress our mind with the conviction of
their truth. You are adjudged guilty.
You have been convicted ~f murder in the
first degree—its punishment is death. It
is wisdom to punish crime. It has divine
sanction. Everything worth living for
demands it. We pity the criminal—our
hearts may well up with sympathy to-
ward each one of you in this hour of your
deep distress, but the crime calls for the
judgment of the law.

“We would be glad, even now, to pass
by the sad duty in the welcome light that
your innocence might be discovered. We
stop not to harrow your feelings by ecall-
ing back to your memory—if it can ever
be effaced—the cruel and wicked murder
of Joseph Raber. The awful consequences
which flow from this crime may startle
but must not deter us in the performance
of our duty.

**We commend you to the mercy of
Him who will hear the ery of the penitent
and cleanse from the guilt of all unright-
eousness,

“Indulge no vain hope tu escape from
the penalty of the law. It is better to
trust in the Lord than to put confidence
in man.

~The sentence of the law. 2s pronounced
by the Court, is that you, [naming each
prisoner, ] be taken to the prison whence
you came, and thence to the place of exe-
cution within the jail yard, and that you
there be hanged by the neck until you are
dead, and may God have merey on your
soul.”

About this time Charles Drews and
Frank Stichler also made _ confessions
which are given verbatim in another part
of this book.

The death warrants of Drews, Stichler,
Brandtand Hummel were issued Novem.
ber 2d, 18 79, by Gov. H. M. Hoyt, to
Sherif! Deininger, Sheriff of Lebanon
county at the time, and were afterwards
separately read to the prisoners.

HIST ORY UF THE RABER 4 MURDER.

Zechman was tried at the Saveber
term of the Court of Oyer and Terminer,
Henry F. Wise being one of the principal
witnesses. Zechman was acquitted by
the jury.

Drews and Stiehler, the men who actu-
ally committed the deed, expiated their
crime on the gallows in the jail vard, at
Lebanon, on the 14th day of November,
1879.

Brandt and Hummel took out a writ of
error to the Supreme Court, but the as-
signments of error were not sustained.

Sentence of death was passed on Wise
on the 2nd of December, 1879.

On the 16th day of March, his case was =

taken before the Board of Pardons, by

~~

his counsel, Col. A. Frank Seltzer, who
argued the case fora commutation of the
death penalty to imprisonment for life,
on the ground that Wise was used as a
witness by the Commonwealth in the
trial of George Zechman. The Board,
however, refused to interfere.

The case of Brandt and Hummel was
taken before the Board of Pardons, by
their counsel, Col. J. P. 8. Gobin, on the
20th day of April, 1880, but, as in the

case of Wise, acommutation was refused.

The death warrants of Wise, Hummel
and Brandt were issued by the Governor,
on the 19th of March, fixing the 13th of
May, 1880, as the time for the execution.

ee


Short Sketches of the Lives of the Six Men.

CHARLES DREWS.

The life of Charles Drews was in many
respects an eventful one. He was a na-
tive of the historic land of Scheswig-
Holstein, the cradle of the Anglo Saxon
race, and was born sometime during the
year 1880. Cruel fate frowned upon him

at the very instant of his birth. He was:

born of humble parentage; his father be-
ing a butcher by trade, he shared, in
early life, all the hardships and privations
incident to the struggles of the humble
tradesfolk of European countries, with
pinching poverty. Charles, in accordance
with the educational regulations of his
country, attended school for a period of
eight years—extending from the time
when he was six years of age until he at-
tained the age of fourteen, Very carly
in life he discovered a remarkable fond-
ness for reading, and many a pleasant
evening did he spend with his most inti-
mate friends enjoying the delights of in-
tellectual recreation. He was also keenly
live to the exquisite pleasures of music,

and, being possessed of a good musical

ear and a fine voice, he was chos2n chor-

ister in the church to which he belonged,

When he was but sixteen years of
age. He served faithfully in that ca-

pacity for four years, when home

duties rendered his continued connection

with the choir absolutely impossible—his

father requiring his assistance at the trade

of butchering. From this time on up to

the time of the breaking out of the Con- |
tinental war of 1848, he followed the
monotonous, hum-drum life of a butcher.
Then he enlisted in the German army,

e®
fluence and tempting opportunities, and
determined to try his fortune in the New
World. Accordingly, he set sail from
Hamburg, and arrived atthe port of New
York on the fourth day of May, 1852.
Hlis stay in the latter place was limited
to five days, after the expiration of which

he entered the service of a farmer on
Long Island. After working there for
several months he set out on a long
tramp through New Jersey and Penn-
sylvania, finally arriving at Harrisburg.
Here he secured employment on the
railroad which was then being construet-

ed between Harrisburg and Middletown:
but being defrauded out of his just dues
through the contractor’s dishonesty, he
left after having worked forty-four days.
Shortly, after we find him at Lebanon,
moneyless, travel-stained and thoroughly
disheartened. Here a change took place
in his fortunes. He obtained work of
various kinds, and with his earnings he
managed to provide suitable clothing and
other necessaries for himself. He work-

ed one year in: Coleman’s furnace, at

North Lebanon; and from thence he
went to Pinegrove, Schuylkill county.
where he also worked in a furnace for
five years. Here he met his fate in the
person of Kreiser. He married
this woman and moved to East Hanover
township, Lebaron county, where he
worked for the farmers of the neighbor-
hood, earning his bread by the sweat of
honest toil.

When the Civil war broke out in this
country, he enlisted in the Ninety-third
regiment, Pennsylvania Volunteers. He

fighting against Danish oppression for
two years. At the close of the war he
returned home and once more betook
himself to the peaceful pursuit of butch-
ering; but camp influences had so wrought
upon his imagination and filled his mind
with romantie notions, that this plodding
style of obtaining a livelihood no longer |
pleased his fancy. He had heard gvlow-
ing accounts of America, this land of af. |

took an active part in all the great battles
fought by the Army of the Potomac, and
proved himself a valiant soldier on ail
occasions,

In 1862 he was raised to the dignity of
color-bearer of the regiment, and as sueh
distinguished himself as one of the
bravest of the brave. When his comrades
wavered, he stood firm in the thickest of
the fray, like the invincible Ajax of old,

)

vantages in life and certaily none to pio-
mote his moral instincts. He very rarely
attended church or Sabbath school, but
spent the Lord’s Day in hunting, fishing
or other amusements. Here it may be
said, he sowed his wild oats that sprang
up and choked the good seed of mater-
nal piety. Verily, here he sowed to the
wind and afterwards reaped the whirl-

facing grim death with a steadiness of
countenance that. betokened him a stran-
ger to fear, He made many firm friends
while connected with the army, and, dur-
ing his confinement in jail, he received
frequent expressions of friendiy sym-
pathy from these. He escaped the Rebel |
bullets, unhurt, and was honoratly dis- |
charged from service in July, 1865.
Kreiser was blessed | wind.

|

|

|

Wis union with
with eleven children. His wife is still
living, but three of the childrenare dead.
Personally, Charles Drews was tall, mus-
cular and of commanding presence. His
‘ace wore a somewhat sinister and mys-
aoe express on. and his heaith was } more-wood in a day than en, One
perfect. he himself claiming that he was | man. However this may be, tc s cor
never sick a day in his life. But if there | tain that he was a powerful wa an
was any peculiarity more characteristic | his skill with the ax was vem a “
of the man than anything else, it was | He never learned a trade, and Ww oa ne
the natural baldness of his head. which | was not “about his father’s business, ° he
was almost totally destitute of hair from | worked for the farmers. 7
his youth. His ordinary weight was | Stichler was not a bad man a lone :
about 180 pounds, and his age, at the time on the contrary. he was naval “ a
of his death, fifty-nine years. He bore | tempered, well-intentioned fellow : ut
his continement with philosophic indifter- | he fell into bad company and evil assoc’
ence, contemplating the appreach of | ates ruined him. Brandt proved his “
death unperturbed. | eenius : and from the time munen he le

The last scene of his remarkabie career | his father’s house to take up his abode at
was enacted in the jail yard at Lebanon, | Brandt's, dates the beginning of his
when the executioner’s act swung him | downward course to the murderer's grave.
over the confines of time into the fathom- | Brandt's house, it seems, Was a regular

This took place | den of thieves. where the boldest of bad
men were in the habit of congregating to
coneoct their nefarious plans. Stichler’s
| yeckless boldness soon made him a_favo-

While yet a boy, his father initiated
him into the mysteries of charcoal burn-
ing, in which he soon became quite profi-
cient. In fact, it is said that when he was
barely ten years of age, he could chop

less abyss of eternity.

on the 14th of November, 1879.
: sant 0 oe 0

FRANK STICHLER

tirst beheld the light of day on the 16th rite among these men, and his stay at

ot October, 1859. His parents were of | Brandt's house is marked with innumer-

: i ime of | ; ts C6 itted in the country
German extraction and, at the time of hble thefts committe

Frank’s birth, lived at Indiantown Gap. , round about.

His father was a chareoal burner by oc- | The plan ot the gang to which he ve
eupation, whose whole lite was but one | longed was te steal poultry, ieee
continuous struggle to keep the wolf | ever they could get during the week anc
from the door. Thus the young man
formed an early acquaiitance with "self

enjoy a general feast on Sunday.
Isita wonder that amid such associations
he speedily ripened for the gallows, and
Indiantown Gap is truly a benizhted re- | soon turned jute the desperate boy-demon
eion: but still, it is not altogether with- | that he afterwards appears, when he re-
ent 8 Frank. how- | markedto Drews ‘that he could kill any
man for money without the least com-

denial and hardship.

out educational facilities.
ever, attended school very irregularly, !
having no taste for books antl ne desire to | punction.” -

fis school days were frittered | Physically. Frank Stichler was of mie-
Te ‘studied not: but | dium hight. stoat. but well proportioned
| and vigorous, His full. round face was
| lit up with deep-set blue eyes, shaded by
| massive brows. which met over his nose.

learn.
wiway in idleness.
bis cunningness in playing practical jokes
And artful tricks on bis mates and the

master. was unequaled, He bad tew ad-


10 HISTORY OF THE baceerared MURDER,

His appearance was not altogether un-

prepossessing. He was never married,
being but 20 years of age at the time of
his death.
mournful interest over his melancholy
fate. He never arrived at the full glory
of manhood. His life's light was extin-
guished in eternal night before it had
attained to full-orbed, meridian splendor,

Verily the orderings of divine Providence
are mysterious ! Had Frank Stichler been
reared under more favorable circumstan-
ces, it is quite probable that he would
have been a good citizen and an orna-
ment to society ; but it was not to be
thus. |

During his confinement in the Lebanon
jail his demeanor was cheerfal and pleas-
ant, never betraying to a casual bserver
to symptoms of the terrible torture that
must have tormented his brains. He
was frequently visited by his aged father
and mother to whom he seemed warmly
attached; andas the time drew nigh when
his earthly career would end, he spent
many hours in singing hymns and pray-
ing to that Supreme Being to whom alone
he could look for forgiveness and mercy.

He suffered the penalty of murder with
his companion in erime, on the 14th of
November, 1879.

His mortal remains were removed to
Indiantown Gap, and there interred with
solemn ceremony amid the sobs and tears
of his sorrow-stricken triends and vela-
tives,

ets
GEORGE ZECHMAN,

Although the subject of this sketch was
acquitted at a second trial, still a short
und snecinet statement of his adventures
in life may be of some interest to the
curious-minded citizens ef this and ad-
JONNY counties,

He was born in Berks county, on the
15th day of Angust, 1849. and was con-
sequently 30 years of ave at the time of .
arrest. His parents were of German or |
igin, and moved to Fishing Creek Valley, |
When he was a mere striping of al bey,
Between the aves Of eight and seventeen
years he attended school, and took ad-
vantage of the opportunities thus afford-
ed him. showing himself rather at bright :
scholaras his future actions so well proved,
For, although he may have been imypli- |

cated i in 1 the hellish crime of whieh this
pamphlet is the subject,.be had shrewd-
ness enough to conceal his connections

His e , : . .
extreme youth sheds a | With a conspiracy sufficiently to satisfy

a jury of twelve men that he was inno-
cent of the crime charged against him.

, After leaving school he engaged in the

| boating business, and was always re-

| garded as a steady, sober and safe man.

Afterwards he was engaged in the coal-

_ mining business, working at different

times atthe Lower Auberry, Upper Rauch

Creek, Williamstown and Shatter mines.

| and was subsequently engaged in team-

| ing in the Fishing Creek Valley. He has

| still another brother and nine sisters liv-

' ing, the sisters all being married. and

| Was apparently of a long-lived ancestry,

| a8 his grandparents as weil as his father
and mother are stil alive. Je was mar-
ried in the twe snty-second year of his ave
and this union was blessed with six chil-
| dren, the oldest being about nine years
of ave. Zeehman, Wise and Hummel
| hive been associates trom childhood up,
and no doubt passed many a pleasant
how with eaeh ether in the mountain
fastnesses of this connty, roamiue at
| willand seeking such sports as their mde.

; Wild fancy might dietate: for, like the
deserted islander who has dweli in the
imagery of all of us, “they were mon-
arch of all they survey d. their right there
was none to dispnte.”” And so they to~
gether grew up. fishing, hunting and
Otherwise amusing themselves nntil they
were thrown upon the chilling charities
of a cold world and were obliged to seek

/ and seenre subsistence for the families
that were gathering about them, Zech-
Maw was not aeqnuainted with Brandt
until about two years prior to his arrest -
which was the first arrest of his life- time.
With Drews and Stichler be was pot ac-
quaibted until after their e omine tovether
im the eounty jail where of
common bond was formed Mnone them,
and all joined together for the pnrpose
of securing their

|

CORSE 4a

freedom.  Zeehman
Was not of a quarrelsome disposition and
lived at peace with his neighbors and
those with whem he came in contact, and
although. perhaps. not pressed as hard
for the necessaries of life as some of his
associates, there is no doubt but that he
was atany time veady to engage in plans

HISTORY OF THE RABER MURDER. . - 11

that rand enrich his eoners. He was
rather ot a prepossessing personal ap-
pearance, with blue eyes, dark hair and
moustache, and weighed about 160
pounds, Although incarcerated with the
rest of his fellows and no doubt feeling
the graveness of the charge brought
against him, he bore it all with philo-
sophie indifference, hoping to the last
that deliverance would come. A new
trial was granted him at the August term
and at this trial he was finally and for-
éver acquitted, when he emerged from
the prison walls a free mar, and was per-
mitted to go home to his sorrow-stricken
wife and little children. As he passed
through the corridor of the jail he cast a
long, lingering, languishing look upon
the poor fellows left behind, praying no
doubt in his inmost soul that they too
might be speedily delivered. Zechman
is at present living with his family in the

mountains, leading such a life as one best

ean under similar circumstances. The
light and tire have, however, disappeared
trom his eyes, and upon his face he wears
—aan abject and despondent look.
a ae
JOSIAH HUMMEL,
whose life forms the basis of this brief
sketch, was born on the 19th of March,
1849. His parents were descendants * of
Teutonic pioneers who came to this coun-
try «a century ago. His father resided
about seven miles from the spot where
old Joe Raber breathed his last, and was
a farmer by occupation. A school house
being hard by, Josiah began to -attend
school at a. very early age, continuing his
studies nearly every winter until 1872.
He was naturally dull-witted and indis-
: but notwithstanding, he
common

posed to study
managed to obtain an ordinary
school education. When he vot to be a
young man, he found much favor in the
eves of the Highland belles and Lowland
maidens of that wildly romantie section.
He did a good deal of old-time
sparking, and whereve

alight, he venerally made sparks fly.

Many a pleasant leve-episode could he
reeall during his confinement. that served
to speed the lingering howrs of loneliness,
of twenty-one Josiah work-
ed for his father on the farm and proved
himself an able hand. always performing

Up to the ave

country
r he happened to

his part quietly and carefully. After-
wards he worked for some time at Brook-
side, Calmaray and Lincoln collieriesand
in what were known as Houser’s mines.
He occasionally indulged in hunting such
game as the neighboring mountains af-
torded, but made ‘no habit of it. His
father belonged to the R2formed church;
Sut Josiah himself was a member of Ja-
eob’s Lutheran church, about three miles
this side of Pinegrove, and was contirmed
in the faith by the Rev. Elias Henry, of
that place However, he was only a
Christian in name, and lke so many,
many others, he lived as though there
were no God to fear and reverence and
no hell to escape, swearing and lying
during the week and roaming the moun-
tains on Sunday. He seldom saw the in-
side of a church ; and if he ever attended
(livine service, it was for the purpose of
having a glance at his many fair lady
friends. In this respect he but acted out
his natural inclinations, and was no worse
than the generality of young men of that
seimi-civilized region. Man is a creature
of circumstances ; and who will say, that
if this mis-guided youth had been brought
up ina different community, under more
favorable influences, he would not have
realized the grand possibilities within him
to the glory of his Maker and his own
everlasting happiness? Or who will say
that the omnipotent Ruler of the universe
—the Judge of all the world, who sitteth
enthroned above this changing realm of
time and space, will not be infinitely mer-
ciful to this poor soul on the great day of
judgement? You may be thankful whose
youth was not passed amid such demor-
alizing associations,

Josiali Hummel’s acquaintance with
the world was very limited. He knew
naught of the refined follies of society,

| but seemed perfectly satisfied with the
rude style of life that characterized the

' neighborhood in which he lived. He was
never away from heme to any extent, ex-
cept three vears ago, when he went to
Worcester, Ohio, in quest of work: but
| not succeeding. he returned to the moun-
' tains. He cared naught for the allure-
/ anents of urban corruption: but as the

finale proves,
| the farmer suited him, he was not with-
out some appreciation of the more rapid

while the plodding life of

2 ete

ee

ed


12 _HISFORY OF THE RABER MURDER

methods of acquiring wealth. Like many
an other man who may perhaps escape
detection, he took kindly to the plan of
enriching himself at another’s expense,
letting the end justify the means. The
case of old Joe Raber proved a strong
inducement, and yielding to temptation
in an evil hour, it proved his ruin. He
Seems to have possessed very little pos-
itiveness of character.

He had a quiet temperament and inof-
fensive disposition. He never picked up
a quarrel ; and yet he enjoyed quite a
pugilistic reputation in his neighborhood.
His awkwardness in a fight was really
amusing ; but then he never failed to
whip his man. When he related these
facts in his gloomy prison cell only a short
time before the day fixed for his execn-
tion, his blue eyes sparkled and his face
glowed with genuine pleasure begotien
of these delightful recollections.

He was never married, his affections
being widely scattered because of the
great many fair ones that smiled lovinely
upon him. He was unwilling to make so
many frown just for the sake of having
one smile with more tender warmth.
Short'y before his arrest, however, his
love had begun to assume definiteness of
shape ; and it is but natural to suppose
that the desire to provide for a prospec-
tive family, may have helped not a little
to induce him to enter into the plot to
kill old Joe Raber.

He knew Brandt from the time that
the latter kept the Cold Spring House,
but intimately only for the last four
years. His aequaintancve with Wise and
Zechman dates back 11 or 12 years, He
knew Stichler for about two years, and

Charles Drews only for about three
months before the tragedy. [fummel

was the tallest of the “blue eyed six,”
measuring nearly six feet in height, and
his frame, though somewhat loose-jointed
was muscular and sinewy. His face al-
ways wore a kindly expression. and his
general demeanor betokened 2 philan-
thropie character,

His parents are both living and fre-
quently visited hiin during his eontine-
ment, proving that parental love is as
enduring as life itself’,

HTumimel was sentenced to be hung on ;
the 14th oft November, with Drews and

|

Stichler, ‘but the nétion. of the Supreme
Court extended his life. He was hung
with Wise and Brandt on the 13th of
May, 1880.

aE -¢

ISRAEL BRANDT,
who has always been looked upon as une
Machiavilian of the “blue- eyed six’
the one who planned the murder of Raber,
and who saw to it that it was was pro-
perly executed,—was born in North Leb-
anon township, Lebanon county, Pa., on
the 27th day of May, 1834. He was one
of a family of six born to Henry Brandt,
who, by trade, is a carpenter, and tilled
a small section of land in: the above
named township, and, later im life, filled
the possition of Steward of the Lebanon
county alms house.

Israel, who was rather a precocious
child, early in life was indentured to a
Mr. ———, with whom he learned the
tailoring business, and soon thereafter
started in trade for himself, and with
his tact and business qualifications soon
succeeded in building up a thrivine busi-

ness, i
. . . o> §
His education was similar to that gen-
erally gained in the country schools.

He had for his sehool comrades men who
were not born with silver spoons in their
mouths, but, barring all this, won for
themselves position in the ministry and
reputation in the law, so that had he ap-
plied his talents with the same assiduity
as they, and eschewed bad company and
the flowing bowl, with the fine mind
whieh he possessed. there ig no telling
what position of usefulness he might
have attained. He is of tine physique.
crafty in nature, but moreover a “hale
fellow well met,” ready at all times to do
a favor for any one.

Tiring of his occupation and being in-
fected with the Westen fever, he left for
Madison county, Indiana. in 1850. where,
for about two years, he led a wreckless
life. After having fully satiated his
restless spirit with the novelty of a tron.
tier life. he longingly set his eyes toward
the rising sunand siched for home. With
such an indomitable spirit. to think was
to aet. and soon, like MeGregor, he could
say, ‘omy feet are on MY Native heath.’
Coming East in 1857. he loeated at
where he

Myersto yn,

heeame — ae-

iio "~~ others

_ HISTORY OF THE RABER MURDER.

“quainted with the daughter of ‘Squire
Hoffa, married her and settled down to a
hum-drum life; nothing transpiring in
his life worthy of note, excepting that he
was looked upon as a good fighter, and
when in his cups exceedingly quarrel-
some ; so much so that he was shunned
even by his friends when in this condi-
tion. ;

It is related of him that on one oc-
casion a man, who was the fear of the
whole neighborhoed and defied every-
body, one day came across Brandt, whom
he bullied for the purpose of raising a
fight. With Brandt this was not nec-
essary as he sooner fought than ate a
meal,and bull-dog tenacity being one of his

». chief characteristics, accordingly a ‘‘set
“ to’’ was had, and the strugele for
the supremacy was bitterly contested and
hung in the balance, but finally Brandt
gained upon his opponent who was soon
driven to the wall,
mercy. Brandt.
the man’s cries,

interfered and
The prostrate body

up. and the discovery
had all but killed his man.

was then

While living in Jackson township he be-
came a member of the militia that existed
previous to the war of the Rebellion, and
by his soldiery qualities soon rose to the
position of Corporal in ‘Captain Donges’
company. but the company having voted
not to enter the war as an organization,
Brandt soon thereafter moved to Lebanon,
where he took charge of what in those
the Washington
House. but leading too dissipated a life,
and the public having very little conti-
he soon again tired of
the business, and in his mind's eye saw
across the Alleghenies,on the broad prai-
ries ot the West, his Eldorado, and once
more pointed his feet Westward, halting
in Stephenson county, Illinois, where he
During this
arm dreams, and he never

days was known as

dence in him.

stayed for eight months.
visit to the West he lost his left

in a threshing machine, which probably,
prompted

more than anything — else.

him tu rettan to Lebanon county again.
was the turning point in his life, | oon
as from this time forward he grew fromm | object in vie

|

Here

bad to worse.

13

“a. 1864-5 he. took possension a the
Cold Spring hotel, where he was thrown
into company of the worst description 5
the persons who generally congregared
there and made it a rendezvous, being
of the highest order of criminals of all
classes.

At this place, in 1867, his wife died of
consumption, and thus wifeless and his

where he cried for
however, regardless of
drove home well his
blows and continued the pummeling until
took him. off.
picked
made that he

| children motherless, he grew indifferent
to the status in social matters, and one
by one the friends of his youth deserted
him and turned upon him the cold shoul-

' der instead of the warm friendship of
| school-boy days. Yearly he fell lower
| in the estimation of those who knew him
| until finally his own kith and kin refused
him countenance. He had for his friends

| instead, the hardy mountaineers, and
as he was unable to work in his maimed
condition he soon proved the old maxim
that ‘‘the devil finds work for idle hands
to do.” The Cold Spring hotel, situated
in the Stony Creek Valley, fully 18 miles
from Lebanon, being too isolated a place
for him he moved with his family to East

| Hanover township, where he kept a hos-
| tlery for manand beast, which was known
as the Half-way House. Here he mar-
ried the sister of his deceased wife, who
kept house for him and who throughout

| his subsequent troubles, with true wo-
| manly love, clung to him witha devotion

worthy of a better man.

At this time St. Joseph's

| springing into reputation, and Brandt, at
all times having an eye to business, soon
had himself domiciled there, and for
awhile did a fair business. He saw its
natural advantages as a watering place,
it without doubt being one of the finest
and coldest springs in this county. It was
| his cherished hope that if he could erect
"a suitable building at this place, with an
outlay of, say from $8,000 to 10,000, he
would be enabled to grow rapidly rich
and build up a place similar to that of
Cresson Springs and Minnequa and other
This was one of his visionary
visited Lebanon
without referring to this project which
was so close to his heart. To execute it
was his evening and morning prayer, and

Spring was

places.

It may probably be that
he planned the murder of old Joe Raber

he concentrated all his faculties with this.


a eT ee eT ee ee en ee ET ai we oe

by District Attorney Ainey and A. He. McCollum, Esq., while T. J. Davies, Esq.,
looked after the interst of the defendant, tt had been decided that the two
defendants, Eagan and Shew, should be tried separately, and Shew's case came
the week following. Mr. Davies moved that the array of jurors be quashed,
owing, again, to irregularity of drawing the jury, care of the wheel, etc.
Motion overruled by Judge Searle, and the drawing of the jury was begun bout
8 pem. Mr. Eagan sat coolly beside his counsel, nicely dressed, and, appar=
antly an unconscious looker=-on. The work of drawing the jury was begun
and continued till noon next day, When twelve good men and true had been
s@lected as follows: Hiram P. Ball, Bridgewater; D. Albert Brown, Montrose;
Williston Chamberlain, Gibson; John I. Wallace, Dimock; Albert Hilborn,
Sus@nehanne (foreman) } Ge Je Lewis, Thomson; Vim. Dixon, Harford; P. K. "Ben-
son, Jackson; Clarence E/ Shay, New Milford; Andrew Fancher, Bridgewater;
Warren Tingley, Montrose; and Pred Sisson éreat Bend. The evidence intro-
duced included "the events of the trip of she and Eagan from Susquehanna,
where Eagan and Susie Graham was living (Shew also lived there), to Rush,
walking from Susquehanna to Montrose, stopping at Heart Lake Creamery on
the way for milk to drink, staying one night at E. Griffis' boarding house
(sleeping in the barn because the house was full of teachers, Institute
Week), then hext ay going on down through Fairdale to Rush, waiting for
the nightfall, that they might attack odd Mr. Pepper, for the purpose of
getting the money which it was supposed he and his step-mother kept; they
saw Mr. Pepper go to his barn, and commence husking corn, attakced hin
there, beat him with an old whiffletree so that he died the next day with-
out regaining consciousnesse They were scared away by a passing team, and
walked to Skinner's £ddy, where they got oh L. V. Train and went to ‘
Waverly and from there on an Erie train to Susquehanna. Among the witnesses
wworn upon the part of the Commonwealth, and who brought out evidence substan-

- tially covering the above and other pointe were Cliftton Hickok, Geo. H. Har-
vey, Dr. Warner Asa Hickock, Dr. Grauger, A. Je Terry, Russell "Gibbs, Geo.
Gallahan, Daniel Graham, Selden Munger (who produced 2 statement which he
stated was given to him’ as a confession by Eagan, in which the trip as
above autlined was detailed and stated that Shew aid the ‘striking, the
confession being strenuously objected to by Mr. Davies, but was finally ad-
mitted.) Other witneeses were Wing Westbrook, John Catoc, W. A. Brows
Jonathan Rosche, Hubbard Payne, Elisha Griffis, Harrison McKeeby, David Roe ;
Wellington Harvey, Grace Snell, Mrs. Lotey Carey¥ Madge McKeeby, Wm. Rhine-
vault, Lizzie Harvey, Jacob Rosenkrantz, Reed Snow, ml Powers
Mrse Powers, GeO. Granger, Oliver Wilher, Ge Le Pickett, Mrs. Wilber, Frances
Ammerman, Deputy Sheriff Leonard and Chief McMahon.

"THE DEFENSE ,

"The defense opened Thursday afternoon, Nov. 17. Eagan's bright looking young
wife, whom he married in Delaware Cos, Ns Ye, a short time before his arrest
and several weeks after his trip to Rush, sat by his side, Mr. Davies. did
not make a formal opening but began oo 1line his witnesses at once, many of
them testifying as to the previous good character of the defendaht at
Windsor, Binghamton, Susquehanna y etc. They included C. D. Lyon, Ne. C.
Lyon, Porter Hatch, Jerry Wayman, Harry Morse, Chas. Hotchkiss, Jesse Wall,
Geo. "Sherer Je He ‘Doolittle, John Stoneback, Nathaniel Benson and others.
At 4 p.m. fhe jury retired to their room vatter the charge by Judge Searle.
Albert “Hiliporn of Oakland, was, foreman, That evening they took a ballott
simply as to ‘eedTty? or tnot guilty! and all voted guilty. No attempt was
made that night to decide on the degree, Next morning, after breakfast,
they balloted as to degree, resulting: For first degree murder, 8; for
second degree murder 4, Arter some general talk, it was proposed by a

. Great Bend juror that the pray over the matter, which was done, Afterwards

another ballot was taken showing 11 to 1 in favor of first degree, but the

| one juror explained he had voted that way through error in makkhpg his
ballot and another was taken, resulting in murder in the first degree &t

10 o ‘clock,

N"SHEW'S TRIAL.
"The trial of Skew topk place the following week, and being without counsel
Judge Searle assigned G. P. Little. and Be 0. Camp to look after his interests.

ows


his power to hang me or he could get me off pretty easy; that he thought I
was not guilty of the crime, etc, that he would cut me a statement and I

was to follow him as nearly as possible. I told him I would see a lawyer
first, but he said if I did he could not help me and I was sure to hang unless
I aia’ as he wished. He told me to say nothing about it before the others and
trust him and he would save mee I did as he wished and instead of helpmhng
me as he said he would, he did all in his power to hang me. I have no ill
will toward him but I wish people to know these facts. I wish to say that
the Sheriff and his family: have heen very kind to me and have made it as
pleasant as possible for me since I have been here. I also wish to thank
Mr, Davis for his untiring efforts to save my life and had Mr. W. D. Be.
Ainey been a man of his word I would have been saved. This as a correct
statement of which I would like people to know, While I have done wrong and
have confessed it, but it is through misplaced confidence in Mr. Ainey that
I shall be hung fa it ecaures May God have mercy on us all. March 18,
1899 #8? James 5, Eagan. I wish to state at this time that the above state-
ment is true and is the only statement I have made since the one made to

Mr. Attney in the jail on the twenty-fourth day of January, 1898. Jan, 7,
1900 /s/ James je Eagan. Witnesses: J. F. Harrington, E. L. White. Be C.
Sherman,"

' MSHEW'S CONFESSION.

"Montrose, Pae, Monday Jan. 8th, 1900. To whom it may conéerm: At the
time of my trial I said-on the witness stand that the District Attorney made
me promises and threats and I say now that Fitch Leonard took me from the
jail down to Ainey's office. It was on the 23rc day of January, 1898, he
(Fitch) took me into a front room facing the street and there was Ainey all
alone, We had a little talk-about my arrest and the journey from Kerryville
to Montrose. About this time Fitch said 'Well, the Sheriff will:be wonder-
ing where I am as there is lots of work in the ’ of fice that I ought to be
eooe(the next line is mmitted.)..eeNral, meaning me, can get along all right.
Fitch said that he would not be gone more than 10 or 15 minutes and while He
was gone Ainey and I had the talk that I dold on the witness stand. He said
that he did not believe that I had much to do with the killing of Jackson
Pepper, and that he would help me'out of it all right as he had the power

to do it, and he almost cried and said he was so sorry for me.. He wanted me
to write’ all about it.and sign my name to it and I would not do it. He said
that if I would do that he weuld give me a written. paper showing that what

I said was to help-me and that he would help me also, and I said 'No$' Then
he got mad and acted like a wild man and he said that ZK he had evidence
enough to hang me, but said he did not want to for he knew that I was not
puilty and asked me again to make a statement, and I said that I would not,
Then he shook his fist under my nose and called me a murderer, thief, liar
and lots of other names, and said that he would. hang me before 48 hours, and
I said that I didn't believe it. That made him still madder and he cot. a
whiffle tree and shook it under my nose and told me that I killed the old
man and called me more names. He said I had no friends any longer and he
would help me, and I was so scared that I did not know what to do and [I

said I would make a statement and he went into another pea and when he came
back Miss Wmmerman, his wife, and brother was with him, Then he sent his
brother somewhere And a Mr. Prazier came with him and he tried to take my
picture, Ainey asked me quéstions and Miss Ammerman wrote them down. I did
not write any and don't remember what I said I was so afraid. Then Mr. Mun-
ger came in and asked me a loh of questions and he wrote them down hims@lf
and I signed my name to the paper. And conferning the statement I made to
Ainey, saying that Eagan was the wne that done all the striking and was all
to blame, I want to correct that for I consider that I am just as guilty as
Eagan is and Susie Graham is more guilty than cither of us. Although I

have done very wrong and I have been wronged I sgy now that I had no thought
of doing the old man any harm, and when I saw in the paper that he was dead,
I didn't believe it and I am not guilty of, murder in first degree, I have
forgot and forgiven everybody that has wronged me and may God touch their K
hearts and make them good true Christians for Jesus' sake. God has forgiven
me my sins and I am ready and willing to go when Jesus comes for me, I

EAGAN & SHEW, hanged at Montrose, Pae, Jane 9, 1900 = Continued.

make this statement of my own free will and I feel . my duty to God and
man. /s/ Cornelius W. Shew. Witness: BE. E. Thomas, Wm. Epes." The following
is.a letter left by Shew for Ex-District Attorney later ‘Montrose, Paey
Jan. 8, 1900. W. D. Be Ainey, Esqe, Montrose, Pa.e Sir: I am going to be
hung tomorrow for a crime I never committed in my right mind. You promised
to help me if I confessed killing Jackson Pepper. You said you could hang
me or not and that you were my friefid and would help me. How well you have
kept you promises, You told Jim the same thing, but you deceived us all the
time and did not intend to keep us from hanging. If you had allowed us to
have a lawyer not have deceived us we would feel different about it. God
knows we did wrong and ought to be punished, but it was nbt for a Christian
like you to deceive us. You swore false ih’ my trial. You know you shook
that whiffletree in my face and you told others that you scared me into
confessing. . After I am dead the truth will come out and people will know I
gold the truth about it. I forgive you and pray God will hear the prayer of
a murderer and forgive you for deceiving Jim and me. I forgive you and
everybody and pray God to forgive me. /s/ Cornelius W. Shew.e Witness:
Ee Ce Sherman,' ;
"VARIOUS NOTES, ;
"The men wished to make some remarks on the scaffold, say they thanked their
frinds, forgave their enemies, ect, but the clergymen and others advised
them not to lest they might break down.
"Six special deputies were chose to assist in the details of the execution -
F. Le Leonard, H. S. Conklin, H. E. Taylor, H. B. Jones, A. F. Kinney and
James Harrington, They drew lots as to which part of the work each should
perform, and the more prominent parts fell to the first four named, such as
adjusting the caps, etc.
"The erection of the gallows was completed Monday, and it was tried with 2
bags of sand to see that everying worked properly. The condemned men could
see the work going on from inside the jail and jokingly remarked: 'Be sure
you get it right, ' 'Hadn't we better try it?' and similar remarks.
"Tt is said that ’the Sheriff's Office had 2,000 applications for tickets,
"Ragan's father lives in Forest City, but he did not visit his son at. any
time, nor show any interst in him, apparently.
Nattorney Davies took dual leave bf the men early Tuesday morning some time
before the execution.
"Fach man was furnished with an entire new suit of. black clothes from Des-
sauer's to wear at the execution.
"Gowernor Stone, 6n Feb. 24, 1898, fixed the date of execution May 18, 1899,
but the prisoners were reprieved Pave times.
"The Rekennen at the jail have been: nights - Frank Herrisk; days - E. E.
White,
AFTER THE MURDER,

"When the murder became known there was much excitement and vain searches for
the perpetrators of the crime and many hearings held at Rush, but no direct
clues were found until Jan., 1898, when upon information furnished by Susie
Graham to Dist. Atty Ainey, and. after energetic. work and long rides through
rough country on the part éf Mr. Ainey, Chief McMahon and others, they were
taken into custody, Shew at Hancock, No Yoe and. Eagan .at Coventry, Ne Ye
A week before his arrest, Eagan was "married to Miss Emma Stratler, the 15-
year-old daughter of a farmer at Conventry. Since he has been in jail he
hes said that. perhaps the Lord could forgive him for mayrying that young
girl, but he could not forgive himself. She is now away to boarding school.
The prisoners were indicted in March, 1898. Their trial was expected to
come off in August, but Attorney Davies moved for the quashing of the array
of jurors on the ground of irregularity in drawying (though according to
the custom of many years) and he presented such strong arguments that he
won his point, and th case went over till Nov. Term,

"TRIED IN NOVEMBER,
"The trial of J. Jas. Eagan. (alias Smith) for the murder of A. J. Pepper in
Rush, was called on Monday, Nove 14, 1898. The prosecution was represented

EAGAN & SHEW, hanged Montrose, Pae, 1-9-1900 - Continued.

The jurors were: Wm. H. Kerr, Springville; E. M. Tingley, Harford;

Ziba N. Smith, Springville; Asa Wilmarth, Latmropl Chas. Bookstave, Jack-
son; Daniel Sheldon, Auburgs Chas. Culver, New Milford; Henry Decker |
Lathrop; Geos H. Carpender, Uniondale; Alfred H. Jones, Bridgwater; éiarence |
Southworth, Liberty; Mark Williams Bridgewater. The evidence was substan- |
tially the same as in the Eagan case, and the jury brought in a verdict of |
the first degree. Shew was said to he a native of Gibson, this county, but
spent most of his life in an d near Susquehanna. He had highly respected
relatives at Startucca, Arguments for a new trial were made and refused
and on Saturday night, Nov. 26, 1898, Judge Searle sentenced Eagan and Shew
to be hanged, amidst great solemnity, the Court room being well filled."
THE MONTROSE DEMOCRAT, Montrose, Pae, January 11, 1900.

(Photographs of both)

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Cx eti Lior? Of. James Rice, Wile VLA JOU i
“nother hanging, hit AVES ‘hot Give The hames ee
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fachs, Sones and legends. T have noc pat thimya
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story OF G Kelormecl- German minster Who
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liner ©


“his Issue

Two Banks in One Jalopy

Right Through the Road Blocks in Their Ancient Car
These Bank Bandits of Pearl City, Illinois, Zoomed
—To Strike Again, Only Seven Miles Away. How
Get. Them?

_ By Apo A. PELLIN.... 2.2.2... cece cece eee 24

Case of the Man Who Wouldn't Stop

He Was a Good-Time Charlie in a Good-Time Town
And When He Ran From the Law New Orleans De- -
tectives Knew They Were Up Against Something
Big. What? -

By Water Goopstein

Lunch for Four—$65,000

Locked Tight, Covered With Armor Plate—Yet This
Brink’s Truck Was Entered by a Washington, D.C., .
Burglar Who Spurned $200,000 for $65,000. Why?

By RicHarp CoRNWALL.............. ie Bs evececce 30_-

Revealed by One Red Leaf

Except for the Body in the Woods, Officials Wouldn't
Have Believed That Three Men Battled to Death in
Creswell, Oregon, Over Cold Coffee

By Tom Watters : : 4

mal

c

ral a

fo \ fF 1 O 1982 +4
¢

“Why Must You Kill Me?”

.That Was the Plea of Agence Teitelbaum, and Philadelphia
Police Had to Learn Who Had Answered With Gunfire

Isaac Teitelbaum: He spoke

to the ‘killer, then slept
ae "So =". flected against the wall of the staircase. -

-

By Stan Warren

Special Investigator for

‘

OFFICIAL. DETECTIVE. STORIES

HE squad car bearing Patrolmen
Bernard Hughes and James Mc:
Kenna eased along the curb at 46th

Street and Osage Avenue. McKenna,
whose flashlight beam was spotting the
numbers, said, “Here it is,” and Hughes
stopped. Both officers got out. The
house, from where they stood, looked
dark; but the officers noted that lights
were on in several] of the near-by houses,

: and they could make out forms pressed

- His voice bounced eerily through the
ouse. .

And then, after a moment, a single
word came in reply. A weak yet desper-
ate, “Help.” .

The officers glanced at each other.
Then with one movement they rushed
for the stairs. : :

The time was now a little after five on
the Sunday morning of Augtst 31, 1952,
Labor Day week-end. Only a few min-

plugging in life itself. His hands, his
wrists, his pajamas, the bedsheet—all
were drenched with blood. :

This was Isaac S. Teitelbaum, a 64-
year-old retired baker.

Teitelbaum’s eyes rolled wildly as the
officers approached; and then, seeing
who was standing over him, relief fil-
tered into them. He managed to strug-
gle up. ‘Still holding his jaw and throat,
he sat against the headboard of the bed.

against windows. utes before, a call had been received by Just then the phone rang in the front
Hughes and McKenna. walked up the Radio Dispatcher Victor Steinberg at m.
alley. Philadelphia Police Headquarters. “I’m Hughes shot-a look at his. partner.

From here, on the side, they saw a
single light on the second floor.

“Front door’s open,” “McKenna
pointed out grimly. :

The door was slightly ajar; McKenna
opened it all the way and stepped inside.
His flashlight beam slid along the
furniture and danced from wall to wall.
The light from the second floor was re-

He called, “Hello, up there!”

bleeding,” the voice had said. “I was

shot by a burglar.” And it had man- ..

aged to give an address. This address.
Patrolmen _Hughes and McKenna
were taking the steps two at.a time.
They stopped as though halted by 'in-
visible wires at the door to the middle
room, the room with the light on.
Aman was stretched across one of the
twin beds, looking upward. One hand
covered a wound in his throat, as though

Who could be calling now? Then he
rushed to the phone. He-was back ina
moment. oid tien

“It’s the Radio Room,” he said to
Teitelbaum. “An emergency car will
be here any minute. But they want to
know if you can describe who did this.”

Teitelbaum nodded. He wet his lips

and forced out the information: A man-

about 29; five feet ten and relatively
plump; sandy hair and wearing a white

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An old man thought he could
live at ease in this house

shirt and brown trousers. Teitelbaum
hadn’t seen the man’s face because a
handkerchief had covered the lower
portion of it.

Hughes ran to the phone with the

information. Within seconds, every
squad car racing to this West Philadel-
phia area to blockade it would be
radioed the description.

Returning to the middle bedroom,
Hughes found that Teitelbaum seemed
to have gathered new strength. Al-
though falteringly, he was able to give
a coherent account of the pre-dawn
terror.

THE elderly man said that he was
home alone because his wife was just
finishing a two-week vacation at the
seashore and his’ son, Jules, had gone
there to drive her back on Sunday night.
Teitelbaum had been wakened by noise
on the third floor and, thinking his son
had come home earlier than planned,
he’d stepped into the hall and called
out, “Is that you, Jules?”

Teitelbaum’s nostrils dilated as he
breathed in.

“What happened then?” McKenna
asked softly.

“This person said, ‘Yes’.”” Teitelbaum
looked at the blood on his hand and
quickly covered his throat again. “I—I
went back to bed. Then the light went
on in my room and there was this man.
He was standing in the doorway and
he had this—this handkerchief over his
face and ... and he was holding a gun.”

The gunman then asked him for his
money and Teitelbaum took twelve dol-
lars from his wallet-—which was all the

money he had.
“I wanted to hand him the money :
1 | but he began to curse and he said I h 0
State | | must have more and I told him ...I Schwartz and Detective Joseph Dugan, job to be done, Schwartz and Dugan re-
fe a ee === | told him I didn’t and—” both of the Homicide Squad. Detective turned to the slain man’s home. Groups South
The officers waited. They could hear Muller, briefing them on the crime, told of people were standing in front of the sold it s
sirens in the distance: Perhaps the these officers that bureau drawers on house. Daylight had broken on a night~ liked ar
emergency cars, perhaps squad cars the third floor definitely had been ran- mare—a nightmare that never could Teite
being deployed throughout the area. sacked, but he explained that, although disappear. Inside, the lab men were neighbc
Teitelbaum’s eyes moistened. “He ‘Teitelbaum’s room showed signs of still at work. ; ; detectiv
began to curse. I knew—I could tell—I disorder, it could have been caused by Schwartz and: Dugan learned from But ¢
knew he was going to shoot. I begged the victim’s dragging himself out of Muller and Beech that although the heard t
him please don’t shoot. I said, ‘Don't bed and crawling for help. ‘police dragnet had been tossed over the fronted
shoot. Why must you kill me?’ I said, “There’s nine dollars on the floor,” area within minutes after the alarm, no counts,
‘Take this money, but please don’t Mullersaid, pointing. “Teitelbaum told trace of the killer had been found. A One Fr
+ helbtees tote a eak! Leal shoot.’ ” ‘us he had twelve—but I don’t know thing of night, he had vanished with of two §
viiely woman, “your appliance But the gunman started firing. Teitel- where the other three are. He said the the blackness. How? Where? returne
aot ond | Naye cousaaealy oe baum said there were several shots. gunman didn’t take any of it.” The . Their. one hope of a quick solution claimed
xe of my back,” He’d been standing and the impact officer looked around and pointed again. gone, the officers prepared themselves in the h:
PAIR OF SUPPORTING NANOS knocked him back across the bed. As “Two bullet holes in that wall over fora long; hard investigation—one with heard t)
selithinicwiappset ete via dws the gunman fied—empty-handed— there. We'll see what we can do about all the routine-questioning and can; Someon
sure iach mare comfortable Teitelbaum had slid out of bed and digging out the slugs.” *. vassing. But would it lead them where and see:
Stel Drases aid fe bh fase ore crawled to a window where, bracing can . they wanted to go? Plunging into it yertible
Licht, cool, exible and easily himself on the sill, he’d cried out for EALIZING that the house was the immediately, they began with the d - overturr
. ee help. Then he’d dragged himself to the _lab men’s now—the finger-print ex- _ man’s neighbors. : _ Went sou
froucanbs RENcrITED front room where he’d put through the _ perts and the photographers—Schwartz Among the first they spoke to were this int
mn call. and Dugan left for the Misericordia City Magistrate Keller H. Gilbert and mediate
REE book
ee Lek ean cours tall of “I begged him,” Teitelbaum repeated. Hospital to see what further question- his wife. The- Magistrate, who lived mized b-
correction, Eeamulea: Vivery “How I begged him not to shoot!” ing of Teitelbaum would produce.. They across a rear areaway from the Teitel- _one the
better, happier.”’ "A spinal auf- Patrolman Hughes walked into the found him inthe emergency ward. Doc- baum home, had been one of those who —a mar
years We sermae reed. te Seth de hall as he heard footsteps in the living- tors and several nurses and nuns were had sent an alarm in to the police. even int
room. Hurrying upstairs were the men huddled over him. The detectives stood “My wife and I were wakened by the versions
DAYS TO PROVE VALUE from the emergency car, followed in the doorway, watching. Adoctorled sound of arguing,” Magistrate Gilbert heard {
ne recommend ‘the Philo Bort, shortly by Detectives Martin Muller and them out tothe hall. - ' said. “They were loud voices. Then we: and a s:
proven Appliance if your back James Beech of the Fifth Division. “He’s in a coma,” he said. “‘The bullet heard shots. I yan right away for the she’d he
ete eee As the emergency patrol entered with went into his throat, through his jaw phone. Then I heard someone shout, “east an
a stretcher and wanted to put him on it, and out behind his right ear. He—” ‘Murder!’ ” ae . woman's
YO FOR FREE BOOK Teitelbaum shook his head. The doctor whirled as his name was “Mister Teitelbaum shouted “Murder!” | Almos'
cribe your condition 40 we ean “I'm all right,” he said. “I’ll walk.” called. He hurried back tothe wounded three times,” Mrs. Gilbert added. “It Which c:
‘ The officers helped him put on his man. The officers watched through the was ‘Murder! Murder! Murder!’ But. was a fo!
0 64-23 PHILO BURT BLDG. slippers and robe. Still insisting that open door. Moments of frantic activity each time his voice got weaker. The ing them
+ JAMESTOWN, NEW YORK he was “all right”, Teitelbaum, fists around the unconscious man, then a last time it sounded like he just about yet one \
clenched and supported by the patrol- straightening of the people near his bed had enough strength to say it. It—well, as good a
men, walked downstairs and outside to —like the petals of a flower opening. it just sounded like one of those old- , run dowr
the emergency car. This told the story; it preceded by far fashioned victrolas running down.” But w:
Even as the emergency car pulled the solemn-faced nun who walked to. “This was about five?” Dugan said. actually
$9 away, heading toward the Misericordia the detectives and in a quiet voice said, He wanted everything nailed down as so, why
‘ Hospital with siren wailing, the entire “He’s passed on.” closely as possible. a tioned he
West Philadelphia area had become an The same picture flashed in the “I can tell you exactly,” Magistrate The in
IN SPARE TIME armed camp. Dozens of squad cars minds of the investigators::The picture Gilbert replied. “‘While I was on the not confi
: cruised the streets, and patrolmen were. of Isaac Teitelbaum pleading for his phone, waiting for a connection, our baum’s \
33 or $4 an Hou poking into alleys and back yards. And life, thrusting, money at the gunman, clock struck five. So the shooting was, They we:
he taw Filer . on the 4600 block of Osage Avenue begging him to take it; inhisownhome, about a minute before that.” vata ih spoke to
andclreular wy house lights sparkled brightly and at the dead of night, asking mercy.. And Muller asked, “Did you see anyone him from
ler and faster 6 > people in night clothes stood on side- ‘the bullets. The bullets that came.in running or hear a car start?” realized
‘om 20 ei walks: Several of these people had answer. i . “No,” came the answer. Possibly |
Coe Na a) é heard the shots and had sent in callson . The nun was still standing there. She ' : of povert.
ee : their own: now, for the first time, with said, “He was clutching this when he ‘JHE officers asked the Gilberts what -~ haps Teit
me the Law all around, they dared come died.” i they knew about Teitelbaum—and jy =6 envy or €
¢ time Hit Ar ' out. : And she held out three blood-streaked everything the Magistrate and his wife had sprui
cane : Among the newly arrived officers one-dollar bills. - said was to the good. They understood But hei
| were Detective Sergeant Michael . Never more emotionally aware of a that. Teitelbaum had owned a bakery a harsh w
inneapolis 18, Lo. Mino. « seabescat 8S 4" -


we
Bye >

.

-—a man running east on Osage.

shop near Second and South Streets, in
South Philadelphia, but that he had
sold it sometime in March. He was well-
liked and respected. A good family man.

Teitelbaum’s reputation among the .
neighbors was quickly confirmed as the
detectives questioned other residents.

But as to what these neighbors had
heard that night, the officials were con-
fronted by a maze of conflicting ac-
counts. :

One person said he’d heard the sound
of two guns, as though Teitelbaum had
returned bullet for bullet. Another
claimed he’d heard a woman shouting
in the house. Still another thought he'd
heard two men and a woman arguihg.
Someone said he’d looked out a window
and seen a speeding car,-a green con-
yertible with a dark top, that almost
overturned as it took the corner and ©
went south on 46th Street; and although

‘this information was broadcast im-

mediately, its importance was mini-
mized by another account, and in this
one the informant had heard—not ~—

nm
even in this business of running, several
versions were given; ‘one person had
heard footsteps going west, not east,
and a second person spoke up to say
she’d heard a man’s footsteps going

‘east ‘and the clickety-clack of a

woman’s high heels going west.

Almost as many versions as people.
Which could the officers believe? Each
was a force tugging at them and head-
ing them in a different direction. And
yet one version, on the surface, looked
as good as the next; and so all had to-be
rundown. —

But was it. possible that a woman
actually had been in on the crime? _If
so, why hadn’t the dying man men-
tioned her? :

The investigators, that morning, did
not confine their canvassing to Teitel-
baum’s West Philadelphia neighbors.
They went to South Philadelphia and
spoke to many people who had known
him from his bakery shop. The officials
realized that the roots of the crime
possibly lay here—in this neighborhood
of poverty and, too often, crime. Per-
haps Teitelbaum had aroused someone’s
envy or enmity; perhaps from his past
had sprung his killer. .

But here, too, the officers did not hear ,
a harsh word spoken against the retired

Sgt. Schwartz details the
killing to a photographer

baker. Everyone had only good to say
about him. He was, they said, a kind
man who never failed to give bread or
buns to a needy person.
A kind man, loved and respected.
Yet someone had shot him dead.
Someone had killed him without pity.
The four detectives working actively
on the case now went into a huddle at
Headquarters with Deputy Police Com-
missioner Richard J. Doyle, Detective
Inspector John Murphy and Lieutenant
Bernard J. O’Donnell, head of the Fifth
Detective Division. The preliminary
laboratory report was on Doyle’s desk.
Three battered slugs had been found in
the death room and, according to
William B, Del Torre, ballistics expert,
they were from a 32 German pistol.
No finger-prints of any value had been
found. :
“Here’s what’s important to me,”
Commissioner Doyle said, tapping the
report. “The house showed no signs of
forcible entry anywhere. Which means
that the guy we're looking for is an ex-
pert—an old hand.”

THE officers were astounded by this.
The cold brutality of the crime had
led them to think that the killer was an
amateur; but here they were confronted
, with evidence which indicated that he
\; Was an expert housebreaker. And it
was rare for such men to kill in rage.
They might out of sudden fear or as a
last resort to escape—but hardly ever
in cursing fury. What did it mean?

Lieutenant O’Donnell said, “The fel-
low may be a junkie.”

A. W. Levin and Magistrate Keller Gilbert, two neighbors who
heard the pitiful cries from the window they are looking at

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pee

parents. And anyway,” he stood me off, laughter welling up
in his dark eyes, “my grandmother was a Cherokee Indian!”

I thought he was joking. “It’s the truth,” he assured me.
“I never saw her, but that’s what they say. Does it make any
difference to you?”

“Oh, no!”

“Well, then, let’s forget it. You're going to be Helen
Edwards when we’re married.”

It wasn’t long thereafter that we eloped.

Grover had been working as a stevedore on the docks
along the Delaware. But he gave that up and we moved
into our own apartment on Osage Avenue in West
Philadelphia.

When I look back on our marriage now, it seems impossible
that anyone could change so quickly and completely. I: had
often heard the expression “You don’t know a person until
you live with them.” How true that is!) When I was keeping
company with Grover, he took a few beers and a highball
only once in a while—so did I, although I never really liked
to drink.

We had a pleasant apartment and I kept it nice, and
cooked our meals. But money got scarce and the hard times
brought out the worst in Grover. The first time he came home
drunk, he stumbled across the living room floor, fell on the
couch and spent the night there, snoring. And I was fright-
ened—not of him, really, but of where this might lead. Had
he actually been a heavy drinker all the time, showing a
good face when he was with me and carousing at other times?

The next day, bleary-eyed and with a hangover, Grover
still had enough sense to apologize and promise that he
wouldn’t get drunk again—and he didn’t for a while. But
these drunken sprees increased as time went on, and one
afternoon when he came home, it was to tell me that he had
lost his latest job. I suppose it was a mistake on my part
to remind him that he had brought this trouble on himself;
he certainly had, but I guess I shouldn’t have said so, for
he became furious. And for the first time he struck me. He

My life during the following years was a repetition of this
incident. And then I became pregnant and to my horror he
suggested I have an abortion!

“T don’t intend to spend the rest of my life taking care of a
lot of brats,” he said. “It’s tough enough paying for all this,”
he swept his arm around the walls of the home he had ‘once
called beautiful. “If you had to go out to work every day
you’d know what it means—”

My pride was hurt. “You don’t have to waste your life
supporting me!” I shouted at. him.

I had hoped to shame him into a feeling of self-respect, but
instead of being embarrassed, he glared at me.

“I wish I didn’t!” he said cruelly,

All this happened long ago and I wish I could forget it, but ;

it was a shock from which I’ve never really recovered. To
love someone deeply is a wonderful experience and to
know that you are to become a mother is an additional joy,
or it ought to be. But to have your husband regret having
married you, complain at supporting you, and ask you to
risk your life by destroying your unborn child is about as
sad an experience as one can endure,

I put up with Grover’s abuse because I didn’t know what

the hope of leaving Grover, of going away from every
familiar bit of my former life. But I wanted my baby. So I
registered at a hospital clinic, and at last my time came and
my little boy was born—a child as dark and brooding as his
father. It is ironic that the two were, within a short span of
time, to hear themselves charged with the blackest of crimes:
murder! ;

I cried with joy when I held my ill-fated baby in my arms,
and even Grover shed a few tears over the two of us and

promised that things would be different from now on.

Grover had been working at a part-time job when he took
me and the baby home from the hospital, but it wasn't
long before he was out of work again. He blamed the loss of
the job on the infant’s crying, which kept him awake nights
and caused him to sleep at his work.

When Baby Curtis was a year old, another blow fell on my
life. My husband was arrested for robbery. I learned from
the police that he had been arrested in a restaurant and that
he had had a girl with him. The agony I suffered was twofold:
Grover had brought shame to me and the baby, and he had
been unfaithful. When Grover was sentenced to serve two-
to-four years in the Eastern State Penitentiary, I decided I
was through with him.

While he was in jail, I got a part-time job and a neighbor
took care of my baby for me. Then, when Grover was re-
leased from prison, he came to our place on Osage Avenue
and got on his knees before me and swore he would change
his life.

I was willing to forgive him for what he had done to me,
but I was terrified physically of his brutality, and above all
I dreaded to think what that jail term might do in shadowing
the life of my son. Grover had thought of that, too, he said.

I did my best to protect
my son, below. But when
he killed that man, I know
that he was thinking of
those unhappy days he had
spent at his father’s hands.

yd $F sae boas
COTOT TI
CaO Baia.

 ¢

“We'll go to Flo
never come back
past.”

But of course w
my life again a he!
drunk and sober
He struck me on:
a twitching nerve
go away.

Worse than this
he seemed to hat
shouting at him, t!

One day—Augu:
roused by squads
mitted at around
retired baker, Isaa
the bedroom of }
where we were |:

' Even before Grc
I had put two and
of suspicion: My h
out that night; he |
can drink a bottle


im, but because I do,
marked for tragedy.

"Phe night my husband was put to death in the electric
chair, I thought I had reached the bottom of my well of woe;
then, a few years later, my 11-year-old son was sentenced
to life imprisonment for murder! It seemed impossible that
anything more terrible could happen to those I have loved.
But this was to be only the beginning—it seems destined
that anyone I kiss will be marked for doom.

Yet, at this very moment, a fine, devoted gentleman is
waiting for my answer to his proposal of marriage. I love
him, but because I do, I am afraid to say yes.

What would YOU do?

I sit here in my mother’s little house on South American
Street in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and wonder if I dare

tempt fate again. Life has given me’a series of blows from -

which I tell myself I’ll never recover. And yet, in my lone-
liness, the proposal of the clean, charming young man who
wants to marry me is a terrible temptation. What shall I do?
I wonder. Once before I fell desperately in love and it set
off a series of tragedies. Dare I risk it again? !
These questions go round and round in my brain, and
with the longing for peace and affection and security, the
past stalks, continually. And I think of my dead husband—
not with love, which perished long ago, but of what our

marriage had promised and how it had failed—and I am’
’ afraid to accept the man who wants me now.

I still remember the first time I saw the dark, good-looking
fellow whose shadow in the electric chair has fallen upon my
life and those dear to me....

It was a spring evening, and even the down-at-the-heels
neighborhood where I lived seemed less sordid. The Delaware
River was only a few blocks away, and although it was a
heavily traveled commercial river, I could imagine it as a
setting for gay romance and adventure. Our house was in
the old business section of the city. And every time I hear
people talk about the city’s plans to “restore” the old neigh-
borhoods, to bring back the colonial beauties of “Society
Hill,” where Philadelphia’s Mayor Richardson Dilworth has
built a house, I think of how our home was not very far
away and of how bleak and unlovely it was. Yet on the
night I met Grover Cleveland Edwards, the first blush of
spring had made it a different world. I was 16 and slim and
blonde and looking for romance.

My girl friend, Marie, and I were in a little candy store
at our corner when Grover went by.

“Who’s HE?” asked Marie.

The shopkeeper tried to answer the question, but shook
her head. “I never saw him before,” she replied, “and you
two had better not try to find out. You’re too young to be
interested in boys.”

Marie and I separated at the candy store door, arranging
to meet again soon. As I started back to my home on South

MY DESTINY

American Street, I saw the stranger at the corner. I knew he
had been waiting for me, because he said, “I saw you in the
store. My name’s Grover Edwards.”

When I didn’t make any comment, he added hastily, “My
parents just moved up here from North Carolina. We live
around the corner from you—”

“How do you know where I live?” I asked, a little bit
annoyed. ,

He gave me a smile, and it lighted up his handsome face.

“Oh, I asked around,” he replied. “This isn’t the first time
I’ve seen you. How about going to the movies?”

“When?”

“Now,” he said, and moved over beside me.

I hesitated at first. I was afraid of what my mother would
say. I knew that my brothers and sisters—there were seven
of them in my family—would have some criticism of me to
voice; but I hadn’t had much pleasure during my young
life—times were hard and money scarce—so finally I agreed
to go with him. Grover—my first real date—was a perfect
gentleman at the show and on the way home. And when we
reached my house, he didn’t try to detain me. I thought he
might try to get fresh, but he didn’t. He just said, “I sure had
a good time. I'll see you soon again, I hope.”

That was the beginning.

In the days that followed, Grover took me to meet his
mother. I thought she didn’t like me very much, but when I
mentioned this to Grover, he just laughed it off and said all
mothers were that way about their children.

“I bet your family razzes you about me, too,” he said,
laughing warmly.

Of course they did. My mother was always worried that
I’d get in some trouble, that a boy would make passes at me.
She’d remind me that I was a “pretty” girl.

“You look like a doll,” she’d say. ‘And lots of boys see
you and want you. I know men, and I’m sure they have to be
watched.” And once she said something I have never for-
gotten: I wish she hadn’t, because it’s created a sense of
inferiority in me.

“We’re Russians, Helen,” my mother told me. “Your father
and I were born in the old country. And that isn’t popular
in America. Somebody might take advantage of you, thinking
you’re,not as good as he is because of your background.”

I wish she hadn't told me that, because by then I was in love
with Grover and I saw marriage to him as a way to change
my name and my environment. I would have love, security
and a new life.

That night, when Grover and I were alone, I told him that
my name had originated in Russia, that my mother and
father were natives of Russia. I remember how he took
me in his arms and held me close.

“So who cares!” he whispered. “It’s you I want, not your

My husband died in the electric chair; my 15-year-old son is serving a life

sentence for murder! I dare not speculate on what the world thinks of me


en

wv

A fine, devoted gentleman is waiting for my answer to his proposal of marriage. I love him, but because I do.
1 am afraid to say yes. I wonder if I dare tempt fate again, for anyone I kiss seems to be marked for tragedy

ure the. Cave


NO MONEY—NO LIFE
(Continued from page 32).

found in the Teitelbaum residence. It was
on the sink’ drainboard in the kitchen.

William DelTorre, the Philadelphia
police firearms identification expert, ex-
amined the bullets and the empty cartridge
casings.

The rifling marks on the slugs matched
none on record at headquarters. After a
careful study, DelTorre reported that the
shells had been fired in an automatic of
foreign make. \ ;

The bullets and shell cases and Teitel-
baum's description of his slayer were the
sole clues with which the homicide men
had to work until Sunday afternoon, the
day Jules Teitelbaum returned to Philadel-
phia with his mother.

Bitterly enraged, the young man begged
the detectives not to give up until his
father’s murderer was brought to justice.

“Possibly you can help us,” Sergeant
Schwartz told the son.

“Any way I can,” Jules responded. “Just
name it.”

“When there are few physical clues to
work on,” the sergeant said, “we have to
fall back pretty heavily upon theory. We’ve
already evolved one in this case.

“We have learned from our files that
your house was burglarized a couple of
years ago, that your family lost a lot of
valuable jewelry.”

+The son nodded. “I was going to bring
that up,” he said.

“Now, at first reckoning, you might
suppose that the same burglar came back
for a repeat job,” Schwartz said. “But we
think not. This was not the work of a
professional burglar. That type of crook
rarely carries a gun, even more rarely
uses a weapon. About the only time such

. @ criminal resorts to violence is perhaps

when he’s cornered, and he’s got so much
to lose, because of previous convictions,
that a chance on the electric chair is worth
while.

“But let’s look at what happened in this
case. The man came in, masked and
armed. Your father offered him money—
all the money he had in his trousers. Yet
the gunman, instead of taking the money,
became vengefully angered and shot your
dad. We've got a hunch it wasn’t money
he was after at all, that maybe he ran-
sacked your chest and demanded dough to
hide the real reason for the killing. Did
your father have any enemies?”

Jules Teitelbaum shook his head. “Not
a one that I know of,” he said. “When
he sold the bakery a couple of months
ago, he wanted only one thing, to retire
from work and take it easy for the years
he had left. Only he didn’t have much
time left, did he?”

“No labor troubles, no difficulties with
employes in the past?” Sergeant Schwartz
queried. .

“None.”

“Okay,” the sergeant conceded. “Let's
drop the idea of a personal motive for the
crime. Let’s agree that the guy was after
money. -But we still have to remember
that his was the modus operandi of an
armed robber, a strong-arm crook, not

that of a professional burglar, who’d dive
out a window before he'd pull a trigger.

.“There’s another difference between a
burglar and. an armed robber, too. A
burglar—although he usually does case a
house before he prowls it—may go into a
home blind, taking a chance on finding
something of value. A robber doesn’t work
that way. He goes where he knows there
is, or there is likely to be, money.

“Your father’ only recently sold his
bakery. A thief who knew about this trans-
action might suppose your dad kept a
good piece of cash from the sale around
the house. He picked a time when your
father was alone, and probably he knew
that. I'd say we'd find the killer among
one of three groups of people—former
employes, regular customers of the bakery
or neighbors and acquaintances.

“Now, son,” said Schwartz, a graying,
fatherly police officer, “suppose we get to
work. List all the men you can remember
who worked for your dad in recent years.
Tally up as many of his old standby
customers as you can, too. And if there’s
anyone in your family circle of ac-
quaintances who even generally fits the
description your father gave, we'll want his
name, along with the rest.”

“Somebody we know?” the young man
protested. “It couldn’t be.”

“Some folks do unexpected, even
desperate and tragic things when they need
money,” Schwartz observed. “And that
wasn’t a surgical mask the man who shot
your father was wearing. It wasn’t used
by the thief to keep him from catching
any disease your father might have had.
It was worn because he either didn’t want
your father to recognize him or to keep
the poor old guy from later identifying
him.”

Jules Teitelbaum promised his full co-
operation.

ALL OVER the city, division detectives
cast their nets and began dragging in
the fish that swam in the cesspool of the

“underworld. They screened these charac-

ters in division squadrooms, passing along
a handful to be examined at headquarters
in City Hall. ‘

Sergeant Schwartz and Detective Dugan,
however, concentrated their attention upon
South Philadelphia where, at Second and
South Streets, Isaac Teitelbaum’ had
operated his bakery.

They strongly doubted that the killer
had come from the prosperous neighbor-
hood in- which the victim had resided. It
seemed more logical to hunt for a suspect
in the drab and crowded district where he
had maintained his business.

And it was in this region, only six blocks
from the bakery, that the green. 1952
Pontiac convertible was found abandoned
Sunday evening.

The car had been reported stolen at
about ten o'clock Saturday night from a
street in Germantown, a fashionable resi-
dential district on Philadelphia's north side.

It was an auto similar in description
to this one, the detectives remembered,

that a neighbor had seen speeding from
the direction of the Teitelbaum home al-
most immediately after the shots and the
victim’s screams. There could be a link be-
tween this machine and the murder.
Identification men went over the car. At
first it appeared that the car had been
wiped clean when the thief abandoned it.

Then, on the smooth leather upholstery of .

the front seat, a set of clear fingerprints
was found. :

The impressions were processed and
classified and a search through the record
files was begun in an effort to identify the
prints.

They were those of a juvenile offender,
Roger Price, whose list of petty crimes in-
cluded. one arrest for auto theft, a charge
which later was dismissed for lack of
evidence. The boy, however, had never
been accused of any crime of violence.

He was arrested at his home in South
Philadelphia and taken to headquarters
for questioning.

The ‘boy denied the theft of the Pontiac
convertible. He offered an alibi for Satur-
day night. He had been in a neighborhood
“club,” he insisted, shooting pool and
playing cards. He gave the names of

* cronies who would back him up.

“It’s no good, kid,” Detective Dugan
said. “Your prints are all over that
Pontiac, and they're more reliable wit-
nesses any day of the week than your
pals.”

Price shrugged. “Okay, so I swiped the
heap for a little joy ride. What's the big
squawk about? You got it back, didn’t
you, without a scratch on it. I'll even pay
for the gas I used.”

“That won’t be enough,” Dugan said.
“That convertible was seen racing away
from the-scene of a murder at five o’clock
Sunday morning. And don’t give us an-
other yarn about shooting .pool with the
boys at that hour.”

“A murder!” Young Price grew pale-

and panicky. “No! You can’t hang any
rap like that on me. Sure, I pinched the
car. My pal.and me. We wanted to put
on a front for some babes we met in a
roller rink down on the south side. We
took ‘em for a spin out in the country,
came back to Philly, drove the girls home,
and then I ditched the heap where you
found it. But that was before three o'clock
in the morning. At five 1 was home in
bed.”

His parents and a younger brother, who
shared a bedroom with Roger, backed up
this story. Another tenant in the building
where the Prices lived had seen Roger
come in at about three or perhaps 3:15.

Still the detectives were not wholly con-
vinced: They made paraffin tests of his
hands to determine whether he had fired
a gun recently. And they held him for
juvenile authorities on the auto theft count.

By Monday, Roger Price was in the
clear so far as the murder was concerned.
He had passed the test which would have
shown grains .of nitrate in his skin had
he fired a weapon. His alibi was fairly
sound. And he did not fit the description

of the killer, as given by Isaac. Teitel-
baum before he died.

ON TUESDAY night, Norman Clay re-

~ turned from a seashore vacation to his
apartment on Osage Avenue, a block from
the Teitelbaum dwelling. When he entered
the house he found that his flat had been
entered in his absence.

The only loot, he- reported to police,
was a .32-calibre automatic pistol of
forgign .make, taken from a chest. of
drawers. The burglary had probably oc-
curred sometime in the two weeks just be-
fore Teitelbaum was slain.

Was the stolen pistol the murder
weapon? There was a good chance that it
was, the detectives on the case believed,
Detectives John Murray and John Coan
went through the apartment building, ques-
tioning other tenants, but found no other

’ burglaries at that address, They talked

with every tenant except one—and he was
not at home. .

The Teitelbaum murder, climaxing a
wave of almost three hundred burglaries
in four police divisions on the west side
of Philadelphia, spurred Police Commis-
sioner Thomas J. Gibbons to drastic steps
to halt the upsurge of crime.

Extra special “flying squads” were trans-
ferred to West Philadelphia, and orders
went out to every precinct in the city alert~
ing detectives and uniformed officers to
be on the watch for any hint of a clue
to the slayer of the elderly baker, fatally
shot as he pleaded piteously with his killer
to spare him.

Sergeant Schwartz and Detective Dugan,
closeted with the murder victim’s son,
had gone over the lists of ex-employes,
regular customers and even of some ac-
quaintances, which the young ‘man had
prepared.

The homicide men had checked on three
names of old customers, those of men
whom they remembered from the criminal
files, but all were solidly above suspicion
in the murder. The lists got them no-
where.

PATROLMAN Henry Orseno did not
read the bulletin board orders, for he
was on vacation, but he heard about them.
The wanton killing set him to wondering.
Although he was not assigned to duty
in the. section where he lived in South
Philadelphia, it was to ‘Orseno that the
neighbors went to complain about the man
who was firing a pistol, apparently in
target practice, at a playground near Ninth
and Bainbridge Streets.

This had been late Saturday afternoon
the day before the murder. ;

After learning of the Teitelbaum mur-
der, Orseno went to the playground and
“began searching, inch by inch, for marks
where the bullets had struck. . .

Long hours of searching—hours taken
from his vacation—finally - rewarded
Patrolman Orseno. He found a hole in the
ground near a wall of the playground. He
dug into the earth with a knife blade and
pried out a bullet. It was in good condi-
tion. It was of .32 calibre. ,

Orseno took the slug to Lieutenant
Bernard J. O'Donnell, commanding the
Fifth Division detectives, and told the
lieutenant of the man who had practiced
with a pistol about twelve hours before

the elderly Isaac Teitelbaum was shot.

“It may be only a stab in the dark,”
the patrolman admitted. “But there’s al-
ways the chance it might strike home.”

O'Donnell agreed; He himself carried
the bullet downtown to Bill DelTorre, who
examined it under his twin miscroscopes,
compared its rifling marks with those on
the lethal slug.

“You've got it, Bernie,” he said finally.
“The bullet Orseno dug out of the play-
ground was fired from the pistol that
killed Teitelbaum.”

Patrolman Orseno was immediately re-

called to duty, attached to the homicide
squad and sent back into his home district
to try to ferret out the identity of the
man who had staged his rehearsal for
murder in a public playground.

He worked without rest for a day and a
night, prowling the hangouts in his neigh-
borhood, asking questions. He came up
with one name—Edwards. ~

The name was familiar to both Sergeant
Schwartz and Detective Dugan. It had ap-
peared before in the murder probe and
they quickly reviewed their notes on the
case to discover where.

Grover Cleveland Edwards—he had

once been an employe of Isaac Teitelbaum

in the bakery.

Then, in going through the reports, the

detectives came upon the name again.
Grover Cleveland Edwards lived on Osage
Avenue in the same apartment house
where Norman Clay’s pistol had been
stolen. He was the tenant whom Detec-
tives Murray and Coan had.been unable
to find at home.

When the cops found the name of
Grover Cleveland Edwards a third time,
they were sure of their man.

Now thirty-three years old, Edwards had
a police record dating back to 1935, when
he had been given a two-year suspended
sentence for burglary. There were ten
other arrests on his card, in Philadelphia
and Florida, for larceny, malicious mis-
chief, assault—and robbery. He was a
stevedore by trade. His description closely
fitted that which Teitelbaum had given of
the masked man who shot him.

Jules Teitelbaum looked at a rogues
gallery picture of Edwards. Not only did
he recognize the man as a former employe
in the bakery, but recalled having seen
Edwards in the Osage Avenue neighbor-
hood about a week before his dad was
killed.

The suspect was not in his apartment on
Osage. The super there said he had not
been around for several days.

Patrolman William O’Hara from the

_Stationhouse at Twelfth and Pine Streets,

knew Edwards by sight.

“He used to have connections in South
Philly, around where Teitelbaum’s bakery
was,” O'Hara said. eh

He, like Orseno, was attached to the
homicide squad, and teamed up with
Orseno and Detectives Mueller and Beech
of the Fifth Division, to hunt through
South Philadelphia for the husky suspect.

On Thursday, Patrolman O'Hara and
Detective Mueller got a tip that Edwards
was staying with his mother-in-law at an
address on American Street, near Cather-
ine, an address only about eight blocks
from the bakery which Teitelbaum had
formerly owned.

The two cops went to the mother-in-
law’s flat. Edwards was there. He made
no effort to resist arrest. He was unarmed.

At headquarters, where he was ques-
tioned by the arresting officers and by.
Deputy Commissioner Richard Doyle and
Inspector John Murphy, Edwards stoutly
denied the murder:

“You got my record against me, that’s
all,” he said. “You figure me for a push-
over on this rap on account of I got a
record. It’s no good.”

They finally convinced him of the fire-
arms identification evidence, and persuaded
him to believe that they had witnesses who
would name him as the man who was
practicing with the pistol at the playground
the day before Teitelbaum was slain. Of
course, this was not the situation, but as
in so many similar cases, the man who
commits the crime is never really sure how
well he has covered up his trail.

Then he made and signed a complete
confession.

He said he knew about the sale of the
bakery, and was aware from watching the
Teitelbaum house that the old man would
be alone when he entered.

He expected to get a rich haul. When
the victim thrust only $12 at him, scream-
ing it was all the money he had, Edwards
became enraged.

“I just blew up,” he said. “I cut loose
with the gun. I was so mad I couldn't
even hit him with the first three shots.
After I finally hit him, I left the old man
and ran out the door—just about as fast
as my feet would carry me.”

He fied the scene, slipping down the
street, confident no one would see him at
that early hour of the morning. Within a
few seconds he was in his own apartment,
neighboring that of Norman Clay, from
whom he admitted stealing the death
weapon.

Later, Edwards said, he boarded a
trolley and rode to the bridge over the’
Schuylkill River, where he dropped the
gun, wrapped in a green sock, into the
murky waters beneath.

Members of the homicide squad under
Lieutenant Martin O'Donnell, using a new
type of self-controlled magnet, went to the
river to drag for the gun. It came up on
the first cast of the magnet. Bill DelTorre
tested it, and found it to be the pistol that
killed Isaac Teitelbaum.

Edwards was arraigned on Friday on a
murder charge before Magistrate E. David
Keiser, who not only held the suspect
without bail for grand jury action, but
gave his personal check for $200 to be
divided as a reward among the men who
cracked the case.

Other recognition was quickly forthcom-
ing for Patrolmen Orseno and O'Hara, Ser-
geant Schwartz and Detective Dugan, Del-
Torre, and Detectives Mueller and Beech.

All were given official citations by Com-
missioner Gibbons for the prompt solution
of a crime which, in the beginning, looked
like it might never be cracked at all.

And once again, a persistent investiga-
tion had paid off.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Nothing in this true
account is intended to prejudge the in-
nocence or guilt of Grover Cleveland Ed-
wards. The names Roger Price and
Norman Clay are fictitious.


VR eR

80

Second American Tragedy

Flannery of the District Attorney’s office,
Bobbie,” said Captain Powell. “Now just
take things easy and tell us all about it, and
you haven’t anything to be afraid of. I’ve
known your father for nearly fifty years,
and I’m pretty sure his son is all right.
Suppose you begin by telling us all about
what you did last night, and if there’s any-
thing Mr. Flannery doesn’t understand,
we'll try to explain it for him.”

The moment had come. Bobbie Edwards
looked around, and then plunged in boldly.
“Why, I’m afraid there isn’t very much I
can tell you. You see, I took Freda out for
a ride and we met the Rosettis, and took
them home, and then I left her at the corner
of Plymouth Street. She said she was go-
ing swimming. Perhaps she had a cramp
or something and drowned.”

The men in the room exchanged glances.
The attorney took up the questioning. “You
didn’t drive her down te the ice-house? Or
go near the lake yourself at all?”

“No, She got out at the corner of Plym-
outh Street and said she would walk.”

The attorney's voice took on a. slight
edge. “Look here, young man. It isn’t go-
ing to do you any good to tell us stories
like that. Captain Powell here, found the
tracks of a car in the sand-pit by the ice-
house, and we had them photographed.
Here’s one of the pictures; -you can see for
yourself how clear that patch-mark is on
the rear tire, and what a funny shape that

Robert Edwards, the man in
the triangle of death.

patch is, and how all the tires have left
marks where the car turned. Captain Clark
looked at your car in the garage and it has
a patch-mark just like this, and found that
all the other marks on all the tires corres-
pond. Those marks are just as distinctive as
fingerprints. That’s why you've been

brought down here. Now come on, weren’t-

you down by the ice-house last night?”
Bobbie Edwards felt an icy little pang of

fear shoot through him. “Well—” he stam-

mered, “you see, I had a quarrel with Freda,

OES RRR Se IR TO PAE pe Pee am EN ARETE:

American Detective

[CONTINUED FROM PAGE 63]

and when I heard she was dead [ didn’t
want anyone to know. Then she said she
wanted to go swimming, so I left her there
and drove home. I did, honest I did!”

“What time was this?”

“V’m not quite sure, but it was carly,”
Bobbie felt on surer ground now. “It must
have been a little after ten when I left, be-
cause I drove home slowly and stopped at
the drug-store to get a couple of bars of
chocolate for my mother, and when IT got
home it wasn’t eleven yet.”

Again there was that meaningful ex-
change of glances among the four men and
Bobbie Edwards had to choke down a wild
feeling of panic that rose in him. Captain
Powell turned to the fourth man in the
room. “Check up,” he said shortly.

“Drug store?” asked the other, and as
the captain nodded, straightened his hat
and went out.

“What did you quarrel with the girl
about?”

“Aw—well, you see, Vin going to marry
a girl up in New York State and IT guess
maybe she was sore about it. She said her
mother didn’t want me to see her any more
and then she was blue and depressed and

” the flow of his words dammed up
suddenly as he saw the look in the circle

.of eyes about him. “What’s the matter,

don’t you believe me?” he almost gasped.

Captain Powell answered, “Bobbie, listen,
Don't try to put anything over on us.
You're just making things worse for your-
self. You needn’t try to hold anything
back because we know all about it, and if
it’s all right nothing you say will go be-
yond this room. We know that Freda Mc-
Kechnie was going to have a baby. You got
her into trouble, didn’t you, Bobbie?”

The young man could only hang a shame-
faced head.

“You quarrelled about that with her,
didn’t you, Bobbie? Now tell us the truth
about what time you left her there.”

“A little after ten, just like I said.”

“Mmm. Then how do you explain this.
It was raining last night, right up to a
quarter after cleven. Tf you left Freda there
she must have undressed and changed to
her swimming clothes alone in the bushes
where we found her clothes. But when we
found them this morning, they were dry.
So she must have gone in later than a quar-
ter after eleven, and she must have been
under cover somewhere up to that time,
There aren't any houses around there,
Bobbie, and yours was the only car that
went there last night. There’s only one sct
of car-tracks in the mud left by the rain.”

OBBIE EDWARDS felt his face going
white. He stammered impotently, un-
able to find words—and at that moment the
detective came back. “He’s lying,” he an-
nounced brutally. “In the drug-store they
say he was in there at half-past eleven, but
he told the druggist his clock was wrong.
He checked up on the radio and it was all
right.”

The state police captain spoke up for the
first time. “There’s something else, too.
When I looked at the tires on that car, I
noticed his swimming suit hanging on the
line in the back yard, and it was still damp.”

ee tins 3A ii ica eit aaa oi

Betty De Costa, five-year-old girl
who made the grim discovery of
the body.

“Well, Bobbie, what have you got to
say?” Captain Powell’s voice was sterner
now. “You went swimming with Freda last
night, didn’t you? Why not come clean and
tell us the whole truth?”

The young man looked from one to the
other of them like a trapped animal, trying
to think his way out. He had so much to
explain now, and his prepared story was
crumbling beneath his feet.

“Well, you sce—you see "he began,
then rushed on, carried away by the swing
of his own words, “We went in swimming
and we swam out to the float together, and
played around in the water for a while. And
then she dived off the float, and didn’t come
up for a long time, and then IT dived off
too, and began to look for her, but it was
all dark and T couldn't find her. So then I
dived under the float, and [ found her there,
and oT tried to get her out) and I
couldn't——"

“Why didn’t you get somebody to help
your?”

“There isn’t anybody that lives near the
lake. You see, she told me she was going
to have a baby, and [ said I’d marry her
and take care of her all right. I did, honest
I did. I wasn't going to let her down. I
didn’t say anything about this other girl
and I was even writing a letter to her to
tell her I wouldn’t marry her when you
came for me. Freda and I didn’t quarrel.”

“Why didn’t you tell somebody about it
last night or this morning? You treated
Freda’s mother pretty mean, you know, let-
ting her worry all night.”

“I was scared because she was going to
have a baby. I was afraid I did something

eens

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Bobby Edwards’

Recovered from the muddy bottom of Harvey’s Lake, this heavy blackjack
became an important link in the chain of evidence forged about a cold-
blooded and ruthless killer.

ESTLED atop the beautiful Ap-
palachian mountains in north-

eastern Pennsylvania, Harvey's
Lake sparkled in the dazzling sunlight
of a perfect summer day on that after-
noon of August 1, 1934. The country-
side, refreshed by a drenching rain the
night before, added to the loveliness of
the scene.

Laughter, music, happiness reigned
along the broad stretches of beach’ as
hundreds of pleasure seekers enjoyed the
sunshine and the water.

But into this perfect scene stark
tragedy was to rear its head.

Suddenly, through the jumble of
happy sounds came the piercing cry of
a woman,

“Help Help! Help!” the voice
shrilled. “There’s a girl drowned
here!”

Two life guards plunged into the lake
and swam at top speed to the spot where,
from a boat some fifty feet beyond the
outer rope at Sandy Beach, the woman
peered into the water.

As the men reached their goal they
caught a glimpse of the still form of
a young woman, clad in a vivid orange
bathing suit, resting on the lake bottom.
One knee was bent as though in prayer,
and the right arm extended over the
head as if in supplication.

Losing no time, the guards reached
into the four feet of water, tenderly

42

lifted the girl’s form into the boat and
rushed it to the dock. There they went
to work in a desperate effort to revive
some spark of life.

“I was sitting on Mayer’s dock,” the
woman said, “when my little girl, who
was out in the boat, called to me. I
couldn’t hear her and she paddled into
the dock to tell me ‘There’s a lady in
the lake for the longest time, mother.
She can stay under water longer than
I can.’ I rowed out to that spot and
found her. She must have wandered
away from Sandy Beach and got a
cramp, from the way her leg is bent.”

As the guards continued their frantic
but futile efforts to resuscitate the
girl, Ira Stevenson, chief of the Lake
police department, attempted to identify
her.

“I think she’s from Edwardsville.”
ventured someone from the crowd.

“Go over to Sandy Beach,” Steven-
son ordered a bystander, “and tell them
to announce over the loud speaker that
a girl from Edwardsville has been
drowned and we are trying to identify
her.”

Then, turning to one of his officers,
he said, “Call the telephone operator at
Dallas and tell her to send a doctor
quick !”

The guards kept up their grim battle
for life, fighting against odds they felt
were hopeless.

n

4

The shadow of tragedy was thrown

over Sandy Beach at Harvey’s

Lake when the body of Freda Mc-

Kechnie, clad in a bathing suit, was

discovered at the spot marked with
an arrow (extreme right).

Chief Stevenson, a veteran of the
Pennsylvania State Police, questioned
persons:in the crowd and learned that
no one had seen a bather enter the
water from Mayer’s dock. And then,
skilled observer that he is, Stevenson
silently studied the still form on the
dock. He was quick to see a smudge
of brown along the edge of the girl's
bathing cap, near the back of her neck.

I was on the scene shortly and talked
with Chief Stevenson at length about
the tragedy.

Has Premonition

ig | HAVE a premonition,” he told me,

“that this is not an ordinary drown-
ing. I have been thinking over today’s
happenings and recall that a cottager
drove past headquarters this morning
and handed me an armful of clothes,
girl’s clothing. He said he found them
near Rood’s camp on the Bear Hollow
road.

“I know that many people go into
the secluded grove to change their
clothes and then walk down to Sandy
Beach, so I placed the clothing in an
envelope and put it away.

“There have been no alarms of
drownings or near drownings today
along the 18-mile shore line and I be-
lieve, from the appearance of this girl’s
body, that she has been in the water
all night. But I saw no one in bathing
last night when I made the last patrol
around the lake. The: road is nearer
the water along here than at any other
spot and I surely would have seen any-
one swimming during the night as we
covered the entire highway every hour.

“In looking at this girl’s head just
now I saw that smudge on her cap and
lifted the rubber a bit—there’s a dis-

STARTLING DETECTIVE

Ao ee

_——

a /
<—s aeeenc” sa f 4

a


sitting
Phila-

idwards,
over the
llen, Freda Mc-
ared at the gate.
ee

mother wants

leart contracted
n found? No,
across the road,
would say.

woman in’ her
ind in the mean
th worry. “‘Oh,
just crazy with
ne all night and

Imost coldly. “‘I
vered, using the
: called her when
ouse for dinner.
ht when we were
m home. Freda
lymouth Street,
ome. You see—
want me to go

[ never said any-
ju know it. Oh,
uu say to her be-
The woman was

“Well, you see,
I met at State
a and I have al-
(thought I ought

uddenly became
she slowly lifted
y God,” she said,
y Freda? Bobbie,

‘d his shoulders.
like that. How
ned to her? She’s
ither rose slowly,
in whom he had
ter.
‘lor door opened,
la’s older brother.
youth who stood
| whispered some-
Kechnie leaped to
he had failed to
e whole room was
Our Freda is dead.
cme at him!” He
{ son. Mary Ellen
d the door. ‘‘Get
re my father kills

d injunction. He
et, across the road,
room. The thing
off then he imag-
his story, stick to
thing would be all

a Ml io Hil = le ee a ad Sa a i oi Sa BES 124s

63

Second American Tragedy

¢
right. He began rehearsing the details over again to
himself, and as he did so, was aware of his mother’s
voice in the hall below, anxious, a trifle strained:

“T think he’s in his room. Bobbie!” ;

He opened the door. It was not McKechnie as he
had feared, but Captain Richard Powell, the chief
county detective, a frequent visitor at the Edwards
home, with another man Bobbie did not know.

“Hello, Bobbie,” said Captain Powell. “You know
Freda McKechnie’s body has been found in Harvey’s
Lake, don’t you? We understand you were with her
last night, and so we thought we'd give you the first
chance to tell us what happened.”

The second man took hold of Bobbie’s arm; out of
the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of his moth-
er’s horror-stricken face.

“But Captain Powell,” she protested, “you aren’t
arresting Bobbie, are you? Can’t he tell you about it
right here?”

The detective chief turned to the stricken woman.
“Pm sorry, Mrs. Edwards, but I’m afraid we'll
have to take Bobbie down to the station house with
us.”

.... There were four of them in the little office
when Bobbie Edwards was led in; Captain Powell and
the other detective, a big man whom Bobbie knew as
Captain Clark of the State Police, and “This is Mr.

[CONTINUED ON PAGE 80]

Mrs. Evelyn Edgarton, friend of Freda, who told of
parties with Bobbie and Freda.

A view of Hurvey’s Luke where the dead body of Freda McKeoehnie was found. The row boat
is passing over the approximate spot where the discovery was made.

+ dah ee a LDN: 2 ay 7 ws
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82

to her. But it was just an accident. She
must have come up under the float and she
couldn’t swim out from under it. You know
how it is when you're in the water some-
times, you get mixed up, and Freda wasn't
an awfully good swimmer. So she must
have come up under the float and just
drowned there.” He gulped and was almost
in tears as he finished, then looked up to
see what effect the story had had on his
hearers. }

To his horror he saw unbelief in all four
faces. Captain Powell shook his head. “It
won’t do, Bobbie,” he said. “Freda Mc-
Kechnie ‘wasn’t drowned. When we found
the dry clothes we knew that something
was wrong about this, so we had the sur-
geons perform an autopsy. That’s how we
knew she was going to have a baby. You
know that when a person drowns their
lungs are full of water, don’t you? Well,
Freda didn’t have any water in her lungs,
so we know she didn’t drown, And I might
as well tell you, Bobbie. That wasn’t all the
surgeons found. They found a long deep
cut in her head, under the bathing cap.
They say she had been struck over the head
with something.”

lor a moment the room swam round the
desperate boy, and everything seemed to go
black. He had struck too hard! He felt that
he was going to faint; then with an effort
he recovered himself. “Wouldn't that hap-
pen when she came up under the float?”

“No, Bobbie. The surgeons say the blow
was hard enough to give her a concussion
of the brain. She couldn’t possibly do it
herself,”

Bobbie Edwards flung back his head. He
would make one more try.

$6 A LL right, I’ll tell you the whole story.

We were going for a swim together.
She was sitting in the boat that’s tied to
the end of the dock there, while I sat on
the dock up above and talked to her. After
a while she said she was going to get in
and swim. She started to stand up to jump
over the side of the boat, but when she

did it her foot slipped or she fainted or -

something and she fell over backward,
striking her head on the edge of the boat.
She lay there sort of cross-ways in the
boat and she didn’t move. IT got her up on
the dock and threw some water in her face
and tried to bring her to, but I couldn't.
Then I felt for her heart, and I couldn’t
feel it beating, so I knew she was dead, be-
cause I knew she had a weak heart and a
shock like that would kill her. I was fright-
ened. IT was afraid I’d be accused of killing
her, because | knew she was going to have
a baby and I knew she'd cold some other
people about it. Besides, | had told some
people I was going to marry Miss Crain
and T was afraid there’d be trouble if Freda
died like that. So I put the body into the
water and swam out, pulling it after me, to
about two hundred feet from shore, and 1
left it there and put her clothes under the
tree and came home. I was just scared. I
didn’t kill her, honest I didn’t.”

There was a momentary silence in the
stuffy little room in the Wilkes-Barre
Police Station. “It could be that way,” mur-
mured Captain Clark, grudgingly.

But Captain Powell said, “This sounds

mit

American Detective

a

Freda McKechnie, daughter of a miner,
who was wooed by Robert Edwards
until he met and fell in love with a
girl of his own social standing, Mar-
garet Crain. The above picture shows
Ireda in her swimming suit.

nT tld tb ha ce cl anata iN Seite tinatc), Aad Haat A

pretty bad, coming from you, Bobbie. It
makes you look like not at all the kind of
man I hoped you were going to be. Are
you willing to repeat what you've just told
us before a stenographer and let him take
it down and then sign it as your state
ment?”

A great wave of happiness swelled up in
Bobbie Edwards. He had put it over; he
was going to get away with it after all!
“Certainly, Mr. Powell,” he said. “Then
can I go home?”

“T’m afraid not. We'll have to keep you
in jail tonight while we check up on this.
You've told us so many stories already that
I don’t know whether to believe you or
not. However, we'll know better in the
morning.”

Bobbie Edwards slept little that night.
You can imagine what his feclings were;
the other prisoners complained that he
tossed to and fro on the narrow bunk in his
cell, and that his moaning kept them awake.
Toward morning he fell into a fitful doze
to wake with a start as the iron door of his
cell clanged and he found himself con-
fronted once more by Captain Powell, no
longer considerate, but tight-lipped and
stern,

“Bobbie,” he said, “I’ve given you every
chance in the world, because I’ve known

‘your father for a long while, and you're his

only son. But I'm not going to fool around
with you any longer. I want you to tell me
about this thing and tell me straight. There
are two lives involved, remember—F reda’s
and the baby's, Now look here; the doctors
say that if Freda had fallen in the boat the
way you said she did, the cut in her head
would have been cross-wise, from one ear
toward the other, and down on the back of
her head. Instead, it runs in exactly the
other direction, and it’s right on top of her
head. And Bobbie, we dragged the lake last
night, and we found—this,”

And under the eyes of the horritied
young man who thought he could get away
with murder, he thrust the blackjack, the
fatal blackjack that had come down on
Freda McKechnie’s head with that terrible,
dull shock, out there in the lake.

Bobbie Edwards, the wealthy young man
who had found a miner's daughter good
enough to play with but not good
enough to marry took one look at that ob-
ject and knew it was not the slightest use
to keep it back any longer, “AIL right,”
he sobbed, “I knew I couldn't keep quiet.
My conscience wouldn’t let me rest. I'll teil
the whole story... .”

But what good will
mother—or Bobbie's ?

And thus ends Pennsylvania's real-life
American tragedy as dramatic as its fic
tional parallel “An American Tragedy”
by the famous Theodore Dreiser which
swept the country some ten years ago,

It is not the first time that a rich youth
has loved a poor girl unwisely only to
awaken and find that he wanted to marry a
girl of his own. social standing: but. it
should prove to the youth of America that
crime can never pay.

If this real-life story does nothing else
it should go a long way to prevent a
“Third American Tragedy.”

that do Freda’s

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“That Bobby Edwards!” There was hatred
in McKechnie’s voice.

“What do you mean, George?” I asked.

“T’d like to know what he knows about
my girl’s condition,” the father said, bit-
terly.

“We'll look into that,” I assured him.
But he seemed not to hear me.

“And I’d like to know what he knows
about her death, too,” he added.

The full significance of his words star-
tled me. I was so unprepared for it. Bob-
by Edwards—the boy who loved Freda—
the boy who was going to marry her?

Surely Bobby could not be guilty of
hurting Freda’s reputation, to say nothing
of causing her death. He would be able
to explain, I told myself. The thought
cheered me, for I was almost as fond of
Bobby as Freda.

I got in touch with Chief Stevenson and
Captain William Clarke, of the Wyoming
Barracks of the State Police at Wilkes-
Barre, and we returned to the Edwards
home, next door to the McKechnie house.

AN EDWARDS, the boy’s father,

‘was home and he seemed surprised to
see me. Under his friendly gaze, I could not
tell him that I wanted to question his son
about Freda’s death. I just said I wanted
to speak to Robert, and the boy said he
would walk outside with me.

“Robert,” I said, “I want you to come
to the State Police Barracks with me.
There’ are some questions I want to ask
you about Freda.”

“Why, sure, Mr. Powell,” he replied,
“T’ll go with you.”

So we took him over to the barracks
and asked him to tell the circumstances
of his last engagement with Freda.

He repeated exactly what he had told
the girl’s parents. It was a straightfor-
ward story and he was undoubtedly anx-
ious to help us.

I left him there and went out to join
some of the other officers in a search of
the ground around the lake. Down on a
stretch of beach, seldom traveled by cars,
we found the tracks of an automobile. Or-
dinarily, it would have assumed no great
importance; for it would have been merely
a set of tire tracks. It was unusual, how-,
ever, for the marks were clear-cut and dis-
tinct. They had been made while the
earth was soft with rain, and, undisturbed,
had dried into a hard, clear impression.
The remarkable thing was that one of the
tires had a blemish in it which showed
distinctly in the mud.

A guard was left there, and I went
on searching for other clues. And sud-
denly, about six hundred yards from the
spot where the car had been, I came upon
a pile of clothing. It was laid on a piece
of newspaper under a tree. There was a
flowered crépe dress, a white hat, white
kid shoes, stockings, a girdle, a brassiére,
some underwear, a pair of white -suede
cloth gloves and a little red pocket-
book.

Were these Freda’s things? And, if so,
when had they been placed there? Surely
not last night, for it had rained, and these
clothes were dry. Carefully I picked them
up in the paper and started back to the
barracks.

Robert looked up with a smile when I
entered the room where he was sitting.
How boyish he looked, I thought!

“Robert,” I said, “what make of auto-
mobile have you?”

He told me without hesitancy.

“It’s a Chevrolet,” he replied. “A coupé.”

“Robert, was your car parked at Har-
vey’s Lake last night?”

True Detective Mysteries

Black-Jacked Love!

(Continued from page 18)

I watched his face for a reply. But he
looked me straight in the eyes.

“No, sir,” he answered, “it was not.”

“Where is your car now?”

“Why, it’s home—in front of our house,”
the youth said,

Once more I left him and drove over to
Edwardsville. And there was the little
coupé parked at the curb. And on one of
the tires I found a blemish exactly like
that imprinted in the mud at Harvey’s
Lake!

* * * * *

It was the following day that I con-
fronted Robert with that knowledge. We
were sitting in the library of the barracks,
and he was explaining again his move-
ments on Monday night. He told again
how he had met Freda and Rosetta; how
he had given them a lift and dropped
Rosetta at her home; and then had let
Freda out in the center of the town,
driven home and gone to bed.

“Robert,” I asked, “do you still say you
were not at Harvey’s Lake Monday
night?”

“T was not there,” the youth answered.

“Then how do you account for the tire
marks we found there—the marks that
show the blemish on one of your car
tires?”

He did not answer.

“I found some clothing near that
spot, too,’ I said. “I think it is Freda’s.
And I know it was your car because the
tire imprint is clear in the mud.”

The silence in the room was oppressive.
Robert Edwards sat staring down at his
hands. Finally he raised his eyes and
looked at me.

“All right, sir,” he said, “I’ll admit it.
I was there—and Freda was with me.”

And suddenly he was blurting out a
story which sent a chill through me. As
he talked, I looked at him and wondered
if this could possibly be the boy I had
known. For he was so calm, so unruffled,
and what he was saying was a prelude to
stark tragedy. As he spoke the years
dropped away and he and Freda were chil-
dren again.

Freda was always in love with him.
And he was devoted to her. They were
bound so closely by family associations,
and by those ties of friendship which are
almost as thick as blood.

HEY went to the same school, they at-

tended the same church; their fathers
even worked in the same firm: Dan Ed-
wards was paymaster of the Kingston Coal
Company and George McKechnie was
fire boss at the same mine.

The elder Edwards was superintendent
of the Bethesda ‘Congregational --Church
Sunday School and the McKechnies all at-
tended services there.

As they grew older, Freda became an
officer ‘in the Christian Endeavor Society
of the church and Robert, likewise, was
active ,in- religious work. When they fin-
ished school; Freda went to work in a
brokerage ‘firm and Robert also got a
job there. :

The two. families were fast. friends.

‘Their houses were joined by backyards,

and they visited each other often and
shared mutual joys and. sorrows.

Freda was a shy, comely girl, in whose
eyes anyone «could pos i adoration - of
Robert, She was conscious of the differ-
ence in their age, but-she never mentioned
it, and, out of her love for him, she fer-
vently hoped he had forgotten it. For
Freda was old-fashioned and believed a
— should be older than the girl of his
choice.

It didn’t seem to make any difference
to Robert. He was constantly in the
girl’s company. He came and went in
the McKechnie home as though it were
his own. As he grew into a handsome
lad, he became something of a “lady
killer”, but it never worried Freda. It
never occurred to her to mistrust him.
She loved him so much there was no room
in her heart for doubts.

She and Robert would be married some
day when he got a good job and made
enough to support them. She could afford
to wait. Too, perhaps Robert would, like
his father, go to work for the Kingston
Coal Company, and they would settle
down and be together forever. Freda was
happy enough in that thought.

UT Robert had no intention of follow-
ing in his father’s footsteps. He
wanted a higher education.

Strangely enough he encountered no
opposition. His father was more than
willing to have him go to the State Teach-
ers College at Mansfield, Pennsylvania.

Even Freda offered no objection. She
received the announcement with a tight-
ening at her heart; but because she loved
him she wanted him to have his way.
And so she helped him to get ready.

She wrote him often, telling him of the
little happenings in their home town,
sending him packages of home-made cakes
and candy, longing for the day he would
return. —

But between the autumn of 1932 and
the spring of 1933 there was a gap in
the relations of these two which was like
a great chunk cut out of Freda’s heart.

Yet Robert wrote her regularly and
Freda managed to get through the long
months. She even went out occasionally
with another boy in the town. And his
coming pleased gray-haired George Mc-
Kechnie who, somehow, could not recon-
cile himself to Bobby’s going away. In
his heart was a growing resentment against
this small-town boy who thought he was
too smart for Edwardsville. And so he
welcomed a good plain likeable youth like
George Thomas.

Freda also was glad to have George call.
It helped pass the time. It made her
realize how much she cared for Bobby!

Then, quite suddenly, in the late fall
of 19338, Robert Edwards left college in
the middle of the term and came home.
He gave no explanation and Freda asked
for none. He was back—that was all that
mattered. And the day she saw him, the
day he took her in his arms, Freda Mc-
Kechnie thought she would die for joy.

She stood silently by as he made it
known to:-George Thomas that Freda was
his girl. She offered no protest when he
arrogantly asserted that she must have no
other callers but himself. Indeed, while
she was sorry for George, she was glad in
her heart that Bobby was so possessive.

The youth got a job with his father’s
employers. With his knowledge of engi-
neering he was put to work in the sur-
veyor’s office, and Freda waited breath-
lessly.:for the day he would propose to
her. She lived only for the hours she

spent in his company. And so when, on

one spring evening in April, they started
off: for a walk through the woods beyond

‘the town, and Robert urged her down on

the mossy rocks beside him, the. girl was
powerless to resist him. She sat, there
quivering beneath his touch, listening to
his impetuous young voice as he poured
forth all the passionate longing of his
heart.

As the spring night deepened, Freda

McKechnie lost
neath the ardor
swept away. Wh
her she melted in
his lips sought he
out protest. Ab
whirling madly j
hands reached uj

Once, from fai
mind, the voice
pered that this w
unable to heed i

It was early in
began to feel un
and tired and de}
too, for the first
conversation her
and repeated to

Mrs. McKechn
one hot morning
voice in the Edwz
say, “Oh, honey,
saw a strange gi
Bobby Edwards’
McKechnie, but,
ignored her. It
significance to th
he fail to speak
she asked him a
it aside.

“ HY, that’s
to visit m)
York State,” he «

Freda heard o
of her heart, bu
told her mother
could be nothing

So the days p:
and moody, quit
eat—sleep was al
customed to illn
Haven Sanitariu
convinced that s!
culosis.

She must find «
with her health.
what the trouble
she did not ment
she felt the wat
constantly.

“You're not \
Kechnie said ger

But the girl b

“Tt’s the heat.
worry, please, M

But she worri
finally on the aft
went to a physi

And it was th«
she was pregnan
panic seized her.
ert? What woul

An excellent
Pennsylvania,

jing as he went.
‘eorge McKechnie.

se.
thing dreadful has

ing has happened.
y what she planned

ae

j. “I thought she ;
T’'ll go see Rosetta,”
the mother pleaded,
iess,”” he answered.

n it started to rain
to Rosetta’s for the

ee
4 make some inquiries. -
wed him to the door. She
sleeve. Tears were running

me, are you? Did you and

- in a little while.’

said nothing. :
oes, almost beside herself

band to report wees
Rosetta came in, breathiess.
achnie sobbed. “Why didn’t
me over to ask about Freda—
ago,” the girl replied. - s
er reproached her. ‘He sai

en looked puzzled.

‘What's that?” George McKechnie asked, slowly. ““What’s.
that, Rosetta—you haven’t seen Bobby?” -
one since last night.” :
e father turned away to join his married daughter, Mrs.
Robert Patton, Jr., in the parlor. He said no mene, but sat
down heavily, drawing on his pipe, seeking comfort in silence.

* * *

While sorrow slowly spread through the little village of
Edwardsville—and fear and suspicion gradually grew in the
minds of the little McKechnie family—a throng of vacationists

-at Harvey’s Lake laughed away the long summer afternoon,

oblivious to care or worry.
Long ago, the beautiful lake was the summer residence of

some cf the most influential people in Pennsylvania. Im-.

poss homes line the shore that rises against rolling wooded
ills.

Nestled in this natural setting, the blue waters have at-

| (Above) A picture show-
ing the close proximity
of the stricken families.
Arrow 1 indicates the §
McKechnie home, and
2 that of Dan Edwards @
(Upper right) Robert §
Edwards (left) leaves @
the courtroom in com-
pany of officers (Lower
i right) The slain girl’s

tracted visitors from all over the country. As time went by,

many of the earlier residents of the place sought their vaca-
tions elsewhere. Gradually, the Lake became a more popular
spot. Slowly, the middle-class families adopted it. Conces-
sions were opened on the Sandy Beach grounds. In time it
became a sort of miniature Coney Island. But its beauty
continued to draw thousands each year.

Every summer the beach was dotted with bright. parasols.
A little fleet of rowboats nestled at dock waiting for custo-
mers to cruise around the lake. All day long the sound of
laughter floated on the summer wind.

It is a favorite haunt of swimmers, and its icy waters, fed
by mountain springs, offer a challenge to the efforts of the
best athletes.

Even little five-year-old Betty DaCosta admired the ability:

of one swimmer that July afternoon.

“Mummy, look at the lady in the white cap,” she cried in
a shrill, childish voice. ‘I wanna swim like that. Look how
she stays under the water—look, Mummy!”


12 True Detective Mysteries

The child’s mother glanced up from her book as she reclined
in a long deck-chair. Directly in front of her a white bathing
cap bobbed along the blue water. It was so clear Mrs. Da-
Costa could even see the flash of orange bathing suit a few
inches below the surface of the lake.

“Yes, I see,’ she smiled. ‘You just wait; when you're a
big girl you can swim like that, too.”

She turned back to her book.

The sunlight flooded the beach as it began its slow march
down the western heavens. Some of the vacaticnists prepared
to leave. Chairs were folded up. Remnants of lunch collected.
Groups of children were gathered together by parents.

Little Betty tugged at her mother’s dress.

“Mummy, the lady’s still there,” she cried.

Again Mrs. DaCosta followed the direction of her daughter’s
chubby, pointing finger. And now, as she looked, she was
aware that the swimmer had not moved, and there was no
motion of her figure.

“TT isn’t possible,” she thought, “that anyone could stay
under water so long!”

While she sat staring, fascinated, at the white cap and the
streak of orange suit, George Jones, a life-guard, sauntered by.

“Who is that out there?” she asked.

“T was just wondering the same thing myself,’’ Jones re-
plied. “It looks phony to me.”

He plunged into the lake and swam out with long swift
strokes. When he returned he was dragging the swimmer
with him, and as he turned to the shore he cried out:

“Get a doctor—quick!”’

A dozen startled children ran toward the houses along the
beach crying out for a physician who had left only a short
time before. A group of adults rushed to aid Jones and help

(Below) Officers examine the clothes Freda was wearing the
night she left her home. Left to right: John J. Dempsey;
David Green of the State Police; Chief of Detectives
Richard Powell, co-author of this story; and Warden Baden

him tow his burden ashore. But the guard waved them back.
He stood over the girl and tried to administer first-aid. But

her arms were stiff and rigid.

A doctor came running toward them in tow of two little
boys. He bent over the slim, prostrate body in its gay orange
suit. With the guard’s aid he turned her over on her face.
As he stripped the white rubber cap away, blood, released
within it, spilled out upon the sand. .

€ * we

At that very moment of grim tragedy at Harvey’s Lake,
Bobby Edwards came dashing into the McKechnie kitchen.

‘Have you heard anything from
Freda?” he asked. But Mrs. McKechnie
ignored his question.

“Bobby,” she cried ‘brokenly, “can’t
you do something—can’t you find her—
don’t you know where she is?”

The youth raised his right hand
solemnly.

“T swear before God,” he said, “that
I know nothing about it.”

And they were unaware of excited
voices at the front door. They did not
see George McKechnie struggling in the
arms of some friends to reach the kitchen.
It was Grace Patton,
sister, who came rushing out to them,
her face white with horror. ;

“You'd better get out of here,’’ she
pointed a shaking finger at Bobby Edwards. ‘‘You’d better
get out of here before my father kills you!”

Her voice cracked into awful sobbing.

Edwards hesitated one instant and, then, without a word,
fled from the house.

And the girl crumpled up with arms flung out on the table.

“Oh, mother,” she sobbed, “they’ve found Freda—in the

lake—murdered!”’

* * *

When Ira Stevenson, Chief of Police of Harvey’s Lake
phoned me of the tragedy, I was never more shocked in my

The above picture shows police trying
crowd that milled about the Luzerne
Barre, Pennsylvania, and attempted

sweetheart-slayer

Freda’s older °

to hold back part of
th
County Court ilies’,

to storm the
pnt oth

life. I had kno

child. [ lived ts as
years before, her pare
make their home ther.
As I stood on Sandy
the face of the dead gir
, 88 well as thou;
te ens how she hi
and laughing and da
street beside me. I cou]
ish voice asking the coi
jl nag of children. I co

eager face and feel
“ Bog ou’ little fing:

. no harde

spite the Scag of
been handled under I
ese twenty years, and
‘ Death has never failec
eath, coming to one I kn.
It was an effort even
And my heart was sick as

rm? How had she
swimming? Why? fey

yve Pi

icture shows police trying

-hat milled about the Luzerne

Pennsylvania,
sw

L

<ed, But Mrs. M

iestion.

and attempted
eetheart-slayer

heard anything from

cKechnie

he cried brokenly, “can’t

hing—can’t you find her

yw where she is?’

,

“raised his right hand

ing about it.
were unaware
. front door.

of excited
They did not

bnie struggling in the
om to reach the kitchen.

ace Patton,
came rushing ou
rite with horror.
etter get out of
by Edwards.
kills you!”

il sobbing.

")

, arms flun:

Freda’s older’
t to them,

here,”’ she

“You'd better

and, then, without a word,

g out on the table.

they’ve found Freda—in the

*

of Police of H
as never more sh

arvey’s Lake

ocked in my

Black-Jacked Love! 13

gone alone, for that wouldn’t have been at all like Freda.

I had been given the few brief details of her disappearance,
none of which answered those baffling questions.

But when she was placed on the operating table, another
terrible question was to present itself.

For, as Doctor Thomas Wenner, the Coroner’s pathologist,
finished his examination of the body he raised puzzled eyes
to my face.

“Was this girl married?”’ he asked.

“No. She was engaged to be married,” I said.

Doctor Wenner slowly shook his head.

“She was pregnant,” he told me. “In five months she would
have had a baby!”

My first impulse was to tell him he was mistaken.
Freda! .

And my face must have reflected that feeling for the surgeon
said kindly, “I’m sorry—it’s true,’ and turned away.

Not

I WALKED out of that hospital actually ill. All the way to
Edwardsville the sickening thought persisted—I had to
see her mother and father, who were my friends. I had to
question them. —

I had to discuss with these good people the intimate secrets
of their daughter’s life.

I could not, even to myself, reconcile her condition. Freda
was going to marry young Bobby Edwards—everybody knew
it. It was no secret.

Ever since childhood they had been close to one another,
first as chums, then as schoolmates, then as sweethearts.
The town had watched that romance and beamed its approval.

Freda was five years older than Bobby. She was twenty-
six and he was twenty-one. But he was the only real beau
she had ever had. He was the only man she ever had truly loved.

(Below, left to right) Rosetta Culver, close
friend of the slain girl; Betty McKechnie,
Freda’s sister-in-law, and John McKechnie,
the dead girl’s older brother, shown in the
courtroom during the murder trial

to hold back part of the tremendous
County Court House, at Wilkes-
to storm the courtroom, when the
went on trial

life. I had known Freda since she was a
child. I lived in Edwardsville when,
years before, her parents had come to
make their home there.

As I stood on Sandy Beach looking at
the face of the dead girl, I could remem-
ber, as well as though it were only
yesterday, how she had clung to my
hand laughing and dancing along the
street beside me. I could hear her child-
ish voice asking the countless questions
typical of children. I could see her small
eager face and feel again the trusting
clasp of her little fingers.

I am no hardened police official, de-
spite the thousands of cases that have
been handled under my _ supervision
these twenty years, and more. :

Death has never failed to strike awe into my soul. And
death, coming to one I knew and loved, completely crushed me.

It was an effort even to stoop and touch that icy body.
And my heart was sick as I did so. For the back of Freda’s
head was cracked open, and the ghastly wound still dripped
crimson.

I ordered her body removed to the Nesbit Memorial Hos-
pital at Kingston across the Jake. And all the way over there
the horror of the thing passed and re-passed in my mind.
What could have happened? Who could have wished her
harm? How had she reached the lake? When had she gone
swimming? Why? And with whom? Surely she had not

When I reached the McKechnie home it was filled with
sympathetic neighbors. Freda’s mother, almost hysterical,
had been put to bed under the care of a doctor.

It was the father who met me in the doorway and, alone in
the little parlor, I confided to him what had happened to his
daughter. I had to look this old friend in the face and tell
him that his daughter’s head had been smashed in; that she,
unmarried, would have borne a child by Christmas.

He went ghastly pale as the words came from my lips.
Then the blood slowly mounted to his face in a wave of scarlet.
Anger mingled with his grief and his hands clenched.

“That Edwards boy!” he cried. (Continued on page 78)


1 the float, “point
can where Freda
you came up from

moment, asked the
7 slowly along the
At last he pointed
At that spot there
sheathing of steel,
ad inflicted on the
1 rounded from ex-
and the wood was

that Freda could
njured in the man-
“everishly the sus-
other parts of the
wuld he find a sharp
might have caused

iore,” he said de-
ly some cigarettes.
a change or two

to talk to Chief
‘r investigators left

ope,” Edwards be-
echingly at the de-
rot to believe this.
nut the float so that
bad for me.
d, we went to the
straight into the
aining one of the
ipped—maybe she
ards and hit her
1 the bow.”
on by panic, Bobby
into the lake and
d, so that it would
rowning. Two or
eart and pulse and
action.
nce. Then he led
detectives and they
where the suspect
{ Freda’s supposed.

: down like that,”
would have gotten
- head. The wound
ight on top of her

ficers whose eyes
steel, abruptly lost
ad displayed since

he screamed hys-
llows believe any-

asier if you stuck
ud. “We’ve-tripped
ne on—what’s the

nistakes,” Trooper
one of them was
‘lieve Freda had
ere the body was
da half feet deep

ated to get rid of
have to break up
‘et Crain?” Powell
vant to marry her,
r out of the way
ht? So you lured
: on a rainy night
any other bathers.
hore, then hit her

ls suddenly crum-
wut of his face. The
eyes, and his lips
ent of an‘ animal
1 so, there was a
evident in his at-
he could drop the
heavily burdened

he said, speaking
“J—I hit her with

et be eee aera

a blackjack. You'll find it on the bottom
of the lake... .”

HE WAS returned to the Wyoming bar-
racks and left alone to rest. It took two
or three more days before the confession,
dragged out piecemeal, was complete. In
the main, the pattern of the crime was just
as the investigators had reconstructed it—
his motive was to escape a distasteful mar-
riage, his scheme deliberately planned.

Bobby said he had concealed the black-
jack in the neck of his bathing suit when
they went in the water, Then, when they
had gone out to a point where the water
came up to their shoulders, Bobby ap-
proached Freda from behind, raised the
blackjack high over his head, and brought
it down with a sickening crunch on the
top of her skull. There was a piercing
scream, then silence. The girl slipped be-
neath the surface, with only a few dark
ripples to mark the spot where she had
been standing. Bobby cast’ the weapon
from him, hurried back to shore, and
dressed and returned to Edwardsville as
he _ had previously related,

The case against the “American tragedv”
killer was completed by the finding os the
blackjack and by the investigation of addi-
tional details pertaining to his courtship of
Freda and Margaret Crain. '

_ The enormity of the deceit and two-
timing practiced by Bobby Edwards was
laid bare when he -went on trial before
Judge Alfred Valentine in Wilkes-Barre
in October, 1934. District Attorney Thomas
Lewis headed the prosecution, while the
chief defense attorney was Frank Mc-
Guigani.

Between the solution of the crime and
the trial opening, Flannery had enlisted the
cooperation of Margaret Crain, Edwards’
college sweetheart. This sorrow-stricken
girl, who at first refused to believe that
Bobby Edwards could have committed mur-
der, now gave the prosecutor more than
150 of the flaming love missives written
her by Bobby at the same time as he was
courting Freda McKechnie.

Some of these letters were unprintable.
Many of them, read in court, brought
blushes to the faces of feminine spectators.

Bobby had addressed Margaret Crain
variously as “My Darling Wife,” “Blessed
Damozel,” and “My Goddess.” One letter
concluded with the words:

“T must have you with me in body. I
will take you to bed now and hold you to
me all night. —Your Buddy.”

Another letter, in part, read:

“My everlasting and increasing love is
coming to you this night... .
truly and would do anything for you. We
are eternally one. I love you in a divine
way and I know you love me the same.
—Buddy.”

Again, the ardent Bobby wrote: “Keep
your — — — and your lips soft and wet
for me.”

No better proof as to Bobby Edwards’
duplicity could have been offered than was
contained in these letters. The faces of the
miners and merchants in the jury box grew
grim as they heard them read by Assistant
District Attorney Flannery. The motive
for murder was outlined as clearly as if it
had been presented by a diagram on a
blackboard. Too, there was Bobby’s com-
plete confession, which in simple phrasing
painted a graphic picture of the horrible
crime.

The Keystone state has no false mercy
for murderers such as handsome Bobby
Edwards. When the jury came in after
deliberating, the verdict was:

“Guilty—in the first degree.”

And the shattered youth who thought he
could perpetrate the perfect “American
tragedy” was led away to death row, where
he remained until he paid the supreme

‘penalty for the crime at Harvey’s Lake. /

I love you °

- INSIDE DETECTIVE

Snake in Her
Bosom —

(Continued from page 25)

perverted mind, so often concealed during
adolescence, suddenly asserts itself and
drives its owner into committing strange
crimes without motive or reward,

Only the day before I had been studying
a chart showing that the number of nine-
teen-year-old persons arrested during a
given period exceeded the number for any
other single age group, and a large pro-
portion of them were charged with major
crimes. Had Louis Hamann always been
a killer at heart? And had some sudden
hate we had not yet discovered brought his
latent brutality to the surface?
_ I was convinced that it had when the
sheriff returned with the news that one of
Louis’ shirts was missing. Even more
damaging was the information that when
Louis, left*“Mr. and Mrs. ‘Holst and _ his
mother : .d-grandmother to go uptown, he
was w-dring a white shirt. And when he
cal! a the peace officers, he was attired in
a colored shirt! ~

We submitted his suit and hat to tests
for blood. Some dark spots found beneath
his hatbrim were positively identified . as
human blood. Now we decided, it was
time to question Louis Hamann.

HE WAS NOT at all concerned when

we called him in. He freely admitted
that the spots were blood, but he said he
had gotten them in a fight with his cousin,
Hugo Scherrenbeck, at a dance hall some
days before.

But his calm was all on the surface. In
reality, he was so shaken that he had
told a silly lie. It was a simple matter
to check with Hugo Scherrenbeck and
find that he hadn’t even seen Louis for six
weeks, much less had a fight with him.

We arrested Louis after that and charged
him with first degree murder.

It was just eight o’clock when I sat
down across the table from Louis in an
attempt to extract a confession from him.
I was morally certain that he was guilty.
But moral certainly isn’t legal proof. And
while we now had considerable circumstan-
tial evidence, I doubted that it was enough
to convince a jury of his guilt. It’s hard
enough for a normal person to believe
that anyone can kill. That clean-looking,
blond-headed Louis Hamann could kill his
own grandmother who meant room and
board and affection to him was almost un-
beliévable ! ~

So I set out to get a confession from
Laalerto I wasn’t at all sure I could

oO it.

“Why did you murder your grand-
mother?” I asked him.

“I didn’t,” he answered calmly.

“There was blood on your hatbrim. You
said you got it in a fight with Hugo, but
you lied. And the only reason you would
tell such a silly lie is because you're afraid
to tell the truth.”

He was silent. He looked right through
me with as much indifference as though
I had been a shadow.

“You burned your white ,shirt in the

stove,” I accused him. “It was covered -

with blood so you had to burn it. You
think you are clever, Louis, but you're
the most foolish criminal I’ve ever come
across—and I’ve seen a lot of criminals.”
His expressionless eyes began to show
a little anger, but he was still on guard.
“If you had to change your = shirt,
Louis,” I jeered, “why didn’t you have
sense enough to ,put on another white
one?” \

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2 eggs BET

 ealbemasiinie

ates

tenance

(Left to right) Detective John clang
Chief of County Detectives Powell and St

On his first evening at home he took
her driving in his new Chevrolet coupé.
The spring night was mild, so they went
out to one of their favorite spots—Har-
vey’s Lake. The season had not yet got
under way, and the beach was deserted.
They climbed out of the car and strolled
down by the water. Freda wondered
why Bob seemed so quiet. His carefree
manner of the recent vacation had van-
ished. Slipping her hand into his, she
asked gently:

“Bob, is anything wrong?”

“No, indeed,” he told her hastily, and
pressed the hand he held.

™@ THEY WERE standing now on the

edge of a wooded section, gazing out
over the dark waters of the lake. Freda
sent a quick glance about her. Not a
soul was in sight. Suddenly, standing
there beside the man she loved, she felt
afraid. She could not have explained
the reason. Perhaps it was her mother’s
many warnings about the depth and
coldness of the lake, or it may have been
an intuitive hint of the horror that lay
ahead. A slight shiver ran through her
slender body.

Bob noticed it and asked quickly,
“Are you cold?”

“No,” she replied softly.

He put an arm about her and drew
her close to him. They began walking

46

in among the trees. It was very dark

and quiet, but with his arm warm about:

her, she was no longer afraid. Her slim
body relaxed as he took her in his arms,

pressing his lips to hers. She nestled ©

closer, burying her head on his shoul-
der. They sat down on a wide rock, and
he whispered:

“You do love’me, don’t you, Freda?”

“Yes, Bob.”

“And you trust me, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes, I do,” she replied solemnly.

“Tf we love each other,” he went on,
“then anything between us is all right,
in the sight of God.”

Perhaps now he was going to propose.
Perhaps her dream was at last to be
realized. She surrendered her lips to
him. They remained there, in the
shadow of the tall trees, for some time.
When at last they drove back to town,
it was Freda’s turn to be silent. ;

That Bob loved her she could no
longer doubt, but he still had not men-
tioned marriage. Perhaps he intended
her to take it for granted after tonight,
but she wished he would make it clear,
so that she could tell her mother and the
girls who teased her. She kept hoping
he would say something specific as he
left her, but he merely brushed her fore-
head with his lips and then drove off
toward his home. She crept quietly up
to her room, not wishing to disturb any-

holding bathing cap; State Trooper David Green,
ate Policeman Bader examine the slain girl's clothes

one, as she didn’t feel much like talking.

She had expected Bob to call her next
day, but she did not hear from him
again for three days, and then his casual
manner toward her filled her with keen
disappointment. His tenderness of a few
nights before seemed to have dis-
appeared. The inexperienced girl was
completely bewildered, and a little
frightened. :

She was refusing all Charles’ invita-
tions, and that young man had become
angry and stopped telephoning her, Her
best friend, Rosetta Culver, noticed that
Freda had grown pale and seemed un-
happy. She spoke of it to Freda, but the
girl laughed. It was a nervous little
laugh and not convincing.

Bob was spending four or five eve-
nings a week with her, but usually at her
home. They seldom went out, and she
had slight opportunity to talk intimately
with him. She would have been too shy,
in any case, to bring up the matter
nearest her heart. One evening she
suggested:

M™ “LET’S GO swimming out at Har-
vey’s Lake some day.”
“I thought your mother didn’t like
you to go swimming in the lake.”
“Oh, she’s just frightened because of

. Stories she’s heard about how deep and

how cold it is,” said Freda. “We're both

MASTER DETECTIVE

good swimmer
“All right,” }
get your bathir
in the car. Whe
we'll go swim
about it to her
she won’t be ne
“A good idea!
~~She -was*stru
more attractive
that she hoped \
versation. Dur
lose her appeti:
came worried.
Although Bot
evenings a week
felt that he gr
each passing day
stand it. He see
the McKechnie
politics with he
general discussi
gested taking h
trying to save mc
in a position to ;
she told herself.
he loved her on t
lake. She kept re
to herself, hopir
again, but he
further and fur
even as he sat i
The girls tease
was going to ann:
and what kind of
ning. She felt ac
longed to have hi)
ship clear. She :
with him as ever.
Toward the en
pale and thin tha
alarmed and insi:
to their family ph:
examined the gi)
worried mother,
“She'll be all rig’
her a prescription
She needs a tonic.

TO FREDA, in
room, he said gr.
your mother, for
heart; but the trou
is that you’re goin;

The girl stared
then her body swa
about to fall. Th:
her, got her into a
her ina fatherly {
tell him who the
was, and he advis.

“There is only ¢
do, Freda. You mi
the man at once,
you.”

Freda moistened
was so dry she foun:
She had a sensatic
down into a whir
which she would n
tricate. herself, Sh<«
to do or say. The ]
news had been a:‘co
and suggested in a

“T think it woulc
to visit a friend for
away from home, (
once, and get your a
so that will be off y

Freda nodded, h.

FEBRUARY, 1942


sught

‘re they sat

1 other ever
1igh school
ansylvania,
{ adjoining
ne away to
jeld, Freda
forget her,
ly—that is,
of late had
aow, sitting
small white
forgot the
g the past

zed at his
somer than
es, straight
e inexperi-
2emed that
‘-the-world
glamour in
too, held a
a’s admira-

STER DETECTIVF

tion shone in her face, and it flattered
the young man. There could be no
doubt, the girl was madly in love with
him.

“I must go back home now,” he an-
nounced after a little while. “Mother
and father are expecting me. How
about the movies tomorrow night?”

Freda acquiesced, smiling happily up
into his face. f

‘ She would have to telephone Charles
and postpone her date with him. When
she called the other man next morning
she had a pang of remorse, for his tone
showed plainly that he felt hurt. Her
mother remonstrated:

“Freda, you shouldn’t have done that.
Charles is sensitive and you’ve been
glad enough to have his attention while
Bob was away at college.”

“I know, Mother,” agreed the girl,
“but Bob’s in town for only a few days.”
She couldn’t have turned down an op-
portunity to be in his company. She
lived for the moments she spent with

FEBRUARY, 1942

him. She followed his lead-in all mat-
ters of religion. He was an ardent
worker in the Christian Endeavor
Society. j
_ She hoped he would. take her to
church with him on Easter Sunday, but
he went with his parents. During the
service, Freda found it hard to keep her
eyes from straying to the Edwards’ pew.
She clutched tightly the small red
pocketbook he had given her as a
present the evening before, and hoped
desperately that he would propose dur-
ing this holiday. It was growing a little
embarrassing, because the girls were
teasing her about when she would an-
nounce her engagement. ‘“He’s just
shy,” she told herself. “He loves me; I
know that he does.”

But he returned to Mansfield without

bringing up the subject of marriage.

While Freda once more attended parties
and the movies with Charles, she began
counting the weeks until Bob would
come home for the summer. This period

that it would hide forever his guilty secret

of waiting became more and more try-
ing as his letters came less frequently
than they had before the vacation.
Freda made excuses for this, but it
worried her. She bought the women’s
magazines and studied the pictures, try-
ing to dress her hair and wear her
clothes the way the sophisticated models
did. Bob, she argued, was now thrown
with clever girls from large cities, and
she felt a little uneasy lest he fall in
love with one of them.

Then came the day in mid-May when
she ran to her mother, waving a letter
she had just received from him.

“Mother, mother, Bob’s giving up col-

"lege and he’s coming home! He’s taken

a job here in Edwardsville, as assistant
surveyor.”

Could this mean, wondered Freda,
that he had decided to settle down and
marry? He had not given her the reason
for his sudden change of plan. She could
hardly wait for him to get home, feeling
sure that he would now propose to her.

NG LOTHARIO.


— emg

Wa PSE RETO I TT OS

i

} “ie ws
DWARDS, Robert Allen, wh, elec. PA (Luzerne) Me

oops wee eee %

The lake was deep. The killer thought

By NIGEL
TRASK

HE slim girl with the dark brown

I hair stood behind the crisp white
organdy curtains of her bedroom
window, peering down into the street
below. She could just see the roof of
the large house down the block. A little
current of warmth and excitement ran
through her as the colorful sunset of
the early spring day faded into dusk.
She had been standing there for a
long time, her eyes increasingly eager.
Perhaps the train was late, she told her-
self, but she didn’t really believe it. Or
maybe he had missed the train and
wouldn’t arrive until next day. As dark-
ness settled over the room, she slowly
turned away from the window and

Freda McKechnie, happy in
her love, did not know that
a fiend plotted against her

44

crossed to the bed, where she sat down -

staring at nothing in particular.

She had waited so many hours for
this afternoon, and now he hadn’t come.
She had even made a new dress, after a
stylish pattern, which she hoped would
make her seem more sophisticated in
his eyes. She smoothed it down, then
pulled her sweater tighter about her
young shoulders. The room was grow-
ing chilly.

A heavy step on the front porch below
aroused her. Her eyes became suddenly
bright. She slid off the bed and tiptoed
across to the hall door. Opening it an
inch, she heard her mother exclaiming:

“Well, Bob, it’s nice to have you home
again!”

With the litheness of her twenty-three
years, Freda McKechnie flew down the
stairs. Tall, sleek-haired Bob Edwards
stood in the lower hallway grinning at
her as she ran toward him. Her mother
smiled and disappeared into the rear of
the house, leaving the young people to

~

Harvey's Lake was .the
tragedy scene in this saga te
of tangled loves and murder §

}

DEAD |

MASTER DETECTIVE, February, 19/2

go into the living-room where they sat
talking in low tones.

They had been fond of each other ever
since they had attended high school
here in Edwardsville, Pennsylvania,
where their parents owned adjoining
property. When Bob had gone away to
Teachers’ College, at Mansfield, Freda
had been afraid he might forget her,
but he had written regularly—that is,
until recently. His letters of late had
not come quite so often. But now, sitting
beside him on the sofa, her small white
hand in one of his, Freda forgot the
qualms she had had during the past
weeks.

She thought, as she gazed at his
profile, that he was handsomer than
ever, with his deep-set eyes, straight
nose and jutting chin. To the inexperi-
enced small-town girl it seemed that
Bob had acquired a man-of-the-world
air that lent him even more glamour in
her eyes. His conversation, too, held a
new note of authority. Freda’s admira-

MASTER DETECTIVE

that it

tion shone in
the young m:
doubt, the girl
him.

“T must go k
nounced after
and father ar
about the mov

Freda acquie
into his face.

She would h
and postpone h
she called the .
she had a pang
showed plainly
mother remon:

“Freda, you s
Charles is sen
glad enough to
Bob was away

“I know, Mc
“but Bob’s in to
She couldn’t ha
portunity to be
lived for the rn

LY

PEBRUARY, 1942


BY FORMER CHIEF DETECTIVE

WILLIAM DINSMORE
Washington County, Pa.
AS TOLD TO WILLIAM WHITE

ADAMP, YELLOWISH FOG shrouded the quiet town of
Washington, Pennsylvania, on the night of December
29, 1927. Thick and murky, it settled in a pall that
intensified the bleak darkness of the winter night,
and even the principal streets were canyons of
ghostly gloom.
Cars moved along slippery pavements cau-

light on the running board. It was small
. wonder that the sidewalks were deserted
and the moving picture theaters, usually
crowded for the early shows, held only a
handful of hardy spectators.
Among these was attractive Thelma
Young, just seventeen,

tiously, many with a man swinging a flash-.

In mortal terror, Thelma tried to cry out. But her
scream was stifled before it reached her lips as cruel
fingers clutched at her throat and a powerful body bore
her to the ground. She struggled frantically, the guttural
curses of her assailant in her ears. Then came black, limp
unconsciousness as a heavy object crashed against her
head again and again...

HE FOG had been burned away by the rising sun
the next morning when Dominick Grisslow, a glass-
worker, entered the lane on his way to work. Striding
hurriedly along, Dominick came upon something that
made him stop short.
Lying directly before him in the path was a girl’s

slipper. Nearby, several bright amber beads sparkled .

in the sunlight, and as his startled eyes ranged farther
into the surrounding briars, he recognized fragments of
torn lingerie, a bloodstained brick, and signs of a ter-
rific struggle.

An awe-struck exclamation burst from Dominick’s
lips. He saw a trail of broken branches and clinging frag-
ments of cloth, as if a body had been dragged away.

About fifty feet to one side, an old wooden

and with enough vital
energy to make her ,

fence poked above the brambles, and
toward this the bloody trail led. The

brave any kind of §
weather to attend a film {
she wanted to see. At |
the Regent Theater, not

lab followed it. He did not h t
‘A FRONT PAGE STORY a6 pita, a gph ‘plinetne through the

ABOUT PENNSYLVANIA briars to the crest of a small rise, he be-

held a horrifying sight.

far from her home, she
plunged herself into the
emotions of a romantic
drama, and lingered.for
the last breathless fade-out wherein
the handsome young hero held the al-
luring heroine in his arms and pressed
his lips to hers.

Then the screen flashed “The End,” and

Thelma walked out and started home
through the mist.

Completely isolated in the murk, she
perhaps pictured herself as the heroine

she had seen clasped in the embrace of a
chivalrous young lover. Like most girls of
her age, Thelma’s youthful dreams were
cloaked in an aura of tender romance.

Certainly, even the highly-colored movie world
_ was a thousand times closer to the reality she
‘knew than was brutal lust and stalking death.

® Humming a carefree tune, she swung into the dark lane
which made a short-cut to her home. Around her it was
dim and quiet, with: countless tendrils of trailing fog
gutting her off from the world, but she was not afraid,
for she knew her way well.

Yet suddenly she stopped. Had she seen a movement
in the obscurity ahead of her, or was it only a fantasy
a the night?

Then an evil face emerged from the shadows, and a
savage hand shot out with numbing quickness—at her.

ie

A] MN AUALOND ALOAOAIAD 0 ANE HEATH AOE ne
I Tosgal te nn Se ses mt

The almost-nude body of a smooth-
skinned girl lay sprawled on its back in
a hollow of the ground just beyond the

, fence. What must once.have been a pretty
-head was now a grotesque and bloody mask of bruised
flesh, crushed bone and wisps of matted hair.

Recoiling instinctively, Dominick yet paused for an in-
stant. Perhaps there was a chance that the girl might
live. He moved closer. Her slender body, he saw, was
almost.completely exposed, only a few tattered shreds
of bloody undergarments clinging to her white form.
From the waist down she was laid cruelly bare, even
to her slipperless feet. Gathering all his courage, the
laborer picked up one small white hand, feeling for the
beat of life. It was cold as death! -

‘Dominick ran back across the lot to a cluster of houses

only a few hundred feet away.
“Someone has murdered a girl!” he shouted to the
first person he saw. “She’s lying up on the hill, dead!”

Despite the’ early hour of the morning, a crowd quickly .

gathered at the grisly scene before the police arrived, and

~one of the neighbors identified the girl as Thelma Young,
one of several children in the family of Mr. and Mrs.
Sylvester Young of nearby Altamont Street:

“They’ve been looking for her since last night,” the
neighbor murmured.

Lieutenant H. C. Joliffe of the Washington police was
the first officer to arrive. He immediately ordered every-
one away from the spot where the death struggle had
apparently occurred, so that no clues would be disturbed.


PA at ell

oe

Photodiagram below

- shows the vision that

struck the eyes of
glassworker
Dominick Grisslow—
the almost-nude body
of a young girl,
sprawled among the

briars. :

Hurrying home from the theater, sev-
enteen-year-old Thelma Young took a...
short-cut through an unfrequented |

area—and it proved a short-cut to vio-
tent death at the hands of a lurking
attacker. :

erences


‘ DREAMER , gf
White
\ Flece
Pas =
(Washingr
ton Co,) hat
2/1/1937)

a

More. Horrible

bt K,

Slayer

vale - i

Could ‘he Fendich

Crimes

ing girl—at first. And we have hun-
dreds of reports a year on girls
missing from the mining and mill
towns around Pittsburgh. Consequent-
ly, I had no reason to believe I was

[i WAS just another case of a miss-

starting on a heart-breaking and hor-. /
rible case that was to keep the com-.

munity at fever pitch for weeks—the
case of a pretty girl, a bursting bud of
a woman, ravished and brutally mur-
dered by a human vampire. .
Gray-haired Jim McGinley, Assis-°
tant Chief of Allegheny County de-.,
tectives, handed me the office mem-
orandum on that bitter cold morning of
January 20, 1936. e. a Ree
“Say, Frank, this is in your district,
he said.
The bit of paper read:

‘

“Look into it, will you?”
“Elizabeth
Louden, fifteen, of Walkers’ Mills, is
missing. Has not been seen since Sat-
urday night, January 18. Was wearing
a gray hat, dark green coat and ‘black -

shoes. Is five feet two inches tall,
weighs 115 pounds and has dark brown
hair and blue eyes.” ;

“Just another runaway kid,” I re-
marked. McGinley grinned. “Yeah,” he
said. “Wish those kids would leave
notes telling us where they’re going.
Would certainly save us a lot of work,
especially on cold days like this.” — -

As I bundled myself in a heavy éver-
coat, all I thought of was the icy wind
that would be whipping drifted snow
‘across the country roads out in Walk-
ers Mills, a coal town ten miles from
our .Pittsburgh office.

There had been a blizzard the night
before. The main highways were now
cleared,. but drifts of snow five to six

28

Frank Ritz

. ‘Allegheny County Detective, ag Told to i
_ A.J. Phillips and
Harry Kodinsky

feet deep were banked on both sides
as my car skidded and slipped over the
icy roads, White flakes still swirled
from the gray. sky. :

I felt like a snow man by the time
I arrived at the missing girl’s home, a
small frame house, shabby and bare of
paint like most of the houses in the
tiny village. The girl’s parents, William
and Annie Louden, anxious but not
tearful, told me their story.

They said that Elizabeth had been
working as a maid for Mr. and Mrs.

Robert Allot in Rennerdale, another:

village about a mile beyond Walkers

ere TIVE

H
{
{

Mills. Usually on Saturday: nights she
left the Allot residence at alittle after
7 o’clock and walked home ‘along the
Noblestown Road. However, when she
did not come on this particular Satur-
day night they were not worried be-
cause the steady rain of the' afternoon
had turned suddenly to snow and they
thought she probably had stayed ail
night, as she sometimes did, to avoid
the bad weather. When no word came
from’ her Sunday -morning, though,
they sent her brother tramping through
a raging snowstorm to the Allot house.

Mrs. Allot told the brother that

st

STR I

EK,

' Elizabeth. had been paid three dollars
the night before and had left at her
» usual time, ten minutes past 7 o’clock.

Mr. and Mrs. Louden began to

"worry. Mr. Louden hurried to neigh-

bors’ homes to.ask if anyone had seen
Elizabeth. No one had. So he called
the police.

“Has she any. boy ftiends? Do you
think she could have run off to be
married?” I asked.

The parents both shook their heads.

“No,” Mrs, Louden said. “She went
with only one fellow, John Herleman,
who lives down the road. She wasn’t
with him, because he had a’ date with
her and came around last night at 9
o’clock to find her. He’s been looking
for her, too.”

OhASTRE she was hit by a car and
covered up with the snow,”
Louden ventured. :

I assured the couple that I would
look for the girl. But I had no luck.
We questioned residents not only in
Walkers Mills but in Carnegie, the
large mill town three miles from the
little coal town. Carnegie is the center
of all activities for the surrounding
communities. And no one had seen
Elizabeth.

Then several important cases came
up and I was forced to lay aside the
ease of the missing girl.

On the afternoon of February 27,
more than-a month later, Lawrence
Kline, my partner, and I were check-
ing a case with the Police Chief of
Carnegie, Christ Keisling, in the Car-
negie Police Station when the tele-
phone rang and a womani’s voice


92

had received, I went to Sergeant William
Hanna, of the Pennsylvania State Police,
and told him of my suspicions.

“Pm convinced this rapist is connected
with the murder of Thelma Young,” I
said.

A tall, lean officer, head of the local
State Police post, Hanna nodded.

“Secrecy is important if we’re to get
anywhere,” he cautioned.

{ assured him my _ investigation had
been of the most confidential nature.

As a result of this conference Hanna
assigned a State Police officer, Private
John Gettier, to aid me with my investi-
gation.

Our task was to interview as many at-
tack victims as possible, a work made
doubly difficult because of the delicate
nature of the information desired and the
natural wish of all the phantom rapist’s
victims to shield their identities as well
as their lives.

However, we did locate one woman with
more courage than her’ sisters. An at-
tractive housewife of twenty-eight, she
told us:

“Tye kept quiet a long time because I
was told I would be killed if I ever
opened my mouth. But I think these
horrible attacks have been going on long
enough, and I’m willing to take a chance.”

fie’ young matron then described an,

attack she experienced at the hands
of the phantom several weeks before.

“I was walking home late at night
when this man jumped out at me from
the tall grass at the corner of Baltimore
"eae and West Maiden Street,” she
said.

This intersection is scarcely two hun-
dred feet from the spot where Thelma
Young’s body was found.

The young woman continued :

“Fe elamped his hand over my mouth
and. started battering my head against
the telephone pole on that corner.”

Across my mind there flashed a picture
of Thelma Young’s murderer, nine years
before, subjecting her to the same treat-
ment. Was this coincidence?

“JT could feel consciousness going, but
I struggled as hard as I could,” our in-
formant went on. “Luck was with me
because all at once a car drove past. It
scared the man and I managed to break

away.

“But I didn’t get far. He ran after
me and again threw me to the ground,
this time near a shed. about fifty feet
from the pole.

“As he tried to attack me he said, ‘Tf
you ever say a word about this I'll come
back and kill you.’

“Just then the driver of the car that
scared him the first time returned to see
what was going on. Seeing I was in trou-
ble he stopped. I managed to get away
and ran to his car and got in.”
~The young woman was driven home
by her benefactor following her miraculous
escape from the fate suffered by a number
of her less fortunate neighbors.

Something in the pretty housewife’s
manner convinced me she knew the iden-
tity of her attacker. Therefore I said:

“Tf you tell us this man’s name we'll
see that he never troubles you or any
other woman dgain.”

She hesitated a few seconds, then
looked me squarely in the eyes.

“All right,” she said quietly, “his name
is Robert Dreamer.”

My heart gave an exultant leap as I
realized the potential importance of the
young housewife’s revelation. The lead,
so eagerly sought over a ninc-ycar period,
was at last in my grasp. °

Yet I' was puzzled. I had known
Dreamer for twenty years and, while I

True Detective Mysteries

knew him to be more or Icss shiftless, I
- had never associated him with a crime
of this nature

Nevertheless, subsequent investigation
heaped additional evidence of an. un-
savory nature upon the head of the thirty-
nine-year-old railroad employee.

We learned from a number of eirls
that they had been approached improp-
erly by Dreamer as far back as 1928, not
long after the slaying of Thelma Young.
Other girls were found who had willingly
gone out with the stocky railroad
laborer.

All were agreed upon one sig-

i

“Boys, as your guest speaker of the
evening, I’ve chosen the topic
‘Crime Don’t Pay!’”

nificant fact: The man was a brute, an
over-sexed brute whose appetite for the
opposite sex was virtually insatiable.

Additional inquiry at the railroad
roundhouse, a short. distance from the
scene of Thelma Young's atlack, revealed
that Dreamer had been employed_ there
the night of December 29th, 1927, and
that his duties permitted him to leave,
undetected, for as long as an hour at a
time.

This. I realized, would have permitted

him ample time to waylay his hapless

prey, then return to. the roundhouse.
My growing conviction that the real

perpetrator of the nine-year-old outrage

was at last discovered was

‘These were with Dreamer’s estranged
wife, twenty-four-year-old Ruth Caldwell

Dreamer, and her mother, Mrs. Goldie

Caldwell.

Mother and daughter lived at the top
of the hill in the Kalorama section over-
looking the City of Washington. As I
was well acquainted with both women
and as neither suspected our real motive,
questioning was a relatively simple mat-

ter.

Ruth Dreamer radiated attractiveness.
Her mother, scarcely more than forty,
looked more like an elder sister. Both
were separated from their husbands and

lived together.

Both talked readily, Ruth explaining
she had left her husband several years
before upon the suggestion of her phy-

sician.

“He was ruining my health,” she hinted

delicately.

“Did you ever hear: Bob say he com-

mitted an act of violence?” I asked.

Ruth Dreamer shook her head. “No,”

she said.

Her mother interrupted. “Don’t you re-
momber that time when he said he'd give
you the same thing he gave another girl

if you didn’t quit running around?”

further
strengthened by two intervicws Private
Gettier and I had after our talk with the
young matron who first named Dreamer.

Ruth Dreamer flushed. “Y-ce-s,” she said
reluctantly, darting an uneasy glance in
my direction, “I remember, but 1 guess
he was just talking.”

Both women inadvertently supplied
another link in the rapidly growing case
against Dreamer when they admitted he
had owned a brown overcoat for many
years.

Asked concerning its present where-
abouts Mrs. Dreamer said:

“He burned it a couple of years ago.
It was all in rags.”

Dreamer, we learned, was at present
employed by the Pennsylvania Railroad
in the near-by town of Carnegie, but took
the train back to Washington daily where
he lived with one of his seven married
sisters.

At a conference attended by District
Attorney James C. Bane; Michael J.
Powell, who succeeded Dinsmore as Chief
of County Detectives; Sergeant Hanna of
the State Police and myself, we agreed to
arrest Dreamer at once.

Thus, at one a.M. Tuesday, January
21st, 1936, Chief Powell, County Detective
William McBride, Private Getter and
I arrested Dreamer as he stepped off the
train at the West Maiden Street cross-
ing, the same spot where Thelma Young
was last scen alive nine years before.

The stocky, round-faced railroader
evinced no great surprise when 7 said:

“Sergeant Hanna wants to talk to you,
Bob.” :

“T guess it must be about that trouble
I had with Flora,” he said.

“That’s it,’ I replied.

In silence we drove to State Police
Headquarters where Sergeant Hanna im-
mediately began questioning our burly
charge.

Although I observed Dreamer closely
as he was told of our real suspicions, I
detected no trace of nervousness or sur-
prise, save for a slight. licking of lips.

He jwas questioned for the remainder
of the night, but no tangible progress
was made. At dawn, following a hurried
council-of-war, Private Gettier and
drove Dreamer to the lockup at Canons-
burg, nine miles distant.

AY the trial we were criticized by de-
fense counsel for doing this, especially
when the county lockup was only two
miles from State Police Headquarters,
but our purpose was this:

We wanted to keep Dreamer’s arrest
from the public until we had time to
question him further, unhampered by out-
side interference.

There, for three days, we questioned
the husky railroader almost continually,
permitting him a minimum amount of
sleep.

Confronted with numerous evidences
of his attacks upon women, Dreamer
weakened slowly. At noon Friday, Janu-
ary 24th, we decided the time was ripe to
return him to State Police Headquarters.
There, at the request of Sergeant Hanna,
former Chief Dinsmore was summoned to
aid in the questioning of the suspect.

For the remainder of the day Sergeant

- Hanna. Chief Powell, former Chief Dins-

more, Private Gettier, Detective McBride,
Railroad Detective John Ludy and I took
turns questioning the stubborn rapist and
suspected murderer.

His phlegmatic calm slowly oozing.from
his powerful body, Dreamer continued to
deny his guilt. Beads of perspiration
sprang forth on his forehead as question
after question was fired with deadly
monotony. ,

Suddenly, at a motion from Dinsmore,
Private Gettier produced the brown
overcoat button dug out of the clay nine
years before.

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“Do you recognize this button, Dream-
er?” the officer asked.

Dreamer’s watery blue eyes centered
upon the shiny object with a hypnotic
stare.

“That button came off your coat,
Dreamer,” Gottier said softly. “It came off
your coat when you struggled with Thelma
Young.”

Suddenly Dreamer’s head dropped upon
his chest and he gasped:

“That button! My God, how I’ve
searched for it! And you found it!”

The sight of his overcoa! |\\:ton seemed
to excite Dreamer as uuiiiig else had.

The rest was easy. Dreamer readily
consented to make a full and complete
confession, which he did immediately in
the presence of all the above named offi-
cers.

The defendant said he was thirty-nine
and that he lived at 152 !'xine Street
with a sister. Since January 10th, 1923,
he had worked as a laborer for the Penn-
sylvania Railroad. He admitted that on the
night of December 29th, 1927, he was
working at the roundhouse, only a short
distance from the scene of the crime.

Told by Dinsmore that he did not have
to make a confession, that anything he
said would be used against him at. his
trial, Dreamer said:

“I will make the statement of my own
free will.”

“Then tell us everything from the very
beginning,” counseled Dinsmore.

In a quiet voice, speaking without any
trace of hesitation, Dreamer began:

“T never knew Thelma Young at all,
although she lived not far from my home.
The night of the murder I left my work
at the roundhouse and started down the
Pennsylvania tracks. When I reached
West Maiden Street I turned and went
up to Baltimore Avenue, and from there
to the abandoned alley known as old
Baltimore Avenue.

“T WANTED to find a girl—any girl, I
had waited there before and knew that
one would come sooner or later,

“I waited at the top of the bank, hiding
behind the telephone pole.

“When Thelma Young came along I
waited until she reached the pole, then
[I jumped at her.

“She didn’t scream or anything because
I had my hand over her mouth. After
that she was fighting too hard to scream.
I hammered her head against the tele-
phone pole and she was partially stunned.

“But when I started to attack her she
revived and began struggling again. She

knocked me down once, but T managed
to overpower her and then hit her on
the head with a brick. She struggled a

little bit after that and then was still.”

Here Dreamer described the sickening
details of his ravishment of the dying girl,
following which he smeared mud into his
bloodstained corduroy trousers and hur-
ried back to work. ‘

“When did you return to the scene?”
Dinsmore asked.

“Later, after I got out of work at
2:30,” he replied. “I went right home.
There I changed my bloodstained clothes
and took them out to the Trinity Hall
grounds south of West Main Street and
burned them. After that I went back
to the scene and looked at the body. She
was dead.”

“Did you look for the button?”

“Yos. But I couldn’t find it.”

Three days later, Dreamer said, he
found a number of bloodstains upon his
underwear. He promptly changed and
took the stained undergarments out to
the field where he had burned his other
clothing.

In destroying the underwear, however,

True Detective M: ‘ystertes

he set fire to an abandoned barn, causing
it to burn to the ground. ,

Oddly enough, a checkup with Wash-
ington Fire Department records verified
that part of Dreamer’s confession; the
fire truck having arrived too late to save
the shed. . :

Immediately following his confession
Dreamer was taken to the office of Alder-
man William Knox where he swore to his
statement and signed it in the presence
of witnesses.

During the months that preceded
Dreamer’s trial an abortive attempt was
made by Pittsburgh detectives to link him
with the murder of Elizabeth Louden, a
twenty-two-year-old girl whose nude
body, ravished and mutilated, was found
in Walker’s Run, near Carnegie, Febru-
ary 27th.

Dreamer, working in the neighborhood,
was arrested four days after this last
crime for the murder of Thelma Young.

ee case of the Louden girl was a
crime even more ghastly than the
Thelma Young case, the human vampire
having inflicted horrible wounds upon his
victim’s body. But no real evidence was
ever brought forth linking Dreamer with
this fiendish slaying.

Dreamer went on trial for his life May
15th, 1936. And while ‘his father, residing
on the family farm some miles from
Washington, refused to have anything to
do with his son, funds for his defense
were raised by his seven sisters.

Attorney Thomas L. Christman under-
took his defense.

On the side of the State, District At-
torney Bane was assisted by Attorney
Wray B. Zelt, the latter retained by the
slain girl’s parents.

A jury of eight men and four women
listened to the testimony advanced by a
long parade of witnesses,

In the courtroom alongside ‘Dreamer
sat one of his sisters.

On the other side of the room sat the
innocent victim’s mother, a tragic figure
clad in somber black. The eyes of the
slender woman filled with tears as the
torn garments of her slain daughter were
produced as evidence. But at no time
during the lengthy trial did she glance in
the direction of the defendant.

Dreamer’s attorney completely repudi-
ated his client’s confession, charging it
was obtained under coercion.

Contradicting this line of defense a
long line of witnesses for the State testi-
fied that Dreamer was treated well at all
times.

The climax of the trial was reached
when Dreamer took the witness stand
in his own defense. Nattily dressed in
a dark business suit, and wearing a white
shirt, dark tie and shoes, Dreamer looked

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93

like ‘anything but the murdering rapist
and sex degenerate he was. Under ques-
tioning by his attorney he asserted that,
during his examination, he was made
to sit over a hot air .register; that he
was struck jn the stomach and otherwise
abused. :

Answering all questions calmly and in
a clear voice, the defendant even essayed
an occasional smile. j

A dramatic note was reached when his
attorney suddenly demanded:

“Bob, did you ever attack Thelma
Young?”

“I did not. I can say that with a clear
conscience,” Dreamer replied instantly. “I
never saw Thelma Young that I know

“Did you tell the truth when you made
that statement?” his attorney asked, re-
ferring to the confession.

“They know how they got that state-
ment,” Dreamer retorted.

As a witness for the State it was my
duty, together with the other officers who
participated in the questioning of the de-
fendant, to repudiate his charges.

Even then, however, it was evident to
me there could be but one verdict.

The shallowness of Dreamer’s ,argu-
ments failed to impress the jury; a fact
demonstrated Wednesday, May 20th,
when, that body after two hours and forty
minutes of deliberation returned its ver-
dict: “Guilty of murder in the first de-
gree and we fix the penalty at death.”

Dreamer’s natural pallor went a shade
lighter as he stood, his lips parted slight-
ly, and heard his doom pronounced. He
immediately dropped into his, chair.

Doss the months that followed,
Dreamer’s attorney made a valiant
effort to save his client’s life. But it wasa
losing fight and finally, at midnight, Feb-
ruary Ist, 1937, nearly a year after his
conviction, Robert Dreamer knew that
his time to die had come.

Most of his last day he spent praying
with the prison chaplain, Rev. C. F. Lauer,
and in writing letters. He ate only spar-
ingly.

Shortly before it came time for him
to follow the Chaplain into the execution
chamber Dreamer made the following
statement:

“I had nothing to do with either the
murder of Thelma Young or the murder
of Elizabeth Louden and if you execute
me you will execute an innocent man.”

Although trembling from head to foot,
Dreamer walked unassisted when, at 12:30
A. M., he was led from his cell by Chap-
Jain Lauer. Through clenched teeth he
mumbled to a guard:

“T want to take it like a man.”

He was clad in the customary attire of
doomed prisoners—white shirt open at
the throat, black trousers and carpet slip-
pers.

Less than a minute after leaving his
cell the condemned man entered the exe-
cution chamber. There attendants quickly
thrust him into the chair and secured the
electrodes and straps.

During the few seconds occupied thus,
reporters and other witnesses saw Dream-
er’s eyes rove desperately over the room,

flashing from face to face as if anxious

to see everything possible in these, his
last precious moments of life.

A second later his face was covered,
the guards stepped back and the sinister
crackle of the current coursing through
his body filled the room. ns ;

Once . . . twice . . . a third time his

body shot forward against the straps.
At 12:33 Robert Dreamer was pro-
nounced dead. And the body, now re-
duced to an inert mass, was trundled into
the room adjoining—the autopsy room.

Me a a i a mt to NE A oe he a a

RE ee

tein Adm


screamed over the wire: “Come quick!
I’ve found Elizabeth Louden’s things!”
The woman said her name was Mrs,
Louis Wallace, whose home was in
Rennerdale on the Noblestown Road.
Mrs. Wallace, on the way out to her
mailbox in the late afternoon, had seen
a small black purse lying in the melt-
ing snow. Kicking away a little more
snow, she discovered an umbrella. In
the purse she found three one-dollar
bills, a small paper-backed schoolgir)
autograph album and several letters
addressed to Elizabeth Louden. The
letters were from John Herleman.

LIZABETH’S family quickly iden-
tified the articles. There was no
doubt they belonged to the missing girl.
The early Winter night had set in
over the snow-covered hills, but nev-
ertheless some of Elizabeth’s relatives
set out with me to tramp through the
melting snow and scour the farmland:
around the Wallace home. We were

driven now by the fear that the pretty

little girl had lost her way and frozen
to death in the blizzard and by the still
more horrible fear that she might have

been murdered on that lonely country
road.

But we found nothing. At daybreak
next morning I organized a posse of
50 men to continue the search. First
to offer his aid was John Herleman, 26,
Elizabeth’s tall, swarthy-complexioned
sweetheart, who told me he was an
unemployed coal miner.

“I want to help,” he said. “I’ve

known something happened to Eliza-:

beth ever since she didn’t turn up for
our date Saturday night. She never
stood me up.”

The posse scattered over the coun-
tryside, but I kept Herleman with me.
The young miner and I searched the

Impressions of every suspect’s teeth
were taken—for comparison with
the teeth-marks on her white body

outbuildings, garages and abandoned
coal-mine entrances. We were stand-
ing in front of a mine pit late that af-
ternoon when a lad ran up to us. He
was highly excited—and so were. we
when he delivered his message.

“They found her!” he shouted.
“Come on!”

They had found her, but found her
as a nude and lovely body, frozen in
a little stream only 150 feet from the
spot where her umbrella and purse had
been picked up. ‘ Vs

The gruesome discovery was made
by a farmer, George Miller, He had
been walking along a hillside parallel
to the creek when he noticed some-

wee
®

”)

> » yet th
= and bitter: cold had

thing that looked like human fk
lying under an overhanging bank.
made a closer examination — a
gasped when he saw the naked bc
of a girl.

Only part of the body was visit
because of the snow. Many pers
had walked past that bank, but ur
that day the body had been hidden
the snow. The howling storms of t!
gloomy hill region had helped to coy
the missing girl. Weeks had elaps
since her disappearance. Had the mu
derer—if murder it was—taken adva
tage of those weeks to put many mi!
.between himself and the scene of }
crime? , .

When I arrived, the body was st
lying, face down, frozen in the: cree
We brushed off some of the snow ai
found that she was wedged in an ope:

‘ ing in the bank, an opening that hi

been cut there by an eddy. Apparent
the body had been thrown into ti
creek upstream, then ‘had been wash
‘down and tucked. into that crevice |
a strong cross-current, ha
Gently we disinterred the littie for.
from that tomb of ice. The girl's thro;
and head had been cut. and_battere.
ere was a certain weird, ur
beauty. about her. Ice and sno
effectively pr:
served the flesh. The naked, bluc
white limbs looked like shadowed wa:

THEN, with a start, I saw the mar

of a human vampire on her le
cheek—a mark ‘in the form of a perfec
set of teeth-prints.

Apparently the girl had been rav
ished on that lonely country road, the:
killed so that she could not identif.
the man who had ‘attacked her. As
looked at her young, sweet face an
girlish body, I swore that I would pu
every ounce of my energy into trackin;

_ down her. murderer

We took the body into the Count;
Morgue in Pittsburgh at once. Docto:
J. W. McMeans, Coroner’s Physician
said the little girl had died of wound:
of the head and throat, probably in-

(Continued on Page 46)

The picture of the nian with the turned-up collar was
also shown to all the neighbors of Thelma Young


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mother, was able to add more to the
movements of her younger sister.

“I think it was around half past
seven last night when my husband
and I met Thelma in front of the skat-
ing rink on East Beau Street,” Mrs.
Miller explained: “She was alone,
and said she wanted to go to the
Regent Theater. We gave her the
money to buy the ticket, and that was
the last we saw her.”

“You don’t know whether she went
to the theater or met a boy-friend?”
Dinsmore asked. ‘

“No, we didn’t see her after that,”
Mrs. Miller replied.

However, it didn’t take long for
Dinsmore and the. detectives to learn
that she did go to the theater. Ethel
Carter, the girl at the ticket window,
distinctly remembered Thelma buying
a ticket and going into the movie.
Ethel saw her when she came out,
spoke a few words with her, and then
saw Thelma walk down the street
alone. .

She was still alone at 9:45 and on
her way home. Her brother, Ray, said
that he saw her walking past the
hot-dog ‘stand on West Chestnut, just
off Main. He said he didn’t talk to
her because she apparently didn’t see
him and she was some distance away.
She was alone.

Dinsmore took up the route Thelma
took home and, questioning the shop-
keepers and filling station attendants,
found that she was alone when she
neared the alley where death was
awaiting her. The last man to see her
was Anthony Grecco, a_ railroad
watchman stationed at the West
Maiden Street crossing.

“Tt was about ten o’clock,” Grecco
said. “Thelma was walking on the
other side of the street and I yelled
‘Hello’, and she waved back and
turned the corner at Oregon Street.”

“Was she alone?”

“Yes, and I didn’t see any man fol-
lowing her.”

Where Grecco saw her was less
than a block away from where her
body had been found at 8 o’clock the
enext morning by John Stucco on his
way to work. It was obvious to Dins-
more and Chief Verderber that Thel-
ma Young had walked to her death
alone, and any theory that she had
been accompanied by a suitor who
had ravished and then murdered her
was out.

“Thelma Young was murdered by
somebody who lay in wait for her,”
Dinsmore said. “There are, however.
several things that need explanation.
Did her murderer khow she was com-
ing by at that time? Or could it have
been a sex-fiend who lay in wait for
any girl? That question has to be
answered.”

“My hunch,” -Chief Verderber told
him, “is that we are faced with a sex
degenerate of the worst type who lay
in wait for any girl that came by. The
blood on the telephone post shows
that he had a distinct technique all
his own.”

Dinsmore nodded. “Well, at least
we know that he was wearing a brown
overcoat. We have the button, and
that’s our only clue now.”

Within three hours every available
detective and plainclothesman on the
force was thrown into the job of

icking up every know sex pervert
in the city and every stranger who
couldn’t give a good account of his
actions. And as they were paraded

’ by Chief Verderber and Dinsmore, the
_ two officers looked first to see if any

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one of them | wore.a brown overcoat.

None did, and after~24 hours of
questioning these suspects, all had
been released, and the murder of
Thelma Young remained a ghastly,
brutal mystery. The local and Sta te
press screamed for a solution. Re-
wards totalling $5,000 were raised
at once, half by aig subscription
and half supplied by the city.

Pour weeks passed. Dinsmore
& worked like a man possessed with
a new and strange phobia. This com-
plex was a brown overcoat with a
button missing. Day after day he
epee his time in the neighborhood of
the Thelma Young home and that
alley of death. Somehow and some
way, which he couldn’t figure out
himself, he reasoned that the killer
of Thelma Young lived or worked in
that neighborhood.

The fact that the killer apparently
knew Thelma was passing throu

| that alley at that time was partly
responsible for this hunch. Dinsmore.

looked at every man and youth as he
walked to and from his home, but
none wore a brown overcoat.

On January 17, Dinsmore and Chief
Verderber had a second murder on
their hands. Israel Slosky, 21-year-

old timekeeper for the Hazel-Atlas ‘
_Glass Company, was found dead in a

pool of blood not two’ blocks from
where Thelma Young had been killed.
He had been visiting his fiancée, Caro-
lyn McBride, and had been killed
just after he left her home at 10
o'clock.

On examining the murder scene,
Dinsmore made the startling discov-
ery that there was blood on the tele-
*phone pole near the body. The mur-
der weapon, a heavy square steel bar,
lay near the y.-

Miss McBride lived with an aunt
and uncle who were unusually strict
with her. When her fiancée visited
her, the aunt and uncle insisted that
all shades be left up and all lights on.
The assumption was that the mur-
derer ,had lurked outside and had
watched the two and had attacked
Slosky when he came out of the
house. Miss McBride said that he
often carried large sums of money
with him. None was found on him.
when his body was found:

The investigation into this second
murder ran into the same blank wall
as the murder of Thelma Young. The
city officials, embarrassed at the two
unsolved murders, hired Ora Skater,
the famous Cincinnati private detec-
tive, to come to Washington and see
what success he would have.

He didn’t-have any, and at the end
of a month he rs up the job, say-
ing that the only way the two mur-
ders would be solved would be by an
unexpected break.

Two days after he left, the break
came. Mrs. Wray Wormsley, young
and pretty, walked into Dinsmore’s.
office.

“You’ ve been having'a lot of rob-
beries,” she said. “Well, I think I
can tell you who knows something
about them. It’s my husband. We
had a quarrel, and I’m leaving him.
He can tell a lot about them.”

Dinsmore didn’t connect the seriés
of holdups that had been taking place
with the two murders, and he didn’t
take the angry young wife too seri-
ously. Wives often try to get husbands
Hn Ag in the law when they have

4

But Dinsmore had Wormsley picked

Dinsmore.

up and brought to headquarters for
questioning. The young an was
nervous, and Dinsmore didn’t ques-
tion him long until he was convinced
that the: wife had known what she
was talking about. Four hours later
Wormsley, when some of the victims
of the holdups had viewed him,
broke and said: “What’s the use? I'll
confess.”

, Dinsmore didn’t stop with the con-
fession'on the holdups. He started in
on Wormsley about the murder of
Izzy Slosky. Witnesses were found
who saw Wormsley in the vicinity of
the home of Miss McBride’s uncle on
that night. And after two days, hope-
lessly tangled up in his own stories,
Wormsley confessed that he had
waited for Slosky to come out and
5200 killed him and robbed him of

Still Dinsmore didn’t stop with the
self-confessed killer. The chief of
detectives had Wormsley’s wardrobe
checked, hoping that Wormsley had
a,brown overcoat. He didn’t, and
when . questioned on the Thelma
Young murder, he shook his head and
said he knew nothing about it. He
was ahle to furnish a fairly good alibi
for that night.

On the night of February 22nd,
Wray Wormsley walked the last mile
at Rockville Penitentiary. Dinsmore
was there, hoping that he would
make a last-minute confession. He
didn’t. As he walked out of the death
cell, accompanied by a guard and the
chaplain, he turned to Dinsmore and
said: “You can’t burn a man more
than once, Mr. Dinsmore, even though
he commits many murders. I want
you to believe me when I say that I
didn’t kill Thelma Young, and I know
nothing about it. If I had killed her,
I would tell you freely.”

A few minutes later he was pro-
nounced dead, and the murder of
Thelma Young still remained un-

’ solved.

OWEVER, Dinsmore never

stopped working on that mys-
tery. All he had was the brown but-
ton, and at headquarters’ Dinsmore
and his button became the butt of
many jokes. Dinsmore, stubborn
and relentless, laughed at the jokes,
made up some himself, and plodded
on, working alone on the case.

On April 24th came the first of a
series of annoying confessions on the
murder of Thelma Young. Clarence
Klingensmith, 24 and _ pasty-faced,
jumped into the limelight when he
boldly confessed that he killed Thel-
ma Young. He involved a prominent
man in Pennsylvania baseball circles.
The confession was proved to be
nothing but a wild flight of imagi-
nation on the part of Klingensmith,
because at the time of the murder he
was an inmate of the Alleghany
Workhouse, 50 miles from Washing-
ton, Pennsylvania.

Then Paul Girard, alias Paul Hobbs,
serving time in the Ohio State Re-
formatory at Mansfield, confessed that
he had killed Thelma Young. He was
brought to Washington, but it didn’t
take Dinsmore'and the other officers
long to realize that Girard knew
nothing about the case. So he was
returned to Mansfield, having had a
pleasant holiday from the confines of
the reformatory.

A series of other confessions, all by
inmates of prisons in different parts
of the country, began to pour in on
He didn’t provide these

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DETECTIVE

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Continued from page 59

lay near the brick, and it was about a
foot to the right, buried in the snow
and mud where Dinsmore found the
frayed brown button. Dinsmore
picked it up, turned it over between
his fingers. .

“This,” he said, “definitely didn’t
come from the girl’s coat. It’s from
a man’s overcoat, and the girl tore it
from the coat during the. struggle.”

To Chief Verderber and the’ other
detectives the button did, in those
first phases of the investigation, ap-
pear like a hot clue. Its only weak-
ness lay in the fact that there were
hundreds of brown overcoats in
Washington, and there was no dis-
tinguishing mark about this button.
Dinsmore slipped it into his handker-
chief and put it in.his pocket, certain
that it would prove valuable sooner
or later. :

The District Attorney arrived with
Doctor Philip Break, the coroner.
The body was removed to the city

morgue for the autopsy. By this time.

the news had spread over Washing-
ton, and about 15 minutes later a
slim, 16-year-old boy: entered the
morgue timidly.

“IT am Ray Young,” he-said in a
weak voice. “I live with my parents at
sixty-three Altamont Avenue, My sis-
ter didn’t come home last night and

..and.,. father... is afraid...”

Coroner Break led the boy to the
slab where the victim of the murder

| lay. Ray Young gave a gasp, and

started to sob. .

‘Its ... its... Thelma.... my
sister!” he cried.

Coroner Break led the sobbing boy
away.

Doctor G. W. Ramsey performed the
autopsy at once and found that Thel-
ma Young had died from shock, loss
of blood, and a fractured skull. He

gave the time of death as sometime’

between 10 o’clock and 10:30 of the
previous night. 5

EORGE YOUNG, the murdered
-girl’s. father, a ,quiet-mannered
man employed in a glass factory, was
unable to give’ any’ information of
value. When asked by Dinsmore if
Thelma had any steady friends, the
father said that she hadn’t.. “Thelma
was only interested in girls’ activi-
ties,” he told the officer. “She played
tennis, basketball, and engaged in
various outdoor sports. She liked the
movies. She was only eighteen, and
was never boy-crazy.’ 5
About her movements the night be-
fore, the father said she had left her
home, some distance from the heart
of the town, at around 7 o’clock. The
father explained that when she didn’t
come home, he and her mother were
not worried, believing that she had
stayed with a girl friend as she said
she might before she left. .
The dead girl’s sister, Mrs. Mary

| Miller, who was with her father and

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mother, was
movements <

“IT think i'
seven last n
and I met Th
ing rink on
Miller expla
and said sh:
Regent The:
money to bu
the last we ;

“You don’t
to the theate
Dinsmore as!

“No, we d
Mrs. Miller

However.
Dinsmore an
that she did
Carter, the g
distinctly ren
a ticket and
Ethel saw h
spoke a few
saw Thelma
alone.

She was st
her way hom
that he saw
hot-dog stan:
off Main. H
her because
him and she
She was alo

Dinsmore t
took home a:
keepers and
found that s
neared the
awaiting her
was Anthor
watchman
Maiden Stre:

“It was at
said. “Thel:
other side of
‘HeHo’, and
turned the «

“Was she

“Yes, and
lowing her.”

Where Gr
than a block
body had be:

«next mornin

way to work
more and C}
ma Young h
alone, and a
been accom;
had ravished
was out.

“Thelma
somebody w!
Dinsmore sai
several thing
Did her mur
ing by at tha
been a sex-f
any girl? 17
answered.”

“My hunct
him, “is that
degenerate o
in wait for a
blood on th
that he had
his own.”

Dinsmore
we know tha
overcoat. W
that’s our on

Within thr
detective anc
force was t
picking up «
in the city
couldn’t give
actions. An

‘ by Chief Ver

two officers |


a er

iarters for
man was
dn’t ques-
convinced
what she
iours later
he victims
wed him,
e use? Vl

h the con-
started in
murder of
ere found
vicinity of
s uncle on
lays, hope-
wn. stories,
t he had
e out and
ed him of

p with the
chief of
wardrobe

‘msley had

lidn’t, and

.e Thelma

is head and

nut it. He
good alibi

uary 22nd,
ie last mile

Dinsmore
he would
ession. He
of the death
ard and the
nsmore and
man more
ven though
rs. I want
I say that I
and I know
i killed her,

.e was pro-
murder of
nained un-

yre never
that mys-
brown but-
s* Dinsmore
the butt of
. stubborn
.t the jokes,
ind plodded
case.
1e first of a
sions on the
g. Clarence
pasty-faced,
ht when he
killed Thel-
a prominent
eball circles.
oved to be
rt of imagi-
<lingensmith,
.e murder he
Alleghany
1m Washing-

Paul Hobbs,
io State Re-
onfessed that
ung. He was
but it didn’t
ther officers
yirard knew

So he was
iaving had a
ie confines of

-ssions, all by
ifferent parts
o pour in on
srovide these

Seer eg

WATCH FOR

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risoners with holidays, because a

ittle checking soon. proved that they
couldn’t have committed the crime.

NZ years passed, and Dinsmore
had retired from active service.
The button remained on his desk
where he saw it every day. It seemed

to taunt him as the one and only out- |
standing failure in his otherwise per- |

fect score as chief of detectives. He
kept working on the case, checking

all reports that came in to headquar- |

ters. Somehow he figured that the
murderer of Thelma Young would
strike again.

On January 12th, 1936, Dinsmore
was at headquarters, scanning the re-
ports: from the different detectives.
There was a report from Constable
Clark Miller, who had been sworn
into the service three days after the
murder of Thelma Young. The re-
port didn’t seem important. It was
merely a routine affair of a young
“woman in the Kalorama District, the
neighborhood where Thelma Young
had lived and had been attacked and
murdered. This young woman com-
plained to the police that a man had
accosted her as she was going home.
An automobile, driving by, had scared
the man away. Dinsmore'slipped the
report in his pocket, went out to find
Constable Miller.

“What about this report?” Dins-
more asked Miller. “It’s from the
district where Thelma Young met her
death.” ©

Constable Miller had great respect
for Dinsmore, and even though the
former chief of detectives was on the
retired list, Miller looked up to him
as a great sleuth.

“I know the woman,” Miller said.
“She isn’t the flighty kind, and not a
woman to get scared unless there’s a
reason. But it probably was some
masher, trying to get a date with her.”
. “That’s possible,” Dinsmore con-
‘ceded, “but keep your eyes open out
there, and if any other Gasés like this
happen. let me know. I’m still think-
ing about the Thelma Young case,
and that button is still there to mock
me.”

Constable Miller was one of the
members of the force who didn’t
smile at Dinsmore and his complex
about the button. Like Dinsmore,
Miller had kept the Young case in
mind all those years, hoping that
some break would come.” And a week
later it looked as though the break
had come. . ‘

The innocent-looking report on the
man bothering the woman took on a
sinister aspect. Miller began hearing
rumors, strange and almost unbeliev-
able, that women were afraid to go
out on the streets in the Kalorama
district. There-were whispers about
many women being raped by a mys-
terious. assailant who jumped out at
them from behind telephone posts.

The shame and humiliation the vic-
tims suffered caused them to keep
their secret in a grim, ghastly silence.
All had been warned, Miller learned
in a‘roundabout way, to keep silent
or they would be dead. It was impos-
sible to learn if any of the women
knew the identity of their assailant,
because they wouldn’t talk about it
to Miller. The rumors had started
when they had whispered their hid-
eous story to other women in secret.

Miller reparted to Dinsmore, and
Dinsmore threw aside his cloak of
retirement and returned to active
service. He didn’t throw a number of

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‘ | Name. |
{PLease Prtwt PLAINLY]

| Address 4

| Zone State \
ee ee eS ee ee ee

85

t the suspect was em-
de in the Pennsylvania

Washington. He was

wife and was staying
itives.

e Thelma Young mur-
od a house not far from
West Wheeling Street.
; who had succeeded
use, the sleuths learned
ng out rubbish in the
d found a light brown
pt had obviously been
ie tenants recalled, and
een missing! The gar-
scarded.
sember, 1927, Dreamer
the roundhouse located
locks from the Thelma
ne! He worked at night,
ff during his shift—and
jed with the time of.

in hand, the authorities
imer into custody. The
ced railroader evinced
at his arrest.

; led to believe that he
dy of the attempted as-
nen in the district. The
given Constable Miller
»f her narrow escape at
rapist was brought in.
identified Dreamer as her
used shrugged and mut-
iuch for looks, but I get

e suddenness, the inter-
ered to the eight-year-
‘~helma Young. From the
srought forth the plaster
{print found in the mud,
button.
id fitted perfectly into the
sown overcoat button was
sk in front of the suspect.
atery blue eyes centered
with a hypnotic stare.
came off your overcoat
zled with Thelma Young,”
t told the now frightened

-amer placed his hands to
asped: “That button! My
searched for it! And you

burst came the confession.
the man as though he had
jen for too many years. He
1 to get the recital off his

ew Thelma Young at all,
ved not far from my home.
e murder I left my work at
e. | wanted to find a girl—

waited at the intersection
ew that sooner or later a
ie by.

the top of the bank, hiding
ephone pole. When Thelma
jumped at her. She didn’t
thing because I had my hand
th. After that she was fight-
to scream. I hammered her
the telephone pole and she
stunned. But when I started
he revived and began strug-
she knocked me down once,
4 to overpower her and then
he head with a brick. She
ittle bit after that, and then

mer described the revolting
sexual assault upon the dying
ieft his handprint in the mud
smeared some of the mire on
ned clothes.

{ you return to the scene?”
s asked.

er I got out of work at 2:30,”

’

he replied. “I went right home. There I
changed my clothes and burned them.
After that I went back to the scene and
looked at the body. She was dead.”

“Did you look for the button?”

“Yes, But I couldn’t find it.”

Although Dreamer maintained that he
had not murdered Elizabeth Louden, it
was Detective Ritz who proved he was
lying. From the Allegheny County police
laboratory, the lawman obtained a set of
teeth prints which had been made from the
vampire wounds on the girl’s body. Mean-
while, a cast was made of Dreamer’s
teeth. When these were matched with the
wounds, there was little doubt but that
the murder of the second teen-age girl was
solved.

Robert Dreamer went on trial for the

murder of Thelma Young in Washington
County on May 15, 1936. Over a period
of four days, the state piled up its evidence
against the confessed slayer. And while
the authorities wove their net of evidence
around the defendant, Allegheny County
detectives waited in the corridors with a
warrant for Dreamer’s arrest on a charge
of murdering Elizabeth Louden.

But in the end the Allegheny County
authorities dropped their charges—the
verdict in the case against Dreamer for
the murder of Thelma Young proved suf-
ficient to avenge all crimes the fiend had
committed. It took a jury only four hours
to find him guilty of murder in the first
degree.

On the night of January 30, 1937, the
vampire killer was electrocuted.

Case of the Doctor With
Bedroom Eyes

(Continued from page 28]

would have looked good in a dental ad.
“Come right in!” His voice was a rich bari-
tone, just the thing for a barber-shop
quartet.

Mrs. Sparling told Dr. MacGregor that
she had something in her eye. Her eyes
were wide, brown and innocent. “Which
eye?” asked the doctor. Mrs. Sparling
pointed to her right eye, which was red
and swollen. MacGregor, who wasn’t do-
ing too well at the bank, questioned the
patient at length, learning, among other
things, that her husband was quite well
fixed.

“Just step in there,” said the doctor,
pointing to an adjoining room, “and take
off your clothes.” Mrs. Sparling thought
she had misunderstood. “I said,” repeated
the doctor, smiling, “take off your clothes.”

“All of them?” asked Mrs, Sparling, who
lived in an age when an ankle was con-
sidered something to sneak a look at anda
revealed calf marked a fallen woman.

“All of them,” said MacGregor.

“But-what would that have to do with
something in my eye?” asked the patient.

“I won’t know,” said the doctor, “until
I get a thorough look at you.”

Mrs. Sparling went into the other room
and shortly reappeared wearing nothing
but a look of embarrassment. The doctor,
it was later to develop, got a thorough
look at the patient, all right, finally getting
to the troublesome eye. Then he took a
swab and removed a speck of dust.
“There,” he said, “you're all fixed up—
for the time being.” Mrs. Sparling, too
happy about having her affliction attended
to, to think much about anything else,
put on her clothes and opened her purse
to pay her bill. The doctor waved the
money back in her purse. “I’ll be wanting
to take another look at you,” he said. “T’ll
drive out to your place some night next
week.”

Carrie Sparling was a woman who was
used to being looked at. Her husband,
Righteous John, as he was called because
he always went to church on Sundays, was
50 years old and, like many other deeply
religious men, neither smoked nor drank
but was a great believer in the propaga-
tion of the race. He had taken a good look
—and then some—at his wife on an aver-
age of once a year, because he had four
sons—Pete, Albert, Scyrel and Ray—

- whose ages were 24, 23, 21 and 20. (Some-

thing had apparently gone wrong during
one of those years.) Every Sabbath morn-
ing, rain, snow, sleet or high water,

Righteous John, a giant of a man with
flint eyes and a black chest-protector
beard, packed his wife and his brood in
the family buggy and: drove to church.
After church, the family, who were ter-
rific eaters, fell on a Gargantuan meal con-
sisting of such items as roast suckling pig,
mounds of mashed potatoes drenched in
thick gravy, several other vegetables, and
a few homemade pies and cakes, washed
down by several gallons of milk fresh from
the Sparling cows.

The four Sparling boys were really
something. They were husky Joes with
tree-trunk legs, brawny arms and barrel
chests, but not too bright in the second
story. Farm chores, heavy as they were,
weren’t enough for the four Sparling boys.
Instead of relaxing after the sun went
down, these characters built a sort of gym-
nasium on the upper floor of the barn and
practiced weight lifting, chinned the bar
and cavorted on the exercise rings until
midnight. This was understandable, when
all the facts were considered. The boys
were never allowed off the farm and all
they knew about women was what they
saw in the underwear ads of the Sears-
Roebuck catalogue before it was put to

another and more personal use. Thus, they:

had to spend all that youthful energy some
way.

Four days after Mrs. Sparling had drop-
ped into Dr. MacGregor’s office, the hand-
some sawbones drove onto the Sparling
farm: Mrs. Sparling had already told her
husband and her sons what a fine man the
doctor was. Therefore, Righteous John and
the boys gave Dr. Mac a hearty welcome.

MacGregor, a very conscientious prac-
titioner, didn’t seem to be in a hurry. But
after a few meaningful glances at his
patient he began looking around for a
place in which to examine Mrs. Sparling’s
eye. A painstaking man, he examined first
one room, then the next, and finally settled
on a bedroom on the second floor. “Just
come upstairs with me,” he said to Carrie
Sparling, and, while Righteous John and
the four boys sat around the parlor, the
good doctor and Carrie Sparling went up-
stairs.

Half an hour passed. “Gee,” said one of
the boys, “that examination sure is taking
a long time. I hope nothin’ serious is
wrong with Mom.’

“Your mother,” said Righteous John,
who did not believe evil of anybody, “is
in good hands.” Little did the old boy
realize the truth of his remark.

The doctor and the patient didn’t come
downstairs for almost an hour. The doc-
tor looked a little mussed up and Mrs.
Sparling appeared to be flushed. “We had
quite a time,” said the doctor, a truthful
man, “but everything seems to be fixed up
—for the time being anyway.”

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A 75

by KEN CARPENTER

n the city of Washington,
in the southwestern cor-
ner of Pennsylvania, the
murder of Thelma Young be-
came known as “the case
that will never end.” For ma-

ie ‘ny months it did appear that

the rape-slaying of the pretty
high school girl might re-
main forever in the “open”
file.

More than eight years went by,
and additional horrors were perpe-
trated, before the police tracked
down the hulking killer. In the end,
the solution came through an overcoat
button and a handprint in the mud.

The mystery which was to become
an epic of persistent detective work
began on the fourth night after
Christmas—Thursday, December 29,
1927.

Up to the moment when she en-
countered her assailant it was easy to
trace Thelma Young’s movements

-that evening, for at 17 the girl pos-

sessed the attention-drawing full-
blown beauty of early maturity. She
had wavy brown hair, wide-spaced
brown eyes and provocative lips.
Sheer hose enhanced her slim ankles
and delicately tapered legs, and her
young breasts strained against the
tightness of her dress.

At 7 o’clock she left the frame
dwelling on Altamont Street where
she lived with her parents, Mr. and
Mrs. Sylvester Young, and_ several
brothers and sisters.

Half an hour later she met a friend
outside a skating rink in the down-
town section and borrowed money
for a movie. She entered the Regent
Theater alone—the ticket-taker
smiled at her and said hello—and
when the film was over she left
alone.

At about 10, an admirer saw her

After knocking her senseless,
‘brute dragged helpless victim
into the bushes. (posed photo)

FIENDS WHO
WENT TO

THE CHAIR

outside a restaurant on Main Street. A
little later, other youths greeted her on
West Chestnut Street and on Rouple
Avenue—the route she would nor-
mally take walking home.

Aside from her murderer, apparent-
ly the last person to see her alive was
a railroad crossing watchman whom
she knew.

“Nasty night, isn’t it?” she said to
him.

“Sure is, Thelma,” he replied. “We
hardly ever see a fog like this in the
wintertime.”

The girl proceeded down Oregon

Avenue, and her figure was quickly’

swallowed up in the swirling mist.
From Oregon Avenue there was a
short-cut leading up the hill toward
the Young home, some three blocks
distant. It was little more than a

Shrouded in the swirling mist, the hulking
terror lay in wait for a girl—any girl. That’s
»% howthe 17-year-old beauty came to take a

_ Seessssssnensesessess Short-cut to death

Thelma Young, slain teenager
whose murder would take
eight years to solve.

lane—a rutted path running across
backlots and through briar patches. At
best it was a gloomy, desolate
stretch, and in that night of fog it was
particularly forbidding. But Thelma
evidently entered the short-cut with-
out the slightest Premonition of dan-
ger.

She didn’t have time to run, and
probably was too paralyzed by fear to
make an outcry, when the big man
leaped upon her from behind the shel-
ter of a telephone. pole. He clutched
her by the throat and banged her head
against the pole. Then he started drag-
ging her through the briars..

It was Dominick Grisslow, a la-
borer, who found the body the fol-
lowing morning. Taking the short-cut
on his way to work, he stopped sud-
denly when he saw a girl’s high-
heeled shoe in the path.

“What in the —!” he began to ex-
claim. Then he spotted the blood on
the telephone pole, the imitation
pearls from a broken necklace, and a
little distance away a girl’s coat.
There was a path of trampled briars,
marked by splotches of blood and oth-
er feminine garments. It led twenty
yards up a clay bank and to the side of
a sagging picket fence.

At the fence, Grisslow paused just
long enough to make sure. that the fig-
ure on the ground was cold and life-
less. Then he ran to spread the alarm.

Among the residents of the vicinity
who hurried to the scene was a boy
named Ray Young. He took one look
at the corpse and sobbed, “It’s my sis-
ter Thelma! We’ve been looking for
her all night!”

Presently a dozen officers arrived
at the briar-covered slope. The most
experienced among them was Wil-
liam B. Dinsmore, chief of Washing-
ton County detectives. Others includ-
ed District Attorney Warren
Burchinal; Chief Joseph Verderber

(continued on next page)


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74 A

Vampire’s Kiss
[Continued from page 37]

and District Attorney Andrew T. Park.

With dispatch, the lawmen dug out part
of the overhanging bank, revealing the
secret of the icy waters.

Visibly the victim of a murder that hor-
rified even morgue employes, the nude
body of Elizabeth Louden was uncovered,
lying face downward in the shallow
water.

Dr. J. W. McMeans, in performing an
autopsy, reported that the girl had been
cruelly beaten about the head and face
with a sharp instrument, thought to be

a miner’s pick. There were seven head:

wounds. Some of them were almost three
inches deep, fracturing the skull in five
places. Any one of the wounds would have
been fatal. There was no water in the
lungs, indicating that the girl was dead
when her body entered the water.

But the severity of the blows which
had taken her life was by no means the
most shocking discovery revealed by the
autopsy. Smaller, peculiarly shaped
wounds on the girl’s face, lips and throat
were found to have been made by a set of
teeth—the mark of a human vampire.

In questioning friends of the victim, De-
tective Frank Ritz, ace county sleuth,
learned that on several occasions Elizabeth
Louden had mentioned a “powerfully
built, dark man” who had followed her
home from work on various nights. But
beyond this brief description, there was no
clue to his identity.

Meanwhile other investigators, in scour-
ing the crime area, discovered the slain
girl’s dress and hat in a wooded section by
the stream. Further probing revealed her
bloodstained slip and panties hanging on
a tree stump. But these findings did not
further the progress of the case. They
merely revealed the length to which the
killer had gone to conceal his crime.

It was not until March 10 that the first
real break in the investigation came. De-
tective Ritz was still doggedly trying .to
get a lead on the man who had followed
Elizabeth Louden along the dark roads.
Finally he located a woman living near
Walker’s Mills who divulged a bit of in-
formation which quickened the sleuth’s
pulse, She said that she had seen a power-
fully built man walking along the road on
the evening of the girl’s disappearance.
She added another descriptive detail
which rang a bell with the detective.

For some time a vague picture had been
forming in Ritz’ mind—the shadowy figure
of a man who might well be their long-
sought suspect. From the police files, the
sleuth brought a photograph and showed
it to the woman.

The matron scanned it for a moment,
then unhesitatingly identified the likeness
as that of the man whom she had seen
walking along the road.

The picture was that of Robert Dreamer,
a resident who had been arrested on sev-
eral occasions for petty robbery and as-
sault. Dreamer, 38 years old, weighing

more than 200 pounds, and an inch or two .

over six feet in height, not only answered
the description of the brute who had no
doubt killed Elizabeth Louden but also
fitted perfectly into the picture of the ape
man who had ravished and murdered
Thelma Young and had terrorized the
women of nearby Washington County!

Satisfied that at last the vampire killer
had been identified, Detective Ritz relayed
his information to Constable Miller. To-
gether, the lawmen set out to trace
Dreamer’s background.

They learned that the suspect was em-
ployed as a mechanic in the Pennsylvania
Railroad yards in Washington. He was
estranged from his wife and was staying
at the home of relatives.

At the time of the Thelma Young mur-
der, he had occupied a house not far from
the intersection at West Wheeling Street.
From the tenants who had succeeded
Dreamer in this house, the sleuths learned
that, while cleaning out rubbish in the
basement, they had found a light brown
overcoat. An attempt had obviously been
made to burn it, the tenants recalled, and
one button had been ‘missing! The gar-
ment had been discarded.

Further, in’ December, 1927, Dreamer
was employed in the roundhouse located
just a few short blocks from the Thelma
Young murder scene! He worked at night,
but had an hour off during his shift—and

this hour coincided with the time of.

Thelma’s death.

With these facts in hand, the authorities
took Robert Dreamer into custody. The
stocky, round-faced railroader evinced
no great surprise at his arrest.

At first he was led to believe that he
was suspected only of the attempted as-
sault on the women in the district. The
matron who had given Constable Miller
the information of her narrow escape at
the hands of the rapist was brought in.
She immediately identified Dreamer as her
assailant. The accused shrugged and mut-
tered, “I’m not much for looks, but I get
my women.”

With deliberate suddenness, the inter-
rogation was veered to the eight-year-
old murder of Thelma Young. From the
files there was brought forth the plaster
cast of the handprint found in the mud,
and also the coat button.

Dreamer’s hand fitted perfectly into the
cast. Next, the brown overcoat button was
placed on the desk in front of the suspect.

The man’s watery blue eyes centered
upon the object with a hypnotic stare.

“That button came off your overcoat
when you struggled with Thelma Young,”
Constable Miller told the now frightened
prisoner.

Suddenly Dreamer placed his hands to
his face and gasped: “That button! My
God, how I’ve searched for it! And you
found it!”

With that outburst came the confession.
It poured from the man as though he had
carried the burden for too many years. He
seemed relieved to get the recital off his
chest.

“I never knew Thelma Young at all,
although she lived not far from my home.
The night of the murder I left my work at
the roundhouse. I wanted to find a girl—
any girl. I had waited at the intersection
before and knew that sooner or later a
girl would come by.

“I waited at the top of the bank, hiding
behind the telephone pole. When Thelma
came along, I jumped at her. She didn’t
scream or anything because I had my hand
over her mouth. After that she was fight-
ing too hard to scream, I hammered her
head against the telephone pole and she
was partially stunned, But when I started
to rape her, she revived and began strug-
gling again. She knocked me down once,
but I managed to overpower her and then
hit her on the head with a brick. She
struggled a little bit after that, and then
she was still.”

Here Dreamer described the revolting
details of his sexual assault upon the dying
girl. He had left his handprint in the mud
when he had smeared some of the mire on
his bloodstained clothes.

“When did you return to the scene?”
Dreamer was asked.

“Later, after, I got out of work at 2:30,”

he replied. “I wen:
changed my cloth
After that I went |
looked at the body.

“Did you look for

“Yes. But I could

Although Dreame
had not murdered
was Detective Ritz
lying. From the All
laboratory, the lawr
teeth prints which h:
vampire wounds on
while, a cast was
teeth. When these w
wounds, there was
the murder of the sec
solved.

Robert Dreamer \

Case of the
Bedroo!

(Continued fi

would have looked ¢

“Come right in!” His \

tone, just the thing

quartet.

Mrs. Sparling told
she had something ir
were wide, brown an
eye?” asked the doc
pointed to her right
and swollen. MacGre;
ing too well at the b
patient at length, lea
things, that her husb
fixed.

“Just step in there
pointing to an adjoini
off your clothes.” Mr
she had misunderstoo:
the doctor, smiling, “ta

“All of them?” askec
lived in an age when
sidered something to s
revealed calf marked

“All of them,” said

“But what would tk
something in my eye?

“I won’t know,” saic
I get a thorough look

Mrs. Sparling went
and shortly reappeare
but a look of embarra:
it was later to develc
look at the patient, all;
to the troublesome ey
swab and removed
“There,” he said, “you
for the time being.”
happy about having he
to, to think much ab
put on her clothes and
to pay her bill. The
money back in her pur:
to take another look at
drive out to your place
week.”

Carrie Sparling was :
used to being looked
Righteous John, as he y
he always went to churc
50 years old and, like n
religious men, neither «<
but was a great believe
tion of the race. He had
—and then some—at his
age of once a year, bec
sons—Pete, Albert, Sc

‘whose ages were 24, 23, :

thing had apparently gc
one of those years.) Ever
ing, rain, snow, sleet


Women couldn't see him
until they felt his grip

Stagtuwe (etectVe

Jawu0r y, 1770

outsic
town
for a
Thea
smile:

RRK


14 HISTORY OE THE RABER MURDER.

to accomplish his long desired wish. plied, ‘‘yes, but if I were to { give you my
He. was well acquainted with every | views of the Lutheran doctrine and that
nook and quarter in his mountain fast- | under which Stichler died, it would be
ness, and was capable of pointing out quite ludicrous.’’ He denominated the
the lines of the different property holders | Lutheran belief asthe surest Winged es
with a precision that was truly remark- senger of peace, unostentatious ‘but nev-
able. His aid was much sought after | ertheless efficacious: while the Methodist
by the Sheriff of the county, who had way consisted of nothane but loud pray-
occasion to use him as a guide, in which | ers, unseemly noises and such other work.
capacity he had not his equal, being | ings that he did not relish in the least
thoroughly acquainted with all the sec- He is a purely matter of. fact man, and
sections of land that were mapped off | stares fate in the face feeling eoavinesd
years ago, but: points lost and forgotten. 7
Those who were forced to have inter-
course with him, found him to be a good | — Upto withina few days of his executi
natured fellow, one who never was afraid, — he was ina cheerful mood and gpole very
or thought it too much trouble, if com- pleasantly to those who called to see him,
pelled to go to considerable trouble, to | to whom he stated that if the worst did
perform a favor. Being unable to work | come he was determined to meet his death
and at all times ready to attend to the calmly. He confessed to a re ae tl at
wants of the community, his hostlery while living at St. Joseph’s ‘s — he
soon became a place for the men who | did many things for which he felt. re-
had no work. Drunkenness and de- morseful, but “the crime for which he
ema bringing with it its baneful | Inust pay the penalty, his conscience was
effects, Soon caused a motley crew to | free. There are many little incidents in

that the bare existence of man proves
that there is a God.

make his he ir he: ters if . w
e his hotel then headquarters. the life of Brandt which might be re-
“neni : re ° ;
, Here: according to Wise’s confession, | Jated. but we draw the veil upon them
A 1e g y? > . ! re . - :
p ie the murder of Raber was | and hope that in that better land his
ce .) 3 ° 5 7 »yp ay TQ “ }
oncocted; the place where the deed was | storm-tossed soul will find an anchorage
ye ‘ 7 2eoOVar , - iq °
Ponfasamated being but several rods clis- and be made to bask in the effulvenee of
an | Hi i 7
‘ ; Him who has said, ‘Come unto me all

T . a
here are many incidents in the life of ye that are weary and heavy ladened and

randt which we might chronicle, but | T will give you rest.”
space will not permit. We are, however, | ee ao
free to state that the notority which he | HENRY F. WISE
has achiev re . ra py : . - .

ay achieved was not warranted, as all, — This man forms one of the most impor-
the investigations and researches made,
fail to picture him in the bad light that
our people hay : i ini

je ° . we been educated to. ignominious death on the gallows. And,

i 1e men that have been con- | while he was not the originator of the

|
victed of ‘der % ‘ i i
the murder, Brandt alone | crime, nor did he do the actual killing of

tant factors in the terrible tragedy for
which he was convicted and suffered an

has remained consistent, and studiously , old Joe Raber, nor in fact. according to
and persistently stated that he had noth- his confession. knew of the murder at
ing to do wi +i : ing | the ti i . .
a withth the crime, contending | the time it was committed, yet the inge-
1at he was as innocent asa babe unborn. | nious part he played in effecting the in
¢ Sg ue . . a7 ‘ : = 7
nae his incarceratian he bas shown uw’) surance on the life of the old man, his
stoic disposition : ‘ep all intima- | s i ‘essi i avie-
sole ne on ind repelled all intima- | startling confession shortly after eonvic-
ions of his guilt, stating that the future. | tion. and his subsequent testimony in
or the rest of the accused. if h st. will | : Benne :
> accused, onest, will | , of George Zechm: :
Be aumetoewpeeeee 4a fetes | ans tral of George Zechman. one of the
et nerate him from knowledge | alleged aecomplices, stamp him as the
1) ia ual participation in the erime. His , most remarkable personage of this con
religious views are lax, but his parents . federacy of criminals.
having raised him in the Lutheran faith. He was born in Monroe Valley. Leba
4 . + cS oe

4 Ss Ss = 4 co Ae + > . + 7 i
he ha een ut to call as his spiritual ad- | non county, Pa., on the 4th of June. 1845
“er a George H. Trabert. When and lived with his parents until he was
askec oO youbelieve in a God 2’ he re- | ten years of age. when the family moved

HISTORY, OF THE. RABER MURDER. 15

to. Fishing ‘Cres Valley, a distance of beonth year, and who proved a faithful

some six miles from St. Tanepit's Spring,
the scene of the tragedy.

working people. His father following the
business of wood chopping and manu-
facturing pine-tree-tar, out of which he

—-

z
5.
ore

“and gaye the best satisfaction to his em-

J

this period he sought the solace of re- |

wife and devoted mother, and to whom
he was fondly and deeply attached.

After his marriage he worked for some
time at Lower Rousch Creek colliery,
when he desired to have his wages in-
creased from $12 to $18 dollars per week,
but not succeeding he left at once and
/ sought employment at Gold Mine Gap,
| where he bought the share of Lot Knapp’s
- contract in pealing bark and making rail-
road sills, and made considerable money
out of the job. From that place he re-
turned to the mines and worked for

ing a few ofthe winter months, but withall | a while until he cut himself in the foot,
these disadvantages he succeeded in mas- | when he returned to chopping wood for
tering the ordinary branches of the Eng- , the Union Forge company. In the spring
lish language and was able to write a | of 1865 he went to Rattling Run and
plain, legible hand. During his confine- | worked at the saw mill, but on the 3d of
ment in the Lebanon jail, he wrote outa May he was again unfortunate in cutting
full history of his life from his earliest . himself in the knee with an ax, which
recollections, which he desired to have | compelled him to quit work and caysed
published after his death for the benetit , his confinement to.the house for some
of his wife and family, but having enter- | five or six weeks. During the space of
ed into minute details it became manifest four months he earned only between
that it would not pay to publish it, so he | $9 and $10 by chopping wood for the
concluded to abandon that idea and en- Union Forge company, getting to the
tered into other arrangements for its dis- | place to work witha cane. He continued
cutting wood and making sills for six or
At the age of fourteen he went to Gold | seven years, when he returned to the
-Mine Gap to eut railroad ties for his bro- | mines and worked at Lincoln colliery,
ther-in-law, and perform the work of a | Schuylkill county, for Miller & Co. At
full-grown man. He was a strony, stout one time, at this colliery, while Willliam
“hardy youth, and could handle the axe | Fake.a companion, was getting ready to
with any of his companions. | fire a shot, Wise heard a slight noise and
| told Fake to run, wher there was a fallof
' slate of a few ton at the very place where
Fake was standing. This timely warn-
| ing saved the life of his friend. There
are many incidents of escapes and perils
related by Wise, which show the dangers
that threatened him while working in the
mines. Fake after this lett the place and
Wise remained for some time longer,
when he quit work and returned to mak-
ing sills and cutting wood for some con-
siderable time, and then went to West
Brookside colliery and worked for Ben.
Kautiman and James Savage & Brother;
atterward for Gordon, Rebleer & Co.
John H. Miller, his brother-in-law, was
“When but sixteen years old he fell working in the same mine, when some-
love with a young and pretty girl by the — thing dropped near where Wise was stand-
name of Nancy Hauer, living inthe neigh- ing; he instantly called out to Miller who

borhood, whom he married on the 14th | wasa green hand in the mines—when
of February, 1864. when in his nine- . they jumped back, extinguishing both

His parents were podr but honest, hard-

made his livelihood. Henry, when quite
young assisted his father, and thus early
was compelled to endure the hardships
incident to the rough life which he was
compelled to lead.

His education was somewhat limited, |
being only permitted toattend school dur-

position. |

When he was seventeen years old he
4, worked at the Roush Creek coal mines,a
© distance of fifteen miles from his home,

employers, so much so that he received a
recommendation from several of them
for his industry and faithfulness. About

ligiun at the U. B. church. remaining
faithful for nearly a year thereafter, when
the alluring temptations of the world
eaused him to turn from the narrow path
of duty to the broad road of sin,

During the summer months he usually
worked in the mines, and in winter en-
gayed in chopping railroad ties.

4
:


16 HISTORY OF THE RABER MURDER,

their lamps, leaving them in total dark-
ness. On a light being struck by Miller
it was found that a heavy rock weighing
about 25 tons had caved in at the spot
where they were working. After this he
left the mines and returned to the moun-
tains, where he engaged in wood cutting |
for various parties.

At this time his brother sought religion
and urged Henry to do likewise. His |
wife, her sister and he were converted in |
the Church of God, of which Rey. Israel

|
|
i

Hay was the pastor, and were baptized in
Rouseh Gap creek, They walked in the
faith for some eighteeu months, when
owing to some wrongful abuse he re- |
ceived, he again turned tu evil ways. |
About this time he worked at repairing |
on the Dauphin & Susquehamna railroad
and from there he assisted James Reed |
at charcoal burning in Fishing Creek Val-
ley.*Dauphin County. After this he made |
between 3000 and 4000 railroad sills for
John Turns and others. Then he returu- |
ed to Union township, Lebanon County
and worked at Brookside in the mines,
At this time he bought # property from
William Rhen, at public sale. and in the
following spring moved to his new home.
The winter before his wife and he again .
experienced religion and continued faith-
ful for about a year-and-a-half. He says
that in the published account the time is
given of his serving the Lord as about
two years and a quarter, whereas he found |
upon searching his memory that this was
Was a mistake.

The first yearly payment on his pro-
perty was met, but panic times coming |
on he could not meet the second pay-
ment, but managed to pay the interest.
In spring the property was paid in full :
by a triend, to whom it was subsequently
deeded. In the meantime his family |

i
i
|
|

|
|

was increasing and his expenses were
getting heavier. He. however. desired
that the property should be sold. so that {
lie could move tu the West where he |
wished to bring up his family ina more |
refined and moral state of society, and
also to live in the fear of God. su that
when life was over they could meet in x
better world. When the temptations

were presented to him of sudden wealth
to be procured by insuring petsons, and
putting them out of the way in order to
recover the insurance money, and the
fact dwelt upon by these parties that he
could have plenty of money to go West,
and ina short time become a wealthy man,
he, in an evil hour yielded to the tempters,
and this proved his ruin.

This man, although identified with this
cruel crime, had some very sterling qual
ities. He was kind-hearted and gentle.
@ faithful husband,an affectionate: father,
and a firm and trusty friend; and his oft
repeated efforts to serve the Lord showed
at least that he tried to be a better man.

In personal appearance he was rather
prepossessing having blue eyes, brown
hair, and a clear, healthy complexion,
The expression of his countenance was
pleasant, wearing even when in rep ose
the suspicion of a smile, so much so that
his countenance was likened to that of
Schuyler Colfax. He was about five feei
eight inches in height and weighed about
180 pounds, having a strong muscular
frame, indicating great physical strength.

As the weary hours wore on during his
long imprisonment, he spent much of his
time in reading the Bible, seeming tod -
rive inuch consolation therefrom, and
frequently telling his counsel that if the
sentence of court could be reversed to
imprisonment for a series of years, he
would not desire it: and as the end ap-
proached he was frequently on his Knees
imploring forgiveness from that Supreme
Being to whom alone he could look for
merey.

His faithful wife and loving children
frequently visited him and the heart-
rending scenes that took place in that
iron cell often brought tears to the eves
of those wiio witnessed them. He was
executed on the t3tn. of May, 1879.

Thus tragically ended a life, which
under other circumstances. mivht have
proved an ornament and 2 benefit to
society, but surrounded by evil mtluences
and yielding to strong temptations. it
proved worse than a failure and ended in
a telon’s doom,

HISTORY OF THE RABER MURDER. _— .

i ———— a

CONFESSIONS.

The annexed confession of HEeNrRy F,
Wish is a full and final statement of his :
complicity in the tragedy, as given to his
counsel, shortly Defore his execution, in |
which will be found many new develop- |
ments in the hellish conspiracy hitherto |
not made public:

On the Millstone Mountain, some time
in May, 1878, I had the first conversation
about this matter with Israel Brandt, who
said to me that he knew of a way to make
a lot of money, when I asked him how ?
He replied ‘*Thave an old man to insure
who lives here in the mountains in a hut,
who has no family or relatives living
around here, and have a man to put him

vut of the way ; he wants $500 to do it.”
. said “Is., this is something that I don’t
wish to have anything to do with. [ wish
to go West and am too poor to insure
anybody. iBraadt, however, replied, ‘‘I
have the promise vf 850 and besides can
raise $30 or $40, and [ will give you some
‘if you join in with me, because the man

<x
be

-{ hired desired me to have one or two’:

more parties "’ The idea was to insure the
rman for $7,000 or $8,000, and he said if [
“ went West with $3,000 or $4,000, in eight
sie tor nine years I could be worth $30,000 or
~840,000, and I would not be obliged, to
& work like I do now; Valentine Fahler
> eame driving along at this time, when the
“conversation ceased.

The second time I was coming up tue
Millstone mountain, some time in June,
I met Brandt. who asked me to stop and
sit down to rest. when he asked me what
1 determined upon about our last talk,
and I said, ‘that is something I don’t wish
to have anything to do with, beeause if
we would be found out. the man who did
the work would be hung, and we might
be sent to the penitentiary for years: but,
Brandt said ‘toh, pshaw. I had a talk with
Judge Rank, who told me that. it) one
Inau insured another, and he were shot
by another man, the cornpany would be
compelled to pay the insurance money :

wi

and you may know that they can not do
anything to us, for a certain important
person from Lebanon said to me, why
don’t you insure some old man, and then
hire someone to put him out of the way;
you may work in these mountains until
you are an old man, without ever coming
to anything.’ [The person here referred
to. is an influefhtial citizen in this place,
and we did not consider it just to insert
the aame here, although Wise asserts
that he will make public the names .?
numerous persons in high standing as
having been more or less connected in
this arrangement, and who Brandt said,
offered to give money to these men for
such purposes.) In this same conversa-
tion, Brandt told me that some years ago
he and had Raber insured in the
Marietta company, and had hired Drews
to put him out of the way, when
wanted to join in, but got drunk and
| talked too much, and so the matter fell
through; Brandt said that he didn’t get
the money, but that he could get it from
old . in Jonestown, and that I should
now join in with him, which I refused to
do. I usked him who it was, he said
Charles Drews is the man to do it, and
Raber the subject.
The next conversation
Zechman’s about the middle of July, 1878.
when he and I spoke about insurance in

occurred at

4 general, in which we discussed our losses

in the Marietta company. He said if he

| knew of a good subject he would try it
again. [replied that I don’t feel like it.
but if I would there was one person who
proposed to me to insure a person up the

valley and put him out of the way for

_ $500; Zechman replied laughingly, ei, ei..
has it such bad people up the valley, when
I replied ++ not up the valley only, but in
other places also."” when he said no one
ever said anything to me like that, and I
answered more than one said so to me;
this ended our conversation.

About a week after that [ was there


18° HISTORY el THE RABER MUKDER,

again, then Zechman said, ‘ Henry, letus | Hummel that Brandt, Zeechman and I have
insure that man you spoke about, that something agoing, and if I was sure that
that man said could be put out of the way | you wouldn’t say anything, I 7" uld tell
for $500,”’ when I said, « George, that is | you. He then gave me his hand and asked
somening Ido not wish to enter into, be- | what it was, swearing that he would not
cause tam poor and want to go West, as Say anything, and asking whether he
everybody knows, and if that would come | could not join in, when I told him about
anes one who committed the act would our plan. He then said that he had to go
e hung, and the others sent to the peniten- | to the mine, but that I should take out

|
)

|
|
|

|
tiary for a nu ,
mihi é fe of years."" Zechman | an application j im some good company for
allay rin led, “That the man that ; him, and he would pay it afterwards,
itte € act was the only one who | After our return from *‘Gum”" ’ Hughes

ovement punisbed.”* After this an | to my father’s home, we there met Zech-
—_ Baber Bor as ioe pe ase | man and told him of Hummel’s inten-
with Ephraim Shucy 99,00 3 } tions, whereupon Zechman laughingly
Mutual aaa ey in the U. B, | replied, ‘“‘why, there will be a whole
oo he a Gel oc oF tha oa ee | hens us,” and persuaded Humme}
os ots ai} o the mines. but to stay at
as no one would suspect ;
Zechman, he having» had. dis father and | were to be made out.
other already insured, in the Marietta | On the appointed day Zechman, Hum
company for $10,000, and I was to let mel and myself met. at Brandt's b (
Brandt know to keep Raber in readiness Schweinhard failed to — He : Ce
when Shuey came around to insure him, | however a few days atkerwards chen
I was to insure Raber myself, also. for Charley Drews és, sont oul  ihibon
$1,000 or $2,000, A couple days aftewards | us: Haniel and Zechman could “hot
I met Brandt on the Indiantown read and | vome and I went at their suggestion a
told him about Zechman, and he said, all Brandt and took out applications, as fol
right. has Zeehman any money? T said . lows:—One for myself in the Westerville
no, but he would put his note into bank, ; Company, for $3,000; one for Zechman in
givin his father for bail, and draw the | the U. B. Aid Society for $3 000: one for
money, and Brandt replied. all right, Hummel! in the Home, for $2 000, and
i
|

home on the day when the applications

come up on Sunday and we will talk Brandt took one out for iment in the
Over the matter; when I said all right, Reading Company, for $1,000 The appli-

Jess. Hummel and myself have already | cations of Hummel and Brandt were , -

_ arr anged to-go up the valley next Sund: ay | proved and the policies issued Int Zech
and then. we: will make it suit to call | man's, in the U. B. Aid si y its

around j ver, at oe

1, rejected; he however, afterwards obtain-

ed an insurance in the Allentown eon.
a short time | pany for $2,000. I dia not reecive a

During this conversation Brandt also
told me that he and -

ed George Jennings in the Wes- policy in the Westerville company al
erville ¢ any for 2! -eowi Sewa des
ve . e compas for 33,000, but we will | though I had paid the application tees to
et hin live a rear; I: : i Schwei ‘ is 7 ‘te
out a year; Lasked wheth- } Sehweinhard. After this Zechman took

er Charles Drews was to work him out of | out another application in the Hartford
the way, when Brandt replied no. we | company for 83. 000, Dut was ampable te
have some one nearer to do it. pay the costs, when Schweinhard a-sign-
The following Sunday, Jess. Hummel | ed 32.000 of it to me in Jonestown, i
and T went to Brandt's, where we drank presence of Zach. Ginerieh °
considerable beer, and were pretty drunk, A short time after the application had
Brandt there told me that he and Ze: ch- } been made ont Charles Drews op IPO shed
man had seen Schweinhard at the Ranks. | me and said ~as I smnflenstidnd Bras it.
town pie-nie, and had tixed the d: ty when — there is something to be deiether . on
the applications would be made out on é i, are cess

[ replied, ves. ‘so I if i
» yes. “su [ understand, but if it
Raber. From here Hummel and | started

t
$
to vo to *G i | ever comes to that, I will not pay vou nor
zo to rum “" Hughes, according to any one else one cent.” when he inquired,
. our afi 3 |

vst plan.and on the way I said to | *‘well. how would I get imy share.”” and I

HISTORY. OF THESRABER MURDER. 19

,

answered him, that I could put that | no danger, as’ there were-men of high
amount into my pocket and lie down | standing in Lebanon, (mentioning their ’
somewhere to sleep, when some one could | names) who urged him-to be w party to’
come up and take the same out of my | such a transaction, and that another man
pockets and no one weuld know whohad | and he had George Jennings insured in’
taken the money. the Westerville, Ohio, company for $3,000
On another occasion, while Hummel, | and that they would let him live about
Zechinan and myself were at Brandt’s | a year or so, but then he would be put
Drews asked me alone, ‘‘the way I under- | out of the way, but not by Drews, as >
stand I am to be an equal partner in this | they had somebody nearer. Hummel
transaction."* when I replied, ‘‘I have no | told me also that he and Brandt were
objections.”’ coming from Shultz’s and went to Kitz-
On another occasion, while Hummel, | miller’s dam to select a suitable place for
Zechman and myself were together at | the drowning. Hummel said there were
Brandt's, when we consulted with each | several good places, either at the plank,
other as to the best plan to put Raber | or at the logs (I don’t remember which),
out of the way, Brandt first proposed to | and below the breast, as it was deep
get Polly Kreiser, housekeeper for Raber, | enough at any of these places. One day
down to his house, when Drews should as Brandt, Zechman and myself were
go to Raber’s hut and with a hammer | together near Brandt's house, Brandt
hit him on the head and kill him and | remarked, ‘‘I do not know how to get old
afterwards set the shanty on fire, but | Raber along to go fishing as he is no fish-
first to put a number of stones on top so | erman,”’ when Zechman said “Ihave fixed
as to create the impression that the old Joe all right, and when the time
marks upon his head were ovcasioned by | comes I will get him to go along, upon
the stones falling upon it. This plan was | the pretext that we want to catch fish
too revolting to the rest of us and was | for my wife, but care must be taken so
not adopted. There were other plans | that no marks will be left on Raber’s
proposed, but by whom I[ eannot tell; | person,’? when Brandt replied ‘‘ that éan
but when some one suggested the planof | easily be done, all that Drews has ta do
drowning, Zechman and inyself agreed | is to take the old inan by the pantaloon
that that would be the nicest death. At | legs, throw him head foremost into the
¢one.time Drews came toine and said that | water, and hold him there until he is
he had in his mind already to steal upon ; dead, and then one of us will come down
~ Raber while he was asleep and take a | and tell you, when Zechman will go’ for
sharp-pointed nail with a big head and | the coroner,’ I said, ** that ‘s not neces-
drive it through his skull into his brain, | sary, as we can go to Squire Shuey, who
because Raber had such thick hair and | is just as smart a man, as we have around
in this wav no blood would appear. On | here,’? but Zechman said, ‘‘no, Brandt is

another occasion, as Hummel was re- | right, as the coroner is a sworn officer for
turning from Brandt's, he told me that that purpose.’

Drews, Brandt and -——— had in their | On Sunday. November 3d. 1878. Hume.
inind that week some time to put brim- | mel and myself went up to Brandt’s and

stone into a large blow-horn that Brandt | had old Raber to assign the policy tu me,
although it isdated November 1st. After
we returned home Zechman was at my
father’s house, and we three went in the
back part of the kitchen, when Zechman
asked me to co up sometime that week tu
tell old Raber to go to “Squire Shuey and
assign the Reading policy to him, and on

| his return back he would give him some-
I hesitated to have | thing to eat. Zechman said, ‘‘after this

|

|

had, set it on fire and blow the fumes
over Raber’s face. 1] said, ‘‘ why. that
would have killed Polly too,”? when Hum-
mel laughed and said. ‘* that’s so."’ This
plan was nut adopted for fear that there
would be too much of a smell of sulphur

in the liut,

In a conversation on the dance floor
With Brandt. when
anything to do with this matter, because
TI was afraid of the punishment that
might-attach to it. Brandt said there was

job has been completed we won’t go up
to Brandt's to share the money, as they
might murder us yet,”’’ when I replied. ‘we

ue


20 a) a 7
x _ HISTORY OF THE RABER MURDER

must wait until we cet t ”
mela a ere a | who I was told was a soldier in the regu-
80 said, s ugh: Jar army: [ :
nomena wh g army; t asked who they were :
ae So nahoR ever.said,“‘there had never seen Lena bet’o , After ‘me
: nger about that, and as s ’ ve the wink te
at, S soon as relimin: ;
we eet thee Oat, an p ninary remarks I gave the wink to
ir rer mee we wil go to my home old Charley and walked out, when he
will see us."’ Raber vamne toa hu - cee ee “Winwe
: é 8 0 Zechman’s str hi rechman
Nanny ine : street. There I told him what Z
to Sank Serning to eat but did not S0 had sent me there for; told bea sega
° a ca faa to assign the policy, so Jess, Hummel had told ea teak Tote
‘ " « . ? 7 . |
‘mune ae mere up to Drew's Knapp had said and told _— Che
‘ yY tove . . ~ } ’ ne
hut amd he aitlommer? cn to Raber’s — should not do this job, and old Charley
following dey ot Sous Sines mage said “T am not obliged to do this as Ihave
his ye rs by Ra- rlenth 4 , * at the sa
ber. Some eight or ten days before R 7 ae ing ints is pocket sn
ber’s deaths met Hummel ae ; a- . time reaching into his pocket and draw
Swatara ing tor | is.
Gap station ws Ing torth a handfull of silver. “This ?7
nena Silver. This,’
Knope bay ne weld me as Lott — he said, ‘I vot through my daughter
tain 3 Shit 7 s smithshop that — who is at present in a family way ° dl
sad gill eta S not insured for nothing, T have the promise of more : Se
: Sh llgmee ; ing, ‘ ore > sO you se
solid, "tonne val seat when I that I can get through the winter with a
hare or ee ae iad better let our doing this job."* The last words b -
¢ fi S £ “Oy = + . : - “ ;
solieeenenie mee on ands will sell my — we separated were that we would nop
y the S ; ey : * i:
wetbte Zeon ee From herel this matter and have no more to do with
anand told him what it, With this impression upon my mind

ffummel hz I
f had told me, and there againre- ' 7 left Drews’ lace, feeli
peated what [ had before said, and said inet Srl Hoke meat

that [ would sell my policy to-day vet if
I could, as Iam afraid and pity ‘the old
man, when he replied, ‘oli, let the uld
scoundrel die, he is tou lazy to Work any-
how and -we must support him all the
- tinte.?"* :

terrible crime would not be committed
I returned home Sometime in the after-
toon, and after partaking of a mea}
Whieh had been spread by my two oldest
daughters, | was informed that I was to
call at Zechman’s house that evening.
On’ Sunday, Deceinber ist, Zechman nee ake en oe contin
came to my father’s house and told me to came ’ we eee rer haraian
80 up to Charley Drews that week aad Ii : . tea “fh wooly mney ths
tell hima that heme sapere » kitchen, being the only persons in the
Af the way. bet ee ermine gut room. Zechman asked me whether [
as, for on Satusday he woud sell his him ther Lost at, Clatiey and T told
Healing oe fee | : : Wied Had, and also the whole con.
oan ; ae ae ae ae easier that passed between us, ind
Wish tohaveccdme ee tat he determined not to do it. Zech.
vs hate nee: Hore ‘odo with it, man said, “why did you do that,’’ win
shory he ina ae re vinse ne.said T replied, “f£ can’t believe that we can't be
50H so. tieomete bee ; On . could punish if this is found out. He further
ausitiedaea 7 a ue a well ac- | Said, “Shave you made Up your mind ta
fatteloitdane Untain roads and Jose_all the money thar vou have aid i
; $0 up and he would pay me el on
for doing so, and that if Idid not wish to
have anything to do with it I should at
least 20 up and say What he had told me
On Monday forenoon, December 2d I
went tu Drews’ house and found the
“umily, including Peters and his wile

and I said, “yes, if I cannot sell my
policy.” Zechman asked Hummel, “how
Is it with you Jes.: he said, “not so with

: me, [insured for that purpose.”” Hum-
me] sugested that we should -* beat” a
few now, and LT remarked. “if * Gum °
there; Joe Peters stoad upand f took oon ie are sess
is give. ace meee th leno wanted ie to vo to =< FE
Lenn, wits ied beets wands that © Huehes uext morning, ‘and on hu aay
ever since she was ; satan, mong steungers stop in with Charles Drews and ge him
€ She Was a little virl, had come to vo ahead, but I repli a

home with her husba nec Joseph Peters dS iret wich wee a, eee
: ; sh to have any more to do with

eee een -

HISTORY..OF THE RABER MURDER. ne

to be seen with *Gum’ Hughs, as Lott
Knapp has been there already, and I
will not let myself be caugit with him.”
Among other things spoken of between
us, if was suggested whether we could
not make some arrangements with John
Zattazahn to get up a party at Mt. Zion |
und beat them, but the whole tenor of |
that evening’s talk was to arrange some |
plan to put old Raber out of the way, |
now that it was thought that Charles
Drews would refuse to do it, as he had
toid me : but I positively refused tohave |
anything to with the matter. Both |
Zechman and Hummel urged me earnest-
ly and repeatedly to remainin with them |
and called my attention to the fact, that |
we three had our fortune told in Lebanon
some time before and particularly dwelt
upon what had been told me, that I
should before long receive large sums of |
inoney ; that T should take a long trip ;
that [ would meet with much prosperity
in every respect ; using this as an argu-
sgent that all these things were already
coming true, and that [ would certainly
wo Against my own interest if T would not
help them to carry out this pJan. In
spite of all this [ persistently protested
against having anything to do with this
pied. and at 10 o'clock IT arose to xo home,
as [had promised my wife to come home
early. But they insisted upon my stay-
ine and [ ayvain allowed myself to be
persuaded and sat down, when we spoke
about this and other matters until about
a quarter of twelve. when I again got up
and said that now I vould go. Up to
this time I had not consented to join in
with them, but T allowed myself again to
be persuaded to remain. Some time
-—- —-—. proposed ta

this matter, and I will not allow myself |
|
|

before this —
me that I should insure Poly Gamble,
when he would put her out of the way
for me. This matter came up avain this
evening and Zechman and Hummel
thought that he would be a goud man to
work Raber out of the way. They were
agreed upon this. but I determinately
refused to join in with them up to 12
oefock, when Zeehman persuaded me to
sit dowu ahother time: he incessently
urged me not to be so foolish, but give
my consent to join them, I still refused.
wvnd shortly before 1 o'clock, on Tuesday

morning, I said that now T would posi-
tively go home. I went to the door and

took the outer knob into my hand, and
already stood upon the threshold when
Zeehman asked me to stay only a few
moments more, that he had a few things
he wished to tell me. That fatal stop
brought me to yield, for, before T again
emerged from that house to -wend my
lonely way towards my house, I gave my
full and unequivocal consent to remain
in the plot with them; I was plead with
and entreated and finally yielded to the
damning voice of the tempter. It was
agreed before we separated that Hummel
and myself should go and see
either on Tuesday or Wednesday. It
having suited our purpose better we went
to Jonestown on Tuesday, when Hummel.
renewed a note in the bank, and trom

there we went to see ——

We met met on our road at
the western end of Annville, near the
pridge. We stopped him. when [alighted
and went to him, opening the conversa-
tion by talking about beating some par-
ties, but in a short time I turned the con-
versation to the purpose for which we had

come. He at once was agreed, and when
l asked what he wanted to use, he said
poison, but said. if [had only known this
some time ago I would have prepared
myself now it might create suspicion. ]
asked what kind of poison he wished to
use: he said rat poison: 1 said. ‘‘Thave
some of that that I used to poison rats.”

We there agreed that Zechman should
vet the whisky in two porter bottles.
alike in appearance, and then -——
would put poison into the one bottle.
If{ummel] was to take his gun to the Green

Point meeting house and there meet

_—-—~, when he would take Hummel’s
eun and pretend to zo hunting in the
mountain, when he would meet Raber
at his shanty. as if by aecident. and
there take a drink of whisky out
of the boettle in which there was no
poison and then put it back into his
pocket. as if he had torgotten to give
Raber «a drink. when he would pull out
the other bottle eoutaining the poison
and give Raber a drink, and afterward
take the bottle and break it upon a
— pock in the mountain. This was to have
| Leen dene on the following Sunday, but

We

“hese are the reproduced papers relating to the

$hew-Eagan trial and execution. The sheets overlap
ut arrange them so that you can read the account.
The newspaper was very old and fragile and yellowed,

and the revroduction is not too clear, but I hope that
it will be of help.

t ’
The paper $s The Montros¢ Democrat, dated
Jan. 11, 1900. W. C. Cruser, Editor and
Proprietor. No further information given.

Pek gees
neh
ah

cor nave oe

1
iF

. : NA
out iys fe ¢ y by:>S, bah a Fe
Se * tg Q ean
eee ta : : ee at
'@ igrahtes, y

fae nd


we
Lat

ed

eae them Into the yard; just outaide the s@

reporters of thie.
sod ofher pereoos, end pbobt 150 people
were present. ; ea

Uoer the lew, at en execution a jury;
of view, consisting of 13 mes for each;
mau executed, fa to be preaent. In this |
case they were: s

For £agan:—M. 3. MeVicar, H D.
Jones, J. F. Wellbrook, L, B. Miller. Dr, |
F. L. Grander, Otls Saverence, F. 1. |
Leonard 8. L Bevan, T. J. Pentecost, |
C, FL Tiffasy, Lester Turrell and EA.
Garratt, !
For Suew:—Thomas Kilrow, George!
Maxey, Herbert Juhnson, A. H. Conrad, |
E. f\. Brennan, H, & Patrick, De. W.!

B..Covkiin, R. O, Buoneil, Dr. ©. D.!
Mackey, Dr. A. J. Taylor, Df. J, Walsh |
aod EB W. Shay. ©
These men met nat the Sheriff's oftlce !

{n the Court Hu vse soon after nine o'clock :

taany others who were to attend the
exioution, und about 2.40 all went to the!
fall, ‘where they were admitted at the H
tower door,: and passed avross the corrid- |
or, out the oppoalte door, which brought |

door was 8 wooden platform, erected the |

Bidas vefore (by J. F. Herilogton aed Bj

$..Conkita.} From thle platform, five |

atepa led, stralght-abcad, to the ground;
orif while on this temporary platform,ooe :

Bturocd partly to the right, one could!

|

i

site

i stood

} not

ascend five steps, which would bring ove |
squarely on to the saaffold platform. ;
woere Kegon and Show o little later|

The gallowa faced directly north- ex-|
actly towards the reaidence of H. 5S.
Conkiin,.om the bank above.

The men there to witness the execution |
peased, of course, down the five steps
mentioned, ththe ground, and scattered
about’ tbe yard in little groups aad
Quietly discussed the situatinn, the space
veleg,; perbups, about half filled. i
Tbe prisoners had beea removed from |
the cells op that aide of the jall, and dki’
pee the execution. — ;
Ag 0 $4, Sheriff Maxey caine ort of the:
all, stepped upon the acaTold. to wat,
i oace more, and see if a! was right. |
then=-~ sent hack in end!
Devel andJno ¢ F. TTarrlogton ttepped
pn it for same purpoat, to make aasur-
aoee doubly sure

Whiie the crowd waled. sounds of
ainging vagy from the jal! the clergy |
met Res, Bow Thomas, of the Hapuse,

ee icbarch, ans Ree HB, Benedict, of the)

Methoulst church taviag «peut most of |
the fotenoou with the condemoaecd men. |
They bal also been wiht them on ober |
oteapions, and both Engan and Shew bad

reased conversion, avd xiven ores? |

MMievidenee of ft, it is sald, and. stated em

phatieity they were ready for desth and

as

land covere

ae pre et ee A Ee A

pearrby cobstler, neko”

ba rope Wis
named Wheaton.’ s ny

Dr. Ceci] McCoy-of the Binghamton
state hospital. Dr. C. D. Mackey, the jail
physician, Dr. H. C. Knapp of Bingham-
ton, Dr. Grander of Forest City and Dr
Grander and Taylor of Hopbotrom, were
present to exauilne the boules.

Their Deaths.

The physicians took the!r pulse con
tinuously, voted the heart beats, and in
due time prononreed them dead, Slew
first, In about 8 minutes, and Fagan
about 15 minutes, but thelr bodies were
allowed to hang for about 30 minutes

They probably ieniized very litte

The seck of each man was broken and
the rope had cnt Engen cor siderably
He had grown atout io ji}, weighing now
208 Ibs.—60 Iba more thaa whes arrested

The death warrant callod for exeeu-
tion. between 10 and 4 o'clock, but the
Sheriff had all arrangemenia made to
proceed with the unpleasi:( » fair earl

estble. and the execution wes pi
and gure, and {0 al! ita details thor uglty
successful, and no accidenta to add horror
to the terrible affair. Sheriff Maxey read
the death warrnut's to them Saturday,

There were more pecple than usual In
town. Yet nothing likca surging crowd

It had 5 og though? there night be,

d there waeno ‘isorder. .
The boty of Kagau was taken down by
Deputies Harifagton and Taylor, and
Jail on Sedertakes Tihiman's atretcher,
rel wht a hinck closh; it wag
lifted Into the Titman wagoa ani taken
to thele Cudertnking raomns, whetg it.te-
mained !Ql Bo'clock next morning. when
it waa sent on the train to Jong Iskand,
to be cremated. It was accompanied by
E. C. Sherman

The wagon of Uoderiaker Telford of
Busqnihanna, was walting witbout the
gate, and policemen Bazter and Tingley

— oe ee a ee

an

Mae

ta

at tee ho 1 we ie
also that we moet have some
fio and | went to the lanndry and got the
rope Sunday night snd Saxe sod iv eat
{t up lo short pieces, he purting the pleces

coat Holog
no pocket, and Idid os like the ides of
bJa having We guo.

We lef; Susquchsums on Monday mura-

* TRE “Jy

Ing Oct. 18th, walked to Rush, arrfylog
there jn the afternoon of Oct. 19th.

As soon as {ft was dark, we went into

While we were there we saw a mun go lo
the spring and then back t» the house
Suate had given usa plano
was. It wascold and we were walking
up and down in tbe road.
man (whom we afterwards learned wis

and then went into the barn. We went
to the door and looker fn and be was busk-
ing corn, Shew asked me ii
Pepper. eald 1 tin not
thought ft must be

Sbew then sald we must lose «

know

then gate the botse. P wanted tb walt

not. ile sa'd bea nib ga ty uted the the
man up and Tiesuld wate! aed tely s
anyone reme. Slew had woos Yas gad
thrown itaway.” He wea te tancl:
hy the sboulders avd thtav hina: and te
hina, ~ He wen? tute the barnand T went
toward the read. | bad just reacked the
road when J heard a blow.
Harn and weotto. | thens.w Shew bit

ve

cord, which } ip over, w
Gnele sald wc could. get at the Jaundry. | self get ont to weik.

he putting the piecea ic the Ineide of Ita | murder
L carried the pists) a8 be bad |

| ene from eucw saying [ did wae “whole
thing, plaaning, killfog. and si), and thet
they Were Hike little dogs tretng glong

|

the woods {no front of the Pepper liuuse. |
f the house and |
we were looking to ace how vear right tt}
While there a!
Jackson Pepper) came out of the louse .

and turned eeme horses out of the lara, |

shat was |
but fora

VhAl Cee {
but had beter goin and tie him uo and }

until they had ganeas bel, Sbew won |

4!

|
1
\

ent to t H
T went to MO carr

D f Afney and my-
(i -was Gandcuffed
to dines ) P

It wag while we were waiking that
Aine? told me that be had mur for the
af. Iecksos Veprer, apd that he
bal a ate case againet me but hesatd be
would eave me if lL woul) make a state-
ment te bie next owning He sald he
hac s statexnent from Susie Grebam = and

WHERE TREY WERE EXECUTED,

beliind, ble eaid he know they were boi

telllug tse truth and if { would make 4
i atatemen® ta bin be would save me.
enii he iad ft.0 hls power to liuagme or
thut he

he could get me off pretty easy
thougut bo wes not guilty of the crime &e
that he won't out tne a statenecot and

wast. feliow him as neatly as possible
Ltold him: t would es a lawrer first,

Iwas sure to basg unless {
Wished. ;

He iold re ta say nothing ebout ss he.
the others aw “rust big
worl sass me Lid Bebe wigted age
The ira DP Re eg me a be ald he would,
istul int Sawer to Bid me- have
vet ovil ce Oo Rims 4) TP wien people
Lane wW tutse arts “i

E wish to sey that the
fantly heve beer very >
uy te
me eitee | have born bere.

mT asl

|

me

me

taiss wie to tian’ Yor Dates tar ple] oighee Frank Hereickh cays EB L
fe ant het

of Bis

uatistog efforts fo save my
Mr. W OD B. Ainey Seen a nian
word t windd bave teen anved Vals
tstatement of which [oweould like

\ haw WW Pohive a

ile

4
but

he sabtif tdilhbe could aot help me and
did as he

wx be

‘a

vow there

Bir: —L am going be hung tomorrow fur
acrtime I never committed tu my right
mind. You promised to help me if I
oonfesaed king Jackson Pepper, Yor sald
yon soul) haey me or Got andthal vou were
my friend and would belp me. How well
you have kept your promise’ You told dim
the same thing, hut yuu decelved we ati ihe
time ond aid not jutend to keep ce from
havging if you had allowed «+ tu haven
lawyer and mot have deeeived us we w
feel C.Serent abort tt ud kmowa we ith
wrong And Cught te te punished, but lb wae
netfora Chrintiaga The vou to decrve ne
You swore taler in my trial You snow
ray shook that whifffetree tuo iv ince acd
you told etvere that cor eared woe intaconu
Seaming. ofter Lars dowd the truth will come

vovect

abont it
bicaive gow aud pray God wil bear the
peayer of a murderer aud forgive you for te
eclting Jim and me. I forgive youaud every
tedy snd pray Cod tv lergice me.
Cousins Wo Nxewn.
KC. SHERMAN.

Various Notes.

The wen wished to mekesome remarks
on the seaffold, acy they thanked their
friends. forgave their enemies, &e, but
the cleigymecn and others adviecdi them
sotto. Wat they migbt break down,

Six epeclal deputies were chosen to
eerist in the sewn of the egecytiav:--
F. L Leonard, H. 8. Conklin. H. BE. Tay-
ior, H. B. Joors, 4 F. Kinney, and Jas
Dartington, They drew lots as ty which
part ofthe work each sboull perform,
and the more prowtaent parts fell to the
first four named, such as sdjustiag the
caps, te,

The erection of the gallows was com-
pPloted Mowdey, and it was tricd with
two hage of eand to see that everything
worked propely. The coocemned men
could sce the work going on fiom inside
the jail, aud j--kingly remarged, ‘Be sure
you get ft all righs,"---"Hadn't we better
try It?’’—and similar remarks. :

lt is anid that the Sheriff's Office had
3:00 applications for tickets

Eagan’s father lives fo Foreat City, tut
he did not viait bla son at any time, uor
show acy Intereat in him, apparently.

Aluirory Do rice took dusi jeave of the
men carly ‘LTueeday morofog some Ume
Defare the execution
+ Each man was furatebed 94h au entire
inéew ault of black cjatbes, trom: Des
jenuer'a, %e Teer at the execution.

Giver ner Bienen, oo Feb, 24, 1898, fixed

Witicas:

bee | see date of the eseou’t oon Mav dy, [Ron
ang
ade to c8 jrleasaat aa pesmule for

|

lat the prieanere were cepneved Bre
Limes,

The watchmen atthe jell hace dren
White

After the Murder
When the rwurder became known,
sae much .

~cofement ae eats

train to Basquehanpa y
out snd peopie will know FF told the tre! |

Gar te oie ripe a ioe GRE
driok, staying one night at B Grit
boarding house, icleopine In the baro be-
cause the house was full of teachers, In-
stitute week) --tben next day going on
down through Fairdale to Rush ~ waitin
forthe nightfall. that they might nttact
old Mr Pepper, for the parpore of getting
the merey whicn ft vas supposed he anc
pis step mnother kept, thcy eaw Mee Pep
pee go to his bara, and commerce husk-
ing corm attacked bint tneres bea bile
wibar dd ebifl-tree eo that he died the
next Jay wWitheut re gtivtog® (asectous
new. Soey were sored away Ly @ pass
fos teau,and walked to Skioner’s Edy,
where they goton L. Vo trata, and” went
to Wareily, and fiom. there on an Eile

Auorg the witnesses sworn ‘upon the
vart of the Conmmoaowealth, and who
brought Out evidgace substantially cov
ering the abuce and other. points, were
Clifton Biekok, Geo. M1: Harvey, Dr.
Warver. Asa Efebow, Dr. Grauger.. A. J
Terry, Russell Gibbs, Geo. @allsban,
Dauiel Graham, Selden rg a {be
produced a statemeot which. be etated
was given bim asa confession by Eagan,
In wich the trip ss avove butilned was)”
Jetaiked, avd stated thi Bhew uid the
striking, the coufeasion being etrenucusiy |
objected to hy Mr. Davies but was Orally
admitid.} Ocher. witnosses were Wing
Lee, the Chinanias, ‘Ym. Willams, Janet?
Westbrook, John Ustac, W.. A.) Brows, §
Jovathan Ruacbe. Nuhbard Payne. Ejishs §
Griffis, Harrison ale Keebdy,. David, Toe,
Wellington Hurvey, Grace® Snell, Mrs
Lotey Carey, Madge MeKeeby,. Wm
Rhinevault. Ligzle Harvey, Jacob Rosen-
eraniz, Reed Snow, Sylvester “Powers,
Mra. Powers, Geo Granger, Oilver: Wil
her, @ IL Pickett, Mrs. Wilber,> Frances
Ammetrmen. Deputy Bueriff Leopard, and
Chlef McMauoa. 4 a

The Défense. 2. 9.2%:

The defense. opened Thuraday vafter:
noon, Nov. 17. eis

Eagao's bright looking young. wife.
whom he married in Delaware Ca, &. Y.,
a sbort ume defore hia arrcet and | several
ary after bis trip to Rusti, eat by bis
aide. ake Eb Beatie
Mr. Darvica did not makea formal opeo
{ug but begse sailing bis witnesses al
oace, many of them testitying : 26 the
previous good character of fendent
al Windser, Ringbamton, Susquchanta,
cte. Fhey included CD. Lyon, <N. C
LLyoa, Porter Hatch, Jerry. Wayman.
ttiarry Moree, Chea. Bf isa, Jesse
Wall, Geo, Sterer, J. H. Dooliteles tober
Stonehack, Nathaniel Benson, and oghers.

The Jury Retiress. < -

At4p. m the jury. retired fo thelr
room, after ibe on by Fudge “Bearl
Albert LUttibora, of Owkland: was.-fore
man, That eveniog they took .a, ballot
bis ge as to ‘‘guilty” ox not “gulity,
an} all voted Auilty, No arteries wa:

i,

ee

“a

nace that pight.je olde an the degree
Neri morning, utter break fact, ther |


_Shew and Eagan

& * the Cale with Fim
me and Braye Front.) <<

Yard

Their Crime, he.

ir: ( onfessions.

ae

SAIC TES

Sat Up peis
Bhi

seks At ie ON”
vine eat aa
ae

Ww hein tia ney Reet brow dik cit tes ! \
stood, racy ‘ab Oy eoot these secs ang He HE SUSp
nrnse Uene to doe tine pit Aroaud there th
necks and when, We pa that opera’ aad
tha holta was pnlt ie she a Walt witty
Ro wa the” PN y A Basegyy 2 The

men with them aud fallin auony Ay see oe erie a

EAM Va alee
: +) pate

es
ore Nate a estes
# f,

SQEne, EX ATED

shy ABO TK ia
RR, Leo)

t eb : insite

Sneeame aut, had They sere
the frame

oe Ak. Are Eoletaare: Keyan’ 4
nee Wire. he We aby

‘jand that he would help me also,

}take my picture

Neal, meaning me, can get slong all
right.” Fitch said that he would not be
gone more than ten or fifteen miautes
and while be was gove Alney und I had
the talk that I told on the witness stand.
rHe said that he did not believe that I bad
rouch to do with the killing of Jackson
Pepper, and that he would help me out
of it all rigbt.as he bad the power to do
{t, and be almost cried and safd he wusso
sorry forme Ile wanted me to write all
abcut itand aiga my name to it and I
would not doit fle said that if 1 wou'd
do that be world give mea written paper
showing that what ] said was to help ime
aod |
ssid ‘No Then he got mad and acted
ike a wit? man and be said that. he had
evideuce enough i> hang me, butasid he
did not want to for be knew that I was
not wulity and asked me again to make a
staiement, and }] ¢a'’:l that I would not.

Then he shook his fist under my nose and
called niea murderer, thief, Har. and lots
of other names, and said that he would
hang me before forty cight houra, and |
‘said that I diun't believe it That made
him atill madder and he got a whifilo tree
ao’ shook it under my noseand told me
that! killed the old man and called me
more names,
apy looger and be would help me, ard |
was so scared that I dil oot know what
to do and I anid | would wake a atate-
went and be went into another rvom and
when he came back Miss Ammerman, hls
wife, rod breather was with him © Theo
ke sent his brother seme where ead a Mr.
Pravier cams with him, and be tried to
Aivey asked uie ques

Hong and Miss Ammermay wrote them
doa > Tdid not write any and uon‘t re-
member what I asid 1 wae 89. afradd.
Then Mr. Munger game fo and asked me
alotof questions and he wrote them
down bimeelf and I sigued my namo to
the paper. ‘

And concerning the statement J wade
to Ainey, a: viog that Eagan wastle one
ehat doae” all the striking and waa all to
thy! ame, 1 want te earrect that far 1 couald-

‘Ge [aes te Quilhy wed Fegeu de
usd Susie Grabam le mort guilty shan
Sst

He said T had vo friends}

It was the necessity for. as
honest, reliable blood purifier.
and tonic that brought into’
existence Hood's Sarsapa- | >
rilla. It is a highly concen- +
trated extract prepared by @
combination, proportion and |
process peculiar.to itself and.
giving to Hood’s Sarsaparilla’
unequalled curative powers
Hs wonderful record of cures has? made
it America’s Greatest Medicine. > a

Rosy Cheeks — “ I heee gc
health and rosy cheeks, thanks to Boed's

‘s Pills cure liver Wis; the non-irrits 4
‘only cathartic to take with Mood’s Bi

ao SES =f

{rt pad been decided the that the!
two defendants, Eagan and Shew, should
be trled scparatcly, spd Bhew' # case came
the weck following.

Mr. Davies moved that the array of |:
jnrora be quasbod, owing, ayalw.'n irreg- |
ularity of drawlog the jury, cere of the]:

wheel, ete.
Searle, and the drawlog. of the jury was
begun about & p m.

Ir Kigao wat coojly deside bia counre),
alcriy d sod, curasently.
Seomecioue Joaker o on. i

Motlon overruled ny Judge]® ©

A aie lie ee ae A
TO ta Se oe y re

wife, nod brother Was with bim.~

7 sent his sts hg! moar rod we r
razicr cams with him, and be -iried to, 7) . age oo ode ae pie

take my picture. Alvey asked me. ques {fr-* hed) been decided ther. that’ the |i

tlone end Misa Ammerman wrote them |two defendents, Hagan and Shew, ehoold iw

dow Aid rot write any and dont re) be tried eeparateiy. snd Sbhew's case cx

member what [ gald [ wae ao afraid lise epee following. I fa Sg
hen Mr Monger came io and askeit me! “ Davi ved that tb cf

aloto! questions: aml be wente them) &f Uaviee moved (bat tbe array ot

down bimaeif and I signed my fame ty Jurore be Quashes, owlng. again? co Irreg-

ox

—

5 : 2 ed ae Ake

SEP WE oo

The tall Uaedeleor sheesh tet de se it helug fo nee bx
: Lyonr

ho ogra phe.) oe a Mewtay,
When the men «cre brought cut thes fied the reres became taut. sad they were |“
pies ae : the paper.

‘gt * :
fax

ta [From Recent Phetouraps,)
ile es i. ee me = ee ees ee ee we eee ~——- -— —- _- - owe we

| Deputy Taylor dfd sawe with Shew.
Tuestlay, Jan. 8, 1900, was the day se uth: the block utue “ere: aaleaied,

forthe execution ot J James Eagan and | payin were like large blucte hand&er
Cornelius Wills Shew, for the murder of \ chiefs, covering bead and face.
Old Jackson Pepper, In Rusb, Oct. ig Pei roomie ce point pa sabi se
807 , jSbew “good bye’ and Shew seeme
1897, fo bis barn, while he was cogsged jabout to reply, when quick aga Misb, at
{n busking coin.. ;aeiven efynal the rope was pulled
] -Tiekets of admission had been issued: tuat withdrew the bolts, the platform fell,
by’: Sheriff W. J. Maxey, to the/the men eee sarge hagas ied
ropes, rebounded slightly, then settle
deputies, the physicians, the DEWSPAPET | sown, and the bedies awung half way
reporters of this and near-by counties, ! round The rope was pulled by a imav
and: pther persons, and about 150 people | named Wheaton. o
Mero prescot. i “Dr. Cecil McCoy of the Binghamton
Deter the law, at an executton a jury {state bospital. Dr.C. D. Mackey, the jail

‘os. : physician, Dr. H, C. Koapp of Binghsm-
of*view, consisting of 13 mes for each Ree Dr. Grander of Forest City “| De

tan executed, Is to be present. Io this; Grander and Taylor of Hopbottom, were
case they were: | present to exatnine the bodies.

“For Ragan: —M. M. McVicar. HD. Theit Deaths.
Jones, J. F. Wellbrook, L.B Miller, Dr, . The physictans toon their pulee con
P. &. Greoder, Otle Severence, 1. Les tinnously, voted the beart beata, and fn
Leonard 8. L Bevan, T. J. Peatecost, idur time pronounced them geet apy
4 . i Arat, Iu about 8 minutcs, an ‘agan
Saltire jaotee: Farrell and EA; Pabout 2 > mlontes, but their bodlea were
’

‘allowed to herg for about 30 mfoutes
Bot Soew —Tawnne Keraw George! They probably realize) very tutte

Maxey, Herb. :t Jchnaoo, A HH, Ovorad, {The neck of cach man was broken ard
Eis Reapaan, B.S. Patrick. Dy, Wb tupe bad cut Fagen: coesiierably

W. Cobkc Ro Oo Bonnet, bree b e bad grown stout! in | !, weighing no
Paper d ere td ae bee 208 jha —80 than ore than when atreatod
Mackey, Dr AF Taylor, Md. Wash othe asvth warran? called tot execu:
and EB, W. Shay “tron between 10 al you vinek, but the
OThede Mets Met wt the BbeclM's oft! sy! apean bed al! arrangers ute mate re
oe weewed With tte tinpiatiet sOarrsaris
{nthe Corirt Louse soon after stag o'clock cs povaiine. and the ay rulford was quick
| meny others who were toattend the nd sure, and In all ite details thor aghly
4 execution, and #hout. 9.49 al) weot to the Ruceeaaful, and ro Rec) tenia to add norens
% Jatl, where they were adinticd et the “tw the terrible afalr. Shelf! Morey read

Bini A A needed are arrid. | 1b death werrant’e ta chem Saturday,
pene Ay and neeerd arrange the corrid- 1 . than usual

’ + ep Teapty 'n

stood, cach op 61 @ Of these sectians, rhe ,
n¢ose beltg in dee thioe mit ecodpe Cede
necks and when ie repe that operaied ,
the bolia was pulled, and the bolte with }
drawn, the piaiforma ro: pest acct the
men with them ood falling about dg ices ;

Yeni a Te

i; fore wae

fed thous inside tbe frame
eert. thets feet aboot a fuut aboge the
pecund . e

Asxone ieo-s at the pictuse, Eagan's
ob tow riglhti~Shew's at
thee fete f

well, I refused to doit, it was while
was still unable to wor’ that Siew came }
to the hcuge to board.

One Snoday after he bad been there fur
twoor three weeks, Bustle told ie tbat
she was golog to get Shew to got: Rush
aod rob Jackson Pepper, ani that] must i
go with him. | (id vot want her ts say .
anyibing to Ghee and said [ would not!
golf Shew did. ot atdinner that day
sbe teli Shew gud asked him io go and
get the moury.| Shew first thought she
did pot mean it) but she ki pt at him and
myacif untill ©@ promised to go aud se
hat wecou:d @. She had sil kinds of
plans aad of course weall talied them
over, All the plana were that no one was
to be hurt. and that if wo «. .itnt get
the money without we were te cewve it,
She wanted us to tekg chloroform but we
wonld not for fear we itight give too!
much Shaw bought s pistol anc aild we |
might oeed it in case there were vteityre
al the house when we gotthere. Me said ,
also that we must have sume com’, which
Smale sald we could get at ibe Jaundry.
He nnd T went to the laundry and got the |
rope Sunday night acd Susir acd he «:
it up In short pieces, he putting the pieces
he putuiog the pieces {a the Inside of ia |
cont Hniog I carried the pist~las be had |
no pocket, and I did net Jike the fdea of
his baving the guo.

We lef; Susquebauna on Monday snorn: |

Ce
3 a
te +

cory a

ro

(Ey ap
4) Ty. ae 8

i

4) (s3e

i +Y-

* Court.

a <n

tint ibe ma was dcad.

We told Bustle absut itenl she called
uaan pele of foole tor not gettiog the mon.
}ale net thige that sanyo would
ever fad it cut far i kuew thal Meetc was
at thr Lottom of the whote bysiceme and
had it not been for ter Rhew nerer WoUki
have anown abue. the exwney, I felt
perfecity ssf mywelf fori Akl not henw
that i coula be breuebt tsi. 0 aa f bed co
idea ‘hat ther woald tryete put bea fae
knowing that fy wer¢ mare { eame
than I, } uheuwet they sould keep atill
about it fowns arrests! cu a warrant
obarging Ge with Jancpy st Coventry
ville N.Y a January 25. 1298 by To,
McMahon W, DK Alves. u.  Ainer,
Jack Pataer, sod Proms. Tt Lucy
brought met. Sus ocebanna, then W. DD
i. Aluey, C HH. Aivey, and T, J. McMe
hon broug!; we to Montross I asked
tnem why sSey brought ne 9 Mautrose
and they said 1 would have to walt for
Wign we were comlog over we
were stuck 3s (ie snow and weie like to
tip over, when Wo D BR Aliney and my
self geiontte walk. i was uwandeuffe!
to Aisey )

li wae while we were waking that
Ainey teid we that be heat me fou the
moder cf Jackson Peppers. and that be
hed a wure Can against me tert hesaid he
would gave we if] wonld make a ptate-
mept to nim next moraiog He salt ne
had a statement from Sugie Grabam an!

And concerning the atetement
ta A
feta? dite ail the @iscaing apd wes alt
[lemme | want to correct that for t cousid |
wr het l oer poet an gullt) Mu Zagen os
and Susie Grabam Is more guilty thao
eltuer of ue i

Atthough I bave 4ine ver; wrong aod!
( have been wronged [ say uow that 1}

J made |
loey, @-viug tha Mayas weatie sre)

harin, and when I taw inthe paper that;

he was tras L dido’t believe it and [aim |
pootgal’s -fnsunder to Sew degree. |

phase Sogo and forgiven everybody that!
‘nan wronged ms and muy God teuch

tebeir hearts anc inake chem good true

hristlass for Josue’ sake.

God faa forgiven mc my aes acd I am
ready and willing to go © ben Jesus comes
for Be | ‘

I make ‘bls statement of my on free
will and i feel it my duty to God andy

Mas. .
CORNELIUS W. SHEW
Witocea:

THOMAS,
EVES. .

xOA
ws

The following !s a letter Jeft by S8bhew
for Ex-Diatrict Atturoey Ainey :
Montrose, Pa. Jan. 8 1900.
W oD &. Aiuey, Esq , Montrose, Pa.:
Sir: —lam going be huag tomorrew for
actime Topeses comaittet ia my tg?
piatwe You premised to beip me if I
eonfesae?! killing Jackson Pepper, You satd
fou todeoharge
my friend and weuld help me. How well
you bave kept sone promtee’ Yaar told Jim
the sane ting. tet ros dee ved weal the
thoe a Geto ror intend to keep ae from
Phanging (ve deme havea
‘awverand Rut hese treet et ia we wink
met i fferent about §t oot kore we did
Wroag eA aght te be punished, but it was
Peting BkKe rom te deeelhie ve

ai & tte t were

ilowel os ¢

hestura ©
You avare he © ae ted
tener shouk COAT wea ew i uiy fer acd
Pete $007 @thera that you ecared mo inta oou
ee ntear Peer teal (oe eeth air cm
QUE wiv pete
about it,
thacgive Sawanhd preea og
RPA:
Venu rie tee epdome. ifoegive yowaw! every.
i femeby anet OFat wee

tee aw

OW Nee AY a Gay

avH] bear the

+ fergine ee

R ~ CORRS ALAM TE) I ow

Wiens ot Ste aN, 5 .~* 5
Various Noten:

The weu-wilabed fo wake some remarks
onthe seaffoid, avy they -thanket (he'r
filgerds forgave twir encuiles, de. but
a’ x Tt: . \ * t- tee

" eo

Seqc'* acd the drawing of tae jury waelk

feonscious looker on.

Hos murlerer avid forgive yeu fur de |)

rs'riking the coufession lelge ef

jularity of Grawlog the jury, care of the

Wheel. ets, Motion overruled ny InJge

begun @tiut & p ta. :
Mr Eagan est coatly heaide bie couneel, [Pe
chewy diecme| snd. apparently, ag whe

The Jurcis, ; ‘
he work of drawing the juty was be- &

had uf theuaht of dvteg the old man any [yea end corth sed thi noon pexe day, Be

when twelve gool men sud trac? had

heen sciecied, a8 fuilows 2) ey ore
Miron, . Dall, Brice water. —
ty Atoert Brawo, Montrese, x:
Witistun Chaa:bderlsia..Cibsom 5 2)
J-bo lL Walace, Dimock. sy
Albert Hfiborn, Suequebanna,

man) ‘ x3 :
GJ. Lewis, Thonisunor
Wm, Dixon, Harfort J BS v4

K . Benson, dacksov. ‘

‘(tore

Ap $
‘ Kigreure E. Shay; New Milford,

Andrew Fancher: Bridgewater,“ :
Warren Tingley, Moutrose. oye
Fred Sisson, Grent Bend. Se
The evidevce !ntraduced included_the}
even's of the trip of Shew ond Eagena,
from Susquehanna, where Eagan’ and
Susie Grubam were iiving (Shew alsop
lived there,) to Rush, walkiog from Sus-
uehanna to Montrose, stopping at Heart }
tate creamery onthe way for milk to fF
drlok, stayiog one night at BE. Griffis’
bearaug house, (sleeplag jo the darn be-

causc the house was full ot teachers, Le-{2)

stitute week’ -tben next day going on
Jowe through Falrdale to Rash — wating
for the nightfall. that they might. atta
old Mr Pepper, for che purpore of getth
the morey whicn ft was supposed he and Pp
ble step mother ket, they aw Mr Rep:
2 to bis bau, acd commence hnyak-
leg corr attreard him there.- beat bin
wibans>\ whiffeteee co that be dial the
next ‘ay without re gtivlag eoaselaus ;
seme. Pucy were scar away Lye pass:
tog teams) walgel to Sktoners Body fF
Where thes got an L. Vo tralacamt wear
to Wero'y. and from Abert man
heco () Buspuelauma™ Ses og
Amovg the sbtseases acorn

reot
'

upon the ‘
part of tho Comores ecalthy aud whe
tyeogu lt evidence ev hetentially. scov
erog iueabuve and other polatay tems!
Clifton Bickok, Geo. HB. -Harvey,) Ja fy
Werser Asa (fotos, Dr Graoget> A fh
Terry, Russel)’ Gibba, Gen. @allabat,
Dauicl Graham, Selden; Muhgerpthos,
produced # staterseab which oe stated
Was given ilu as @ confessiva, by Eager |;
in which the trip as abore soutinod es

Jetntled, asd stated that Bhew GM

-
cS

a

Evie. ie


suld
ght

to check

ght, were

this was

ition had
-the slay-
nes across
alphia In-
ly motive-
-aalend the
sity.

the

was |

suvu close
Tips and
ood Head-
Detective

the next

. and someone
* said because of that killing. He said he

morning, Monday: A few phone calls
from persons who suspected this per-
son or that. Each was run down quickly;
and each, just as quickly, fizzled out.
But late that morning one call came
in for Commissioner Doyle that brought
him literally to his feet. .It was from a

-man whose voice was vibrant with fear

and excitement. : ‘
“I know who shot that Mister Teitel-

. baum,” the man said. °

- “Who is this?” demanded Doyle.
“Don’t ask me that,” the man
answered quickly. “Ican’t tell you. I'll
never tell you. He’d:... he'd kill me if
Tever ...if he ever knew. If you have

>, to know that, I won’t tell you anything.”

“Just tell me who killed him.” Doyle's
hand was clenched tightly around the
receiver. } cigs ere

“His name is Norm Wilmig.” And the
man gave an address. »'- x
-- Cupping his hand over the mouth-
piece, Doyle called out for a detective

- and then asked: him to alert. Sergeant
’ » Schwartz. Then back into the phone,
. “How do you know he did it?”,

“He told me. He told a lot of us. It

- was last night, after this thing came

out in the paper. He'said he was ‘hot’
asked him why and he

was hot and he-had to get out of town.”
Schwartz, who had been with Dugan
in the Record Room, came rushing into

Doyle's office. A moment later he was

quick-striding it out of there. He got
hold of Dugan and then stopped long
enough to tell one of the telephone
operators to call Muller and Beech and

~ have them meet him and Dugan at Wil-

-mig’s Southwest Philadelphia address.

Ten minutes later,-the two homicide
men turned into Wilmig’s street. Over
their radio they’d receiyed: word that
the Fifth Division men would be there
soon. Dugan, who'was driving, stopped
the car a few doors from Wilmig’s. It

_ was a section of shabby rooming-

houses: a flat row of large brick homes.

_ ‘Schwartz and Dugan had to wait only

a few minutes. a }
Acar. bearing heech and Muller

‘pulled’ up in back of them. » Dugan.

stepped out and Schwartz followed. -
Dugan and Muller covered the rear of
the house while Schwartz and Beech

went..to the front, ‘They checked the.

On behalf of all the dfficers who worked on the case,
delphia's Deputy Commissioner Doyle, second from right, while Deputy City Manager Kelly watches

name cards on the letter boxes in the
foyer. Wilmig, N., second floor.

The detectives walked up the circu-
lar staircase. It creaked. Even in
daylight it was dark in here and a
dampness seemed to ooze from the
walls. The officers stopped in front of
Wilmig’s door. Dugan unbuttoned his
double-breasted suit. He wanted noth-
ing to hinder him in reaching for his
revolver.

Schwartz knocked on the door.

He heard the protest of bedsprings as
someone moved around. But no one
came to answer. Schwartz rapped
again. The bedsprings creaked once
more, then there was the soft pad of
footsteps.

“What do you want? Whois it?” The
voice was husky, sleepy.

“Telegram,” Dugan said.

The door opened. Just a few inches
and a face peered out. Dugan’s foot

slid into the opening. Wilmig gasped .

and stepped back. i
“What—what’s it all about?” he
asked, bewildered. ‘

HE WAS 4 man in his early thirties
who approximated the description
Teitelbaum had given. He was wearing
only shorts; and although he’d beer
awakened from sleep, the sleep had
been shocked out of him. ;
“Let's just get dressed,” Dugan said.
“But, why?” : .
“You're going to hear all about it.”
Wilmig dressed nervously, glancing
apprehensively at the officers. -And a
few minutes later, he was a huddled
figure in an automobile being sped to
Headquarters. There to question him
were Doyle, Murphy and O’Donnell.
“You're going to save yourself an
awful lot of aggravation,” ‘Inspector
Murphy said, “if you just sit there real
nice-like and tell us all about it.” .
“About what?” Wilmig asked in a
trembling voice. .
“You.don’t know, do you?”
-Wilmig shook his head, his eyes wide.
Just then Dugan, who had been look-
ing to see if Wilmig was listed in the
files, came back with a card on him.
Wilmig had served time once for as-
sault and robbery!
Doyle said, “You never heard the
name Teitelbaum, did you?” ;

Sergeant Schwartz receives a citation from Phila-

“Teitelbaum?”

“Killed early Sunday morning.”

7 aa: al that got to do with
me?”

“You tell us,” Lieutenant O’Donnell
said. “You tell us just what you told
your buddies. How after Teitelbaum
was killed you were hot and had to
leave town.”

Wilmig, who had been leaning for-
ward tensely, went limp. He looked at
his hands, then rubbed them together.
He glanced up. “I was kiddin’. On my
Mother’s soul, I swear to you I was
kiddin’.” ‘

Schwartz said, “You always tell
jokes like that?”

“You—you know how it is.” Wil-
mig’s eyes appealed to each officer in
turn. “You have a few drinks, you’re
feelin’ no pain, there’s a bunch of guys.
One guy’s tellin’ you what a hotshot he
is and someone’s tellin’ you somethin’
else. Soon you got a story to tell. It’s
crazy but it makes you like a big man.
J—I don’t know why I said it. I just
did, that’s all.”

“Let’s have your story for Saturday
night,” Commissioner Doyle spoke up
crisply. “From about supper on.”

“Story?”

“Where you were. Everything.”

Wilmig’s jaw went crooked as he
rubbed it hard in thought. There
wasn’t much to tell, he said. He ate
at some joint around the corner from
where he lived. That was about half-
past six. After that he’d gone back to
his room. He’d stayed there about an
hour and then he’d gone to a taproom.
There he’d had a shot and a beer and
played a couple games of shuffleboard;
then he’d gone to another saloon where
he was supposed to meet a friend, but
the fellow didn’t show, so he stayed
there awhile and had a few more drinks.
Then he’d gone to still a third place,
but all he remembered about that spot
was matching pennies for drinks with

. some guy he’d met at the bar. He

wasn’t sure what time he’d come home,
but it was somewhere around two, and
he’d crawled right into bed. And that
was it.

“Of course,” Murphy said dryly, “no
one saw you come home.”

“I don’t know.” He attempted a weak

(Continued on Page 50)

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2

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were telling the é could not pos-
sibly have killed d there was no
tg yee _— a A
-hot suspect was exonerated. __-
And the month of August passed.
Without a motive, the police were far
from a solution to the crime.
~~ “Maybe,” Feeley told his men, “I’m
wrong... Maybe. this was a: mugger—

some screwball who chokes these wom-"

en and knocks them down but doesn’t

=... Tob them, or only. grabs some of the -
“-- Money and runs. Let’s see if anything ~
~~ like that is going on.” ~ :

_» They dug into the records.

ND they discovered that this time
the Inspector had been much closer
tothe mark. Several women, all in dif-
ferent sections of Queens, had reported
during the past few months that a tall,
wiry man had seized them from behind,
choked them and knocked them to the
ground. -" pee" . . E

He had done nothing else; he had not
attempted to rob them.

The detectives went over the records
even more closely. Each of. these
crimes had been committed between
eleven p. m. and one in the morning—
joa when Mrs. Brown had been

Was this the killer? Was the motive
some obscure quirk in an abnormal
mind? If so—how find him?

Each of the victims was questioned
again, but nothing could be learned
from this. They could give no descrip-

tion of any value. Except for the hour

and the type of crime, no pattern was
apparent. :
“Hang it all, there isn’t any specific

"Why Must You Kill. Me?" (Continued from Page aS. OFFIC

grin. “I know that I didn’t see no one.”

Wilmig’s alibi, the officials realized,
was no alibi at all. And yet it was the
best kind in the world—the kind the
Officers could neither prove nor dis-
Prove. Wilmig had accounted for his
time up to a certain point; after that—
for the actual death hours—you just
a But was the man

The investigators hammered at Wil-
mig for more than an hour, trying to
trap him into some statement that
could be proved a lie. But the man,
who soon regained his calm, parried
their questions adroitly.

Getting nowhere with the man, the
investigators decided to release him
and let him think he was in the clear.
Meanwhile they would have him sha-
dowed, they would check his move-
ments and activities. Perhaps he
would do something to swing himself
abruptly back into the case; perhaps,
walking the streets as free as the inno-
cent, he would make some move that
would stamp his guilt.

Perhaps.

And yet perhaps not.

50

s
2

got on and took a seat behind her.

When she alighted near Furman Ave-
nue, in Brooklyn, the youth got off too.
Helen Graeber did not realize that she
was being followed until she heard foot-
steps behind her. . “oe

She quickened her pace. Thé foot-
steps came louder and faster, and Mrs.
Graeber broke into a run... :

But too late. She felt an arm around
her neck and she was yanked to the
‘ground. :

The youth who had followed her
struck her and she screamed. 2

At that ‘moment Detectives Hugh
O’Brien, Michael Ann and Joseph Fitz-
gerald, of the Burglary Squad, were
driving by. They heard the scream.

Mrs. Graeber struggled with her as-
sailant. -_He punched her time and
again; he wore a twine-cutter’s ring, a
steel ring with a small curved blade at-
brags and the sharp blade slashed her

lace. © :

Then, just in time, the detectives
pounced on the youth.

He fought, slashing away with his
twine cutter, kicking and biting, but
they subdued him. They summoned an
ambulance for Mrs. Graeber and rushed
the young mugger to the Ralph Avenue
Police Station.

There the officers charged him with
felonious assault and violation of the
Sullivan law (carrying a dangerous
weapon). He identified himself as
Oliver Freeman, seventeen. In a back
pocket was a beaded silk scarf.

“My girl friend gave it to me,” he said.

“What kept you out so late tonight?”
O’Brien asked.

“I'm always out late,” Freeman an-

Could’it be, the officers asked them-
selves helplessly, that they actually
were releasing the killer? Was this the
man who had cursed Teitelbaum in his
pleas for mercy and had answered him
with lead? This man here, the man
they were letting go?

It was a terrible feeling telling Wil-
mig he could go, and even apologizing
for having held him. And it was in
gnawing wonder that they watched the
man walk out of the door.

An officer was assigned to tag after
Wilmig, but the other investigators
could not devote more thought and
time to him. It had become physically
impossible. The clerks had come up
with a list of more than 50 men in the
West and South Philadelphia areas
whose records and descriptions made
them important in the investigation.
And, at the same time, calls—many of
them just as urgent and electrifying as
the one that had swept Wilmig into the
case—were coming irfto Headquarters
almost every half hour. It seemed that
everyone in the city had a suspect of
his own: A neighbor who had come
home at seven in the morning; a man

He usually loitered near bus stops or
subway stations, Feeley said, waiting
for a good-looking woman, and when
he saw one he trailed her to a lonely
spot and mugged her. - - |

“Sometimes I had to follow them a
long, long way,” he added. -_

“Ever hear. of Josephine- Brown?”
Feeley then asked) 5 =
- “No, Should-I?” — >. ~

“Do you know where Kingston Place.
is in Jamaica?” ess Feo SEK

“Oh, yes, I know Jamaica very well.”

“Remember following a pretty lady
there?” oe git oe at

“T don’t know.” ages

“You’d know if you killed a woman,

wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, sure, ‘but I never killed anyone.”
“Suppose_we take a trip to Kingston
Place,” Feeley suggested. “Can you
show us what happened there?”

Freeman replied, “I'll go but I don’t . “is being held pending trial on the as= ~~

-know what happened.’ :

The officers took him at once to the
Jamaica Estates precinct, talking to
him constantly about the Brown case.
pi ato ye he insisted he knew nothing
a 2

THEN. late Sunday afternoon, Feeley
said, he declared, “I remember. I
hit a woman on Kingston Place. But

I didn’t kill her.” ‘tae
The Inspector quoted him as saying,
“I was having something to eat in a
restaurant on Hillside Avenue. I saw
this woman come out of the Indepen-
dent subway exit. I followed her. I
stopped several times because I couldn’t
decide if I should continue. She began
down a hill and when we got

i

who just a few days ago was ‘showing
off a gun he’d bought; that kid
down the street who “was never up to
any good”; the young man who'd lost
his job and had told someone he had
to do “something” to get hold of money.
These and more, and the officers all
that afternoon, evening and most of
the night were racing from one end of
the city to the other, bringing in men
for questioning—men with alibis and
without. It was almost an assembly
line, an endless assembly'‘line that
moved and took the officers nowhere.

Nowhere at all. ¢

Yet what more could they do to find
the killer?

MEANWHILE that same day an off-
duty patrolman was ‘doing some
investigating on his own time. His
name was Henry Orseno and he lived
about seven blocks from where Teitel-
baum had had his bakery shop. Pa-
trolman Orseno was on vacation and
he’d heard about the slaying through
the newspapers. Orseno, as did the
officers working on the case, was aware
of the possibility that the killer might

oly a nis Mugging technique. He
s up behind Inspector Feeley,
his left arm around the In-
‘'s neck, rammed. his’ knees
against Feeley’s legs and knocked him -
to the ground.. It took only a few sec-
— Feeley was unable to keep his
‘ee m * ‘ 4, ‘, vas

tember 8, Magistrate Corning McKen-
nee ordered the youth held without bail
pending further investigation and a
hearing.

.. A few days. before that, the Nassau

County grand jury had returned an in-~
-dictment charging Orval Saunders with
assault in connection with the beating “
of the fifteen-year-old girl. Saunders
has been completely cleared of any sus-
Picion in the death of Mrs. Brown.

As this issue of OFFICIAL DETEC-
TIVE STORIES goes to press Saunders

sault indictment and Oliver Freeman is
being held pending further action on
the charge of homicide brought against

What-has not been learned, of course,
is: What did Josephine Brown do after
she went shopping? What happened to .
the dress she bought? What happened
to the rest of her money and why was
she walking along Hillside Avenue
when she should have been on her way .
home? : :

But then, as Inspector Feeley says,
“We're lucky if we come up with half
the answers.” ;

In this story the name Midge is
a ome to protect the identity of a
™ i

“4

- Read It First In

IAL DETECTIVE STORIES

have known Teitelbaum from around
the bakery; and because Orseno knew
the neighborhood and its residents well,
he thought he would do some unofficial
prying. =

He spent Monday afternoon casually
talking to people—the corner loungers,
poolroom habitues, storekeepers. Most
everybody knew him, and it wasn’t
strange for the patrolman to stop and
chat with them. :

But this time Orseno had a:‘purpose.

Not knowing exactly what he sought,
Patrolman Orseno sought everything—
any scrap of information that might
be important. He realized that what
he was doing was like sticking your
hand in the ocean and hoping to come
up with a fish; but, like almost every-
one else in the Department, the vicious
slaying had angered him. He was will-
ing to try anything.

He spent hours at it—just snooping
around, making conversation: On the
surface just an off-duty cop passing the
time and trying to be friendly. But
Orseno was working.

He picked up a lot of neighborhood
gossip—about what this one and that

A charge of homicide was lodged’ -
“against the youth.. On Monday; Sep-.~

_—

one were doing. Nothing much, noth-
ing very important. And it was in the
same casual way, toward evening, that
he heard about the man with the gun.

It came up in a conversation with a
young man who was sitting on the steps
of his house. - :

“You should have been here,” the
youth said. “It was funny. This guy
comes around and he’s got this gun.
You should have seen it. It looked like
it would explode if fired. A real old
thing. It’s probably from the Year
One.”

“When was this?” Orseno questioned.

“Just this Saturday. Saturday eve-
ning. Anyway, this bird wants to sell
the gun. But who'd buy a rod like that?
Everyone says he’s crazy, they say it
won’t even shoot; Anyway, he gets bul-
lets for it. Can you picture this? He
gets bullets for it and he comes back
and he says he’s going to show us it
can shoot. He takes us over to the
playground at Ninth and Bainbridge
and he starts shooting at the wall. I
hear that shooting and I beat it,” and
the youth waved and began to laugh.
He shook his head, his face red. “It
was something, believe me.” .

“Do you know who he is?” Orseno
questioned.

The youth shrugged. “I never saw
the guy before. If.you ask me, he’s
nuts.”

And that was all.

What he heard didn’t excite Orseno.
It made him curious but it didn’t excite
him. In this neighborhood, guys with
guns weren’t that much of a novelty.
And why should a fellow trying to sell
an old-fashioned pistol necessarily
be tied in with a pre-dawn slaying? No
reason, and yet the fact that this had
taken place on Saturday night stirred
Orseno’s imagination. It was probably
nothing, and yet—

The patrolman strolled over to the
playground at Ninth and Bainbridge
Streets.

THE next day, Tuesday, while Ser-
geant Schwartz and Detective Du-
gan concentrated on the list of possible
suspects handed them by the Record

; One of the most unusual pictures ever taken of a polic:
{

Room clerks, De
.Beech were trying
volver. They focu
Pawnshops and sp:
West and South P
They were inter
Anything abou'
had purchased or
tant, who had p:
one. .
Py after ee
t a string of «
Picking up a lead.
killer had purcha:
lets in a different
Or perhaps, even.
The detectives
toward a ninth pl:
Philadelphia. Th:
hopefully, while
pleted a sale for a
seemed to have <
tience in the wor)
had little. They p
* they leaned again
The sale made,
prietor the old q
a .32 or cartridge
any time at all.
“Thirty-two’s,”
stroked his chin.
thirty-two’s? Oh
ping his fingers.
got it mixed up
five’s and the thi:
“What did you +
wanted to know.
“This fellow.
both. ‘That's why
“Let’s start fro
Well, it was thi
said. This fellov
and asked for a
There are 50 car
Anyway, he paid
left with them.
later, this same f
cab. The propriet
him get out of t

came into the sto:

a mistake, he war
owner exchanged

While the owr
relating this story

ler and Beech

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Doyle had been thinking of a dope
addict also, and he nodded grimly. A
narcotics-crazed killer on the loose: It
was a chilling thought. A city was at
such a man’s mercy—and he had no
mercy. What could be done to find him
quickly?

“what do you think of a woman be-
ing in the picture?” Doyle ‘asked.

Sergeant Schwartz gestured help-
lessly. ‘She doesn’t fit into this kind of
crime and Teitelbaum never said any-
thing—but we’ve got three people who
say they heard a woman. I don’t
know.” He repeated it, this time shak-
ing his head: “I just don’t know.”

Commissioner Doyle stood up. Here

was a cop’s cop: A veteran officer who.

had worked his way up from the motor-
cycles and had solved some of the most
important cases in the city’s crime
history. He lighted a cigaret, flicked
out the match and sat on the edge of
his desk.

“The first thing we do,” he said, “ds
pick up every guy who ever carried a
gun. That goes for West Philadelphia
and South Philadelphia too. I don’t
care if we have to question a thousand
suspects.”

The Commissioner picked up the
phone and called the Record Room. He
directed a clerk there to begin making
up a list of ex-convicts who had been
arrested for gun offenses: The list
was to start with those who lived around
the dead man’s home, then those who
lived near the victim’s baker shop; after
that, if need be, it would cover the
entire city.

Hanging up, Doyle turned back to his
men. The urgency of the situation was
refiected in his face.

“T want every beat officer—especially
around here and South Philadelphia—
to bring in any mug they have the
slightest doubt about. I don't care if
we don’t have enough cells to hold them.
I want the gun tracked down.”. To
Sergeant Schwartz he said. “See that
men check gunshops, sporting-goods
houses and—”

Doyle caught himself, face clouding,
as he remembered that such_ stores
would be closed until Tuesday. Then he
said that owners should be reached at
their homes if possible. Also, he wanted
sewers in the death area dredged in the
event the killer threw away the weapon.
Underworld informants were to be
spoken to immediately; the files were to
be culled for narcotics addicts who

At left is the man who, police say, had to prove that his gun would

The only means of entry, a
_ window left partially open ~

“ went to the home to talk to them. But.
the investigators learned nothing :from
the distraught pair that they had not’.
already heard: Isaac Teitelbaum had
been a good husband and father;" he
had worked hard all his days to be able
: to retire and enjoy the twilight years of
his life; and he had had no known
enemies—certainly no one who would
have killed him. - ‘
Was it possible, the detectives

wondered as they left the neighborhood,
that Teitelbaum: had been killed so
brutally because a burglar had become
angered at the twelve dollars offered
him?" It seemed hard to believe, even to
these officers who had seen every form
of evil in their day, that a person could
be so cruel, that one human being could

_do that to another. Might it not be,

they asked themselves, that the gun-
man, despite the handkerchief over his
face, had begun shooting because he’d
feared Teitelbaum might have recog-
nized him? aH i Ai
Returning ‘to* Headquarters, the
Homicide men found Muller and Beech
in the Record Room. The clerks, work~.
ing feverishly on.a list, had come up s0
far with five persons in the immediate
‘West Philadelphia area who were close
to the estimated age of the killer and

who had been arrested at one time for ‘

offenses involving a gun. ae
The detectives located two of them |
that night. They brought them to

Headquarters and questioned them, got ot

\

shoot. Detective Beech and Patrolman Orseno, who traced him, right

fitted in any vague way the description
Teitelbaum had given; cab drivers were
to be queried about fares they had
brought into West’ Philadelphia that
night; and any ex-convict who owned a
convertible—the type of car the neigh-
bor claimed to have seen speeding out
of the vicinity—was to be brought in
for interrogation.

The Commissioner took a deep puff
on his cigaret and straightened, in-
dicating the conference was over. The
others headed for the door.

A lot to be done. A mountainous
amount of work to be done. But would
it bring results? Or could it be that, go-
ing in so many directions, the officers
might be overlooking the right one?

HEARING that the slain man’s wife

and son had returned to the city, ,

Sergeant Schwartz and Detective Dugan

their alibis and then went out to check
on these. :

And both men, that same night, were
released. '

It wasn’t to be that easy.

‘ND that evening—since this was
Sunday and no early edition had
been able to carry the story—the slay-
ing broke in huge black headlines across
the front page.of the Philadelphia In-
quirer. Just as the unbelievably motive-
less fury of the slaying had shocked the
officials, so did it electrify the city.
Rarely if ever in the experience of the
officers had any crime—as this one was
to do—alerted the public into such close
cooperation with the police. Tips and
rumors by the score were to flood Head-
quarters and the. Fifth Detective
Division.
They began trickling in the next

“Just
hand v
receive)

“His

>

eeepetere
ctateeate

- BOUL

One of the most unusual pictures ever taken of a police line-up. The five on the right are suspected cop-killers, the others are innocent. Story on Pg. 12

one were doing. Nothing much, noth-

ing very important. ,And.it was in the

same casual way, toward evening, that
he heard about the man with the gun.

It came up in a conversation with a
young man who was sitting on the steps
of his house. .-

“You should have been here,” the
youth said..“It was funny. This guy
comes around and he’s got this gun.
You should have seen it. It looked like
it would explode if fired. A real old
coe It’s probably from the Year

“When was this?” Orseno questioned.

“Just this Saturday. Saturday eve-
ning. Anyway, this bird wants to sell’
the gun. But who'd buy a rod like that?
Everyone says he’s crazy, they say it
won’t even shoot, Anyway, he gets bul-
lets for it. Can you picture this? He
gets bullets for it and he comes back
and he says he’s going to show us it
can shoot..’.He takes'us over to the
playground at. Ninth and Bainbridge
and he starts shooting at the wall. I
hear that shooting and I beat it,” and
the youth waved and began to laugh.
He shook his head, his face red. “It
was something, believe me.” .
~ “Do you know who he is?” Orseno
questioned,. ~ y ,

The youth shrugged. “I never saw
the guy before. If.you ask me, he’s
nuts.” kt

And that was all. i

What he heard didn’t excite Orseno.
It made him curious but it didn’t excite
him. In this neighborhood, guys with
guns weren’t that much of a novelty,
And why should a fellow trying to sell
an. old-fashioned pistol necessarily
be tied in with a pre-dawn slaying? No
reason, and yet the fact that this had
taken place on Saturday. night stirred
Orseno’s imagination. It was probably
nothing, and yet-— — ‘

The patrolman strolled over to the
playground at Ninth and Bainbridge
Streets. \

THE next day, Tuesday, while Ser-
geant Schwartz and Detective Du-
gan concentrated on the list of possible
suspects handed them by the Record

{ \

Room clerks, Detectives Muller and

.Beech were trying to run down the re-
volver. They focused their efforts upon
pawnshops and sporting-goods stores in
West and South Philadelphia.

They were interested in .32 pistols.

Anything about 32 pistols. Who
had purchased one or, just as impor-
tant, who had purchased bullets for
one. . ;

Store after store and no luck. They
hit a string of eight places without
picking up a lead. Could it be that the
killer had purchased the gun and bul-
lets-in a different section of the city?

Or perhaps, even, out of town?

The detectives headed disgustedly

- toward a ninth place, this one in South

Philadelphia. They walked in, not too
hopefully, while the proprietor com-
pleted a sale for a BB rifle. The owner
seemed to have all the time and pa-
tience in the world. The investigators
had little. They paced back and forth;

* they leaned against the counter.

The sale made, Beech asked the pro-

prietor the old question: Had he sold’

a .32 or cartridges for one lately? Or
any time at all. .
“Thirty-two's,” the man mused. He
stroked his chin. “Let’s see, were they
thirty-two’s? ‘Oh, yes,” he said, snap-
ping his fingers. “I remember now. I
got it mixed up between the twenty-
five’s and the thirty-two’s.” :
“What did you get mixed up?” Muller
wanted to know. . ,
“This fellow. You see, he bought
both. ‘That’s why I got it mixed up.”
“Let’s start from the beginning.”
Well, it was this way, the store owner
said. This fellow came into his place
and asked for a box of .25 cartridges.

There are 50 cartridges to a box, see? .

Anyway, he paid for the cartridges and
left with them. About fifteen minutes
later, this same fellow came back. By
cab. The proprietor remembered seeing
him get out of the cab. Anyway, he
came into the store and said he’d made
a mistake, he wanted .32’s; And so the
owner exchanged them.

While the owner was nonchalantly
relating this story, drawing it out, Mul-
Jer and Beech stood there tensely,

hearts hammering. As soon as he fin-
ished, Beech burst out with, “When did
you make this sale?”

“Oh,” said the man, “that was—that
was this Saturday. Saturday evening.”

Muller, who had been holding his
breath. unconsciously, let it out all at
once.

“Do you know him?” he demanded.

The store owner shook his head.
He'd never seen him before in his life.
But wait, he interrupted himself; he
knew someone who might be able to
tell them. Another customer had been
in the shop at the time this fellow had
come back the second time, and the
owner recalled this customer nodding
and saying hello to the man who’d
bought the cartridges.

tae owner knew where this customer

The detectives knew that the man
who had purchased the cartridges
didn’t have to be the killer necessarily,
but it was a lead for them to follow.

INUTES later the detectives were at
the customer’s house. There they
learned from his wife that he was at
work. Quickly they raced to the fac-
tory where he was employed; and a
short time after that, they were speak-
ing with the man himself.
On this man could depend their case.
Would he be able to help them?
But to the officers’ disappointment,
the customer knew nothing about the
man other than his nickname. And

‘ that was “Lippy”. He'd met Lippy once

in a South Philadelphia taproom and
had not seen him again until that eve-
ning in the sporting-goods store.
What did Lippy look like?
The customer gave the officers a de-
scription which closely matched the

* one that the dying man had whispered.

Although the detectives had hoped
for better—an address and full name—
this was a good step forward. It was
movement, at least, to stir the stag-
nation. Muller and Beech got in their
car to make a report to Headquarters.

But even as the two detectives had
learned about Lippy, activity of another
sort was gripping Headquarters.

Patrolman William G. O’Hara, whose
beat was the neighborhood of Teitel-
baum’s bakery, had brought in an
ex-convict whom he’d learned had dis-
played a .32 pistol a month before.
The man’s name was Leroy Saul and
he denied vociferously having seen,
much less owned a gun since his re-
lease from the penitentiary a year
before.

“You think I’m crazy, carryin’ a
rod?” Saul protested. “That means my
parole. I don’t like stir that much,
Buddy.”

Commissioner Doyle said, ‘““You mean
the fellow you showed it to is lying.”

“He’s either lyin’ or seein’ things,”
came back the retort. ‘I'm tellin’ you
the truth. I—”

He stopped as Sergeant Schwartz
and Detective Dugan entered the office.
While Saul was being questioned, the
two Homicide men had obtained a
warrant and had searched the ex-con-
vict’s room,

Schwartz said, “Did I hear some-
thing about you never owning a gun?”

“That’s right.”

He stopped as Schwartz held out a re-
volver. He swallowed hard.

Schwartz said, “It is yours, isn’t it?”
When Saul didn’t answer, the Sergeant
finished, “It ought to be. We found it
in your room.”

The gun wasn’t a 32. It was a .45.
But what was important to the officers
was that Saul had lied. Why? Why
was he afraid to admit he owned a 32?
Because it was the death weapon?

“What happened to the thirty-two?”
Commissioner Doyle asked after a mo-
ment.

Saul was staring at the floor. ‘I don’t
have it no more.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I don’t know. I lost it.”

Inspector Murphy said, “I like these

guys who go around losing guns. Why
did you deny having one?”
Saul’s shoulders drooped. ‘Because

it’s my parole, that’s why.”

“Or because you used it?”

Saul’s eyes flared. “I didn’t! I didn’t
kill no one!” His voice weakened—
“You can’t say I did.”

51


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_Imogene's got plenty on Sid
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knows about TY's zaniest character

oe the new |
IOOO JOKES

There are many other laugh-loaded
features in this issue, too, and hun-
dreds of rib-tickling cartoons, an-
ecdotes and gags that'll keep you
laughing from cover to cover.

_ Ask your newsdealer today for
this: great: humor: magazine

and Bainbridge Streets when he was startled

ground and saw a man firing at a target on the
back fence. It was near dark and he didn’t
get a good look at the man. But he had the
general appearance of the man described by
Teitelbaum. .

They talked a few minutes more and then
Orseno’s friend left. The patrolman started
to go back home. But he found himself walk-
ing slower and slowér and then he found
himself standing on a corner, thinking. “Could
there be a connection?” he asked himself.
“Maybe I should go over there and look
around.”

‘He went to the playground. His meticulous,
inch-by-inch search lasted until 10:35 a.m.
next day, but at the end of it Orseno held a

perfect shape.

Orseno took the bullet to Detective Lieu-
tenant Bernard O’Donnell at headquarters. The
lieutenant said, nice work, and sent the slug
to ballistics for tests.

Orseno returned to Ninth and Bainbridge
Streets and began questioning people who
lived near the playground.

Among those who had heard the firing
the cop found one who had seen the man
with the gun. ;

“It. was Grover Edwards,” a man told the
cop. “I saw him doing target shooting out
there. The light was tricky but the guy sure

a moment. “In fact on Saturday, jvist before
supper, I> saw him going inic a sporting
gods Olice down on Osage. He might have
been going in there for the bullets.”

Orseno rushed over to the storé. He-asked
to see the clerk who had been on duty early
Saturday night. Orseno asked him if anyone
had been in to buy bullets that. night. A stout
guy P

“Yeah,” the clerk said. “That was Edwards.
Grover Edwards. He was in ‘to buy a box of
38s,”

ie

BAc«k at headquarters half an hour later
the ‘ballistics report came in. The slug

| Orseno had found in the playground matched

the one found in the death room.

Orseno and Patrolman William O’Hara
were temporarily assigned to the homicide
squad. O’Hara had patroled Edwards’ neigh-
borhood and: he knew the man, 33, a burly
longshoreman, by sight. They were told to
bring Edwards in for questioning.

They discovered Edwards was visiting his
mother-in-law and rushed to that address.

The woman who answered the door called
up the stairs and Edwards answered. A min-
ute later he started down ‘the stairs. He
stopped in mid-stride when he saw the offi-
cers, then continued on down.

“You’re under arrest,” Orseno said.

Edwards surrendered without resistance.

At headquarters in City Hall, Deputy Com-
missioner Richard Doyle and _ Inspector
‘Murphy led the questioning. Edwards stolidly
denied the murder.

He did admit, however, that he had stolen
Gruenfelder’s gun. He said he was afraid of
being arrested for the theft and had wrapped
the gun in a green sock and tossed it into the
Schuylkill River off the Market Street bridge.

While the grilling went on, two detectives
sped to the bridge. At the spot described by
Edwards, a magnetic device was lowered into
the river. On the first try, it brought up the

gun wrapped in the soaked green sock.

by gunshots. He looked into the deserted play-’

38-cal. bullet in his hand. It was in almost

looked like Edwards to me.” He thought for.

The gun was rushed back to the police lab
and ballistics expetts went to work. In a
short time they reported that the gun found
in the river was the murder weapon. ‘

Not a flicker of emotion crossed Edwards’.
face when he was confronted with this evi-
dence. He studied a hangnail on his left
index finger. There was not a sound from
his questioners. Finally he spoke. :

“I did it.” His voice was flat. He sounded

like a bored kid confessing he had stolen an | a 4

apple. “When Teitelbaum called up the stairs,

I decided to hold him up. I once worked for

him and I knew he had money. :
“When he offered me the 17 bucks I blew

my top. The old man kept asking me not pe

to shoot. He screamed just before I shot him.

I ran out and was home before anybody saw a

me.”

Police inspect Teitelbaum windows. _

Edwards said he left his apartment later
on and shouldered his way through swarms

of police. He took a trolley to Market Street, . e

walked across the bridge and tossed the gun
in the’ water.
A few hours later, Edwards signed a written

_ confession. He was held on a charge of murder.

On Friday, September 6, Edwards was given
a hearing before Magistrate E. David Keiser
at the Fifty-fifth and Pine Streets station. At
the hearing, Edwards’ attractive wife and the

- dead man’s son listened -with set faces as the
police revealed Edwards had a police record ~~

stretching back to 1935. Magistrate Keiser held —
Edwards without bail for action-by the. grand
jury. Wu hg $
After the hearing, Jules Teitelbaum repeated
his wish to see the killer’s electrocution —
he is sentenced to death.” - Bae
“I know I can’t have my father back, Ee
the murdered man’s ‘son said, “but I wish t0_
see justice done.” j

325

ae


nearby telephone and put in a call for ambulance service.

The wounded man could talk. A retired baker, he said he
| was alone in the house. His wife was on a vacation at Atlantic
| City. On Saturday afternoon, their son, Jules, had driven to
the shore to bring his mother home. ,

“A noise up on the third floor, where Jules has his room,
woke me up,” Teitelbaum said. “I thought my son had got
home sooner than he had planned. I yelled up, ‘Jules, is that
you?’

“There was no answer right away. Then a man said, ‘Yes,
it’s me.’ I crawled back into bed. This gunman came in. He
was a man around thirty years old; five feet, ten inches tall,
| weighing maybe 170 pounds. He had sandy hair. He was

masked. He pointed an automatic at me and demanded
. money.” .

Teitelbaum reached into his trousers, hanging beside the

two $1 bills.

“It wasn’t enough,” the..wounded man continued. “He
‘swore at me. Somhow I knew he intended to kill me because
there wasn’t as much money as he wanted. I pleaded, but he
started firing. The last shot—it hit me. He disappeared.
You know the rest.”

The gunman, the baker added, had: worn a white shirt and
brown trousers.

An emergency patrol came in with a stretcher.
“Til walk,” Teitelbaum said grimly. “I’m all right.”

| 32

bed, and took out what cash there was in them—two $5 and

ARRAIGNMENT—

Suspect (1) is surrounded by the police
officers who helped fo track him down.
Patrolmen O'Hara (2) and H. Orseno (3)
provided necessary clues, while Lieut.
B. O’Donell (4) headed the investigation.

He did walk to the ambulance, a
tottering figure in bloodsoaked pajamas,
supported by a patrolman on either side.
In his left hand the old man still
clutched the $12 which the murderous
intruder had refused.

Teitelbaum was still conscious when
they carried him into the emergency
receiving ward at Misericordia Hospital.
But at 7:20 that morning he was dead.
‘The bullet, entering his throat, had
ploughed upward and emerged behind
the right ear. Shock and loss of blood
were too much for the gritty old man
4 to endure.

VEN BEFORE the victim died, Ser-

geant Michael Schwartz and Detec-
tive Joseph Dugan of the homicide
detail were on the case. Detectives
Martin Mueller and James Beech of the
Fifth Division squad joined them in the
Teitelbaum home, where four empty
cartridge casings from a_ .32-calibre
automatic pistol were found in the
baker’s bedroom.

They dug three slugs out of the wall,
and picked a fourth—the fatal bullet—
from the bedclothing. As they worked,
identification men went from room to
room in the big ten-room dwelling,
dusting for fingerprints.

' There was no sign of a forced entry.
Presumably the burglar had found, as
the officers: had later, the front door unlocked.

In the son’s chamber on the third floor, drawers in a chest

“had been ransacked and some papers from a secretary

scattered upon the floor. The only other evidence of disorder
was in the chamber where Teitelbaum had been shot, and this

‘obviously was directly traceable to the shooting.

The gunfire and the baker’s screams for help had been
heard by two neighbors. *

A city magistrate, whose home was on Larchwood Avenue
directly behind the Teitelbaum dwelling, had been awakened
by the shots. His wife heard the wounded man cry “Murder!”
three times from his bedroom window.

“Fach time it was weaker,” she said.
running down.”

The judge had gone to the phone to summon police. “Our
clock struck five just as I was dialing,” he reported.

Another neighbor, living around the corner on South Forty-
sixth Street, aroused by the reports of the pistol, was still
peering curiously out his window a few minutes after the

“Like an old Victrola

shooting when a new model green convertible rocketed down

Osage Avenue from the direction of the Teitelbaum home.
The convertible careened south into Forty-sixth, almost over-
turning as it made the corner.

There was only the driver in the car. He wore a light-
colored.shirt and was hatless.- The neighbor had been unable
to read the license number. ~

Only one clear fingerprint was (Continued on page 34)


a

You End Up Dead

continued from page 39

months ago. Get up when you darn well
Please, do whatever you want, never worry
about money. He'd always said, when he

- figured he had enough he’d sell the bake shop

and enjoy life. And ‘that’s what he did a
couple of months ago. It had taken him 57
years to do it.

He remembered back to when he was seven
years old. A thin-faced little immigrant boy
running errands for the baker. He’d worked up
to being a baker himself. It wasn’t easy. On
your feet 12 hours a day. The sweet smell of
the baking bread and cakes turning sour in
your nose. Work and save, work and save.

Then, after he married Jennie, he bought his
own shop and things got tougher. Up at 5
every day; work till 11 every night. No days
off. No holidays. And Jennie working right
along with him and giving him a fine son
and daughters, too. She deserved to enjoy
things now as much as he did.

“Well, it’s all behind me,” he thought. “I’ve
got a fine home and plenty of money. And
a lot of good years ahead of me. I’m only 64.
Lots of time to enjoy feeling safe and secure.
A feeling no one can take away from you.”

TEITELBAUM was dimly aware of the

footsteps coming down the stairs from the
third floor. But he wasn’t scared-now because
he knew it was Jules. He dozed off with a smile
on his lips. :

He was awakened again when the light
snapped on. It took him a few seconds of
blinking to make out who was coming toward
the bed. Whén he saw it wasn’t his son, he
felt as if his heart had stopped.

A pudgy, youngish man shuffled up to the
bedside. There was a gun in his right hand.
His left hand held a white handkerchief over
his face. His eyes were smoky black and
mean.

“Gimme your wallet,” the man said.

Teitelbaum stared at the handkerchief, then
at the roll of fat hanging from the man’s chin,
resting on his stumpy neck. “Don’t shoot!”
Teitelbaum could hardly speak. His voice

didn’t sound like his own. “Please don’t
shoot.” He twisted his body, never taking
his eyes from the man. He took his wallet
from his pants hanging from a chair beside
the bed and pulled out the bills. Seventeen
dollars. “Take it. This is all I ,have here.
Please don’t shoot me.”

The gunman cursed. “That's all? You're
holding out on me. There’s plenty more

. around here, Give it up.”

“I have no more. Don’t shoot me.”

Teitelbaum saw the man’s eyes narrow.
He knew he was going to shoot. He screaméd.
The first shot ripped into the side wall. The
second smashed the wall just above his head.
The third slammed into his neck. It knocked
him back so hard he bounced on the mattress.
A five-dollar bill fluttered to the floor.

The gunman backed away. He made no
move for the money. He ran out the door
and down the sfairs.

Teitelbaum pushed himself up to a sitting
Position. He stumbled from the bed to the
window. “Murder!” His voice was, shrill.
“Murder! Murder!” The last two cries trailed
off like an old-fashioned victrola running
down.

He fell to the floor and he was sick from
the blood and the fear. After a minute, he
began to drag himself out of the room and
down the hall to the front bedroom where
there was an extension phone. Seconds later,
he was talking to a police dispatcher. “I’m
bleeding,” Teitelbaum moaned. “I was shot by
a burglar. Help me.” He gave his address, 4612
Osage Avenue in West Philadelphia. He
hung up.. Then he dragged himself to a twin
bed and lay there, whimpering in pain. Twelve
dollars was still clutched in his hand.

Patrolmen Bernard Hughes and James Mc-
Kenna were cruising the neighborhood when
they got the call. Within four minutes of
the shooting, they were running up the
walk to Teitelbaum’s home. They found the
porch door closed but unlocked. The front
door was standing open. Inside, the wounded
man’s cries guided them to the bedroom
upstairs.

They found him lying on the bed, covered
with blood from his neck to his knees.

“Can you describe the person that shot
you?” Hughes asked.

“Yes, Mr. Barnes, there were several calls. A Mr. Gorcey, he said he would call
later. Also a Mr. Scobel, and-then there were three other gentlemen who wouldn't
say who they were.”

Teitelbaum choked, then answered. Young.
About 28. Five feet ten inches, 170 pounds.
Brown hair. Double chin. He was wearing
brown pants and a white shirt.

Hughes phoned the description in to head-
quarters. A few minutes later, the alarm was
broadcast. All police were alerted. Trolley
routes, bus terminals and railroad station
were covered. F

An emergency patrol arrived just after
Hughes finished his call. Teitelbaum refused a
stretcher, insisting he was all right. Supported
by two cops he walked to the emergency
truck and was rushed to Misericordia Hos-
pital.

He was still conscious when they carried
him into the emergency ward. He gave the
details of the shooting to Detective Sergeant
Michael Schwartz and Detective Foseph Dugan
of the homicide squad.

His voice kept coming and going like a
distant radio station. Finally, he stopped
talking in the middle of a sentence. A gray
color crept up from his neck and overlaid
the ruddiness of his cheeks: He sat up sud-

-denly and cried, “Did,I work all my life for
this?” He fell back. His dark eyes dulled and
glazed. He lapsed into unconsciousness and
died at 7:20 am. Sunday, August 31, 1952,
about two and a quarter hours after the
shooting.

Schwartz and Dugan left the hospital and
returned to headquarters. There they were
ordered to take charge of the homicide detail
already at work in Teitelbaum’s home.
Schwartz headed the photographers and finger-
print men while Dugan took over the detail
searching the three-story ten-room house.

On the third floor, in the bedroom occupied
by Teitelbaum’s son, the detectives found the
desk and bureau drawers had been ransacked.
Papers and clothes were scattered over the
floor.

py the rear bedroom where Teitelbaum was

shot, they found three .38-caliber sHells.
Two bullet holes were visible, one in the side
wall and one in the wall behind the bed. A
five-dollar bill lay on the floor beside the
dead man’s wallet. A trail of blood led from
the bed to the window and then out of the
room and down the hall to the front bedroom.
There, a bloodsoaked wad of bills—$12 in
all—was found at the foot of ome of the twin
beds.

An examination of the doors and windows
gave no indication that the burglar had
forced an entry. Both front doors had been
found opened. Dugan. theorized that the
burglar had either used a skeleton key or
picked the locks.

When the search was finished, Dugan joined
Schwartz. “We got practically nothing. Three
38 shells and a couple of bullet holes. How
about you?”

“The print men got a couple of prints.
Don’t know if they mean anything yet, Let’s
split your detail and start talking to neigh-
bors.”

Five teams were formed. One talked to
Magistrate K. H. Gilbert and his wife, neigh-
bors. They said they were awakened by gun
blasts at about 5 o’clock. Magistrate , Gilbert
went to the phone to call police. He had
heard Teitelbaum’s cries of murder while
waiting for his connection.

Two detectives talked to another neighbor
who said Teitelbaum’s cries sounded like he
was choking. Still another neighbor said he
was awakened by the shots, hopped out of

bed and went to the window. He saw a new-
model green convertible with a dark top
speeding down the street. He said the car
almost overturned as it shot around the
corner and went south on Forty-sixth Street.

But the detectives could find no one who
had seen the killer. He had backed out of
the bedroom and vanished. The cops returned
to headquarters, with only four .38 shells for
clues and a prayer that some of the prints
might help. : :

Early Sunday afternoon, Teitelbaum’s son,
Jules, 27, returned with his mother from
Atlantic City. Accompanied by his brother-
in-law, the young man was taken to the
morgue to make formal identification.

Jules viewed the body and he began to cry.
He cleared his throat. “That’s my father.”
His eyes never left the old man’s face. “When
they catch, the man that did it, I want to
see him executed. I want to see him die.” '

An hour later, the chief coroner’s physician
finished the autopsy. He found that the bullet

_had entered Teitelbaum’s neck, torn through

his mouth and emerged behind his right ear.

Sunday night, Inspector John T. Murphy,
coordinator of the investigation, ordered a
roundup of known criminals in the area.

Fourteen suspects were picked up by Mon-
day morning. By noon, all of them had been
questioned and released. Half an hour later,
Schwartz and Dugan left headquarters for
the Teitelbaum home to question the family
about motives other than robbery.

But Jennie Teitelbaum was sure it could be
nothing but robbery. She was a plump, still-
attractive woman with hair as white and scft
as a powder puff. She kept biting her lips and
tried hard to keep the tears back as she
spoke. :

“Isaac led a good life,” she said. “He was
kind and generous. In all the years we were
together, I never knew him to make an
enemy.” She shook her head. She couldn’t help
it. The tears began to stream down her cheeks.
“He was supposed to join me in Atlantic
City for the Labor Day weekend. But he
decided not. to. He was supposed to come
with Jules. If only he had come. . .”

Her son helped her: from the chair and
took her to another' room to comfort her. He
returned a few minutes later and apologized
to the detectives. “I’m afraid mother won't
be able to answer any more questions today,”
he said. <

“MMHAT’S all right,” Dugan told him. “We

hate to bother her but we’ve got to check
all angles. Right now. we’d like to break
through the wall in the bedroom to get those
slugs.”

“Go ahead,” the young man said.”“You can
tear the house down if itll help get my
father’s murderer,”

Schwartz and Dugan went upstairs to the
rear bedroom. They broke through the plaster
at the baseboard directly beneath the bullet
holes. They recovered the bullets, then groaned
in disappointment. Both slugs had crashed
through the plaster and into the brick behind
it. They were so battered and flattened that
they were useless.

The detectives stared at the slugs as if the
beat-up metal had somehow betrayed them.
Suddenly, Dugan had an idea. “Wait a
minute, Mike,” he said. “Teitelbaum said the
guy fired three shots. And the autopsy showed
the slug didn’t stay in Teitelbaum’s head.
There’s got to be one more slug somewhere
in this room.”

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They began a slow, careful search, checking
the floor inch by inch, moving furniture,
shaking out the bedclothes. Then they started
on the walls. It was Schwartz who spotted the
lump in the wallpaper behind the bed. He
pulled away the paper from the small hole and
found the slug imbedded in the plaster. It had
struck almost parallel to the wall and plowed
a little furrow behind the paper. The bullet
was in nearly perfect condition.

“This is probably the -bullet that killed
Teitelbaum,” Schwartz said. “Now all we
have to do is find the gun and the guy who
pulled the trigger.”
~ They turned their find over to the ballistics
department. Later, they worked with a detail
searching sewers near the Teitelbaum home
on the chance the killer had ditched the gun
in his flight. Their hopes soared when a light
picked up the glint of metal in a sewer a
few blocks away. But it turned out to be a
false alarm. A hipbooted cop who had waded
into the slimy muck came up with a piece of
galvanized pipe. The officers looked at the
pipe, shrugged and went on to the next
sewer.

There were no new developments until the
following’ Tuesday. At 8 o’clock that night
a man called the police to report that his
home has been robbed. Detectives James
Beech and John Coan were assigned to the
investigation.

The victim of the burglary identified him-
self as Paul Gruenfelder. He lived at 4516
Osage Avenue, about a block from the Teitel-
baum home. Gruenfelder said he had been
on a vacation at the seashore since August 24.
He had just returned and found his home

ransacked. A miniature camera and a foreign-
make automatic pistol were missing. :

When Beech discovered that the pistol
used .38-caliber ammunition, he called in Ser-
geant Schwartz. After questioning Gruenfelder,
Schwartz helped the other detectives search
the apartment. As in the Teitelbaum home,
there was no evidence of a forced entry.

The detectives became convinced that the
same man had committed both crimes and
that the stolen automatic was the murder
weapon. But they admitted that they were
no closer to finding the killer than they had
been on Sunday. They wondered if they
would ever get the break they needed to
crack the case. .

On Wednesday afternoon, Patrolman Henry
Orseno was enjoying his vacation. He had
waked up late that morning and he had just
gone out to pick up his newspaper at the
candy store. He had been following the
Teitelbaum case and found the story buried
inside the paper today. “It will drop out of
the paper entirely,” he thought, “if they don’t
come up with something good soon.”

RSENO left the store and met a friend
near the corner. They started to talk and
somewhere along the line they got onto the
Teitelbaum case. Orseno was saying that he
didn’t know Teitelbaum but it was a darn
shame. The man just retired and someone
knocks him off. And then his friend was
telling him something that he had just re-
membered. Something that greatly interested
Orseno.
On Saturday evening, Orseno’s friend said,
he had been passing the playground at Ninth

“,

victim's home. The truth of the matter was.
that the thief used @ conveniently open door. -

By CARLOS LANE

HE HEAVY-SET gunman stood
over him, staring down at him
with a look of verrgeful anger in
his eyes. Cruel eyes like those of

some jungle animal—ready to kill—
willing to kill—had to kill. He clutched
the bedclothes beneath his old hands
and felt the sweat of his palm seep into
the sheet.

“Don’t shoot! Please, don’t shoot!”

Isaac Teitelbaum shrank back upon
his bed, stark terror in his face. He
thrust forth his hand again, proffering
the green bills. :

“Take the money,” he implored.
“Only, please, don’t shoot!”

But he knew what the answer was
going to be, knew it from the animal
growl in the throat behind the white
handkerchief mask, from the fury blaz-
ing in the eyes of the husky, sandy-
haired gunman.

It came. A blinding flash, a terrifying
Toar, a violent shock of concussion as
the slug snarled past his ear and
thudded into the wall.

The pistol flashed again, and the
bullet screamed just above his head.
Again the flame fanged at him, yet he
felt no stunning impact of lead on flesh,
no tearing pain.

The gunman moved steadily forward,
stood towering over the bed, cursing in
a bitter rage. The weapon jumped a
fourth time in his hand. This time
Teitelbaum saw the quick lick of fire
at the muzzle, but he did not hear the
crash of sound. It was lost in the
paralyzing blow that caught him in the
throat, wrenched his head violently and
flung him back against the pillows.

Blood gushed down his neck, staining
his pajamas. The gunman backed away,
making no effort to pry the thin sheaf
of currency from the convulsive - grip
of the man in agony on the bed. * a

Despite his wound, 64-year-old Isaac pape deri
Teitelbaum dragged himself across the
floor to the open window. ;

“Murder!” he screamed, into the
early Sunday morning quiet. “Murder! Murder!”

No one answered. Painfully. Teitelbaum crawled to the
door, a few feet up a hall to a front bedroom, and then across

the floor to the telephone on the stand between the twin beds.

Dispatcher Victor Steinberg, in police radio headquarters
on the seventh floor of Philadelphia’s City Hall, heard-a moan
over the wire, then the words, weak but clear.

“I'm bleeding. I've been shot—by a burglar. Address,
4612 Osage. Hurry, please.”

Patrolmen John Cunningham and William Byrne, in a Fifth
Division radio cruiser, were nearest the Teitelbaum home
when the call went on the air at a few minutes after five
o’clock the morning of August 31, 1952. Patrolmen Bernard

bid Si aed ia F

&
&
of the victim’s bakery shop, the suspect made two very ied
serious mistakes that led police to his eventual capture. | &

Hughes and James McKenna were also on duty nearby)"

The police cars came snarling into Osage Avenue, in W
Philadephia. They rocked to a stop before a luxurious, three-
story, ivy-walled residence, where a light glimmered in a Feat
second-floor window.

The front door was closed, but unlocked. The cops rushe
inside, one at a time, all with pistols in their hands. They.te
heard’no sound, saw no one. pad

“Where are you?” Hughes called out.

“Up here,” the answer came; the voice was faint, unevefi>
with pain.

They found Teitelbaum stretched across one of the twifi
beds in the front bedroom. McKenna spun the dial of the,

\O
Vi
Ws)
®

66 KISS AND KILL

had an argument, and Freda demanded that he stop and let
her out.

Powell checked and found that every detail involving
Rosetta Culver was scrupulously accurate. Then he checked
further, and found that, on the previous noon, when the
McKechnies were distraught over Freda’s disappearance,
Bobby had worriedly paid them a visit. Two lines spoken
during that visit intrigued Powell.

Mrs McKechnie had asked Bobby why he and Freda had

quarrelled in the car. ‘Well,’ Bobby explained, ‘Freda told
me: “I’m getting out here because I don’t want you to take
me home. You know my mother does not want me to go with
you.”

Mrs McKechnie had looked incredulous at this. ‘That’s
sheer nonsense!’ she gasped, wondering what had come
over Freda. ‘I’ve known you, Bobby, since you were a
little boy, and always have looked on you as one of my
sons.’

Powell had one idea now—to make Bobby tell his story
over and over until some small discrepancy showed, and
then to drive a wedge in there. But the story didn’t vary
from telling to telling. It was just logical enough to make
sense. It was just weak enough, Powell knew from long
experience, to make it look real and natural. The man who
contrives an alibi too perfectly often makes it look artificial,
and the skilled detective has a way of knowing when this is
the case.

Powell abruptly changed his tactics. ‘Now, Bobby,’ he said,
‘tell me what you were doing the week-end before your date
with Freda.’

‘I wasn’t in town. I spent the week-end at East Aurora,
New York. At the home of a girl named Margaret Crain,’
Bobby said wearily.

‘Who is this Margaret Crain?’ Powell asked amiably, and
Bobby went on to explain that she was a girl he had met at
college, and that she was now a music-teacher. Something
about Bobby’s manner changed as he spoke about the
girl. The weariness seemed to dissolve. He was all eager
interest.

en

Lu.

DEATH ATHERELBOW 67

Powell saw this. He asked abruptly: ‘Are you in love with
her?’

‘Yes!’ Bobby said defiantly.

Powell deftly drew the discussion to a comparison between
Freda and Margaret, and Bobby explained heatedly that he
and Freda disagreed about a lot of things.

This was the spot for his trump card, and Powell played it
ruthlessly. ‘Pregnancy, too?’ he demanded.

The words hit Bobby as hard as Powell hoped they would.
He was responsible, all right, but he had tried to do the right
thing. He was willing to get married. He was willing to do
anything for Freda. They had talked about that in the car.
They had even set a date—

It was while he was writhing through the agony of these
explanations that word was brought in that the tyres of the
boy’s car perfectly matched tyre impressions at the scene of
the murder. Bobby gave up. He would talk. He would tell
everything.

He and Freda had been swimming around the float, he
explained, and Freda’s head had struck the edge. She went
under and disappeared, and Bobby, in a panic, had fled for
home.

It was a nice story, and he told it well, but all Powell did was
to investigate the float, and point out that the water-logged,
spongy wood could never have caused the blow that crushed
the life from Freda McKechnie.

Bobby had his back against the wall now, and was fighting
desperately.

‘All right!’ he cried. ‘I was trying to help her into a boat
when she slipped, and her head hit the chain hook, and
she fell down. Then I listened to her heart-beats, and there
weren’t any. I knew she was dead.’

Powell looked mildly amused, and Bobby’s temper started
to rise. Like a Shakespearean ham who wasn’t impressing his
audience, he started to overplay his part. He dramatically
demonstrated how he had dropped the body into the lake.
‘It was supposed to look like a drowning,’ he said. ‘I was sure
it would!’

Powell laughed aloud, and Bobby turned on him furiously.

64 KISS AND KILL

The body was quickly taken from the water by a life-guard,
and Doctors T.J. Wenner and Harry Brown performed an
autopsy, and then grimly shook their heads. There were
several head wounds, they said, which indicated that the girl
had been struck down by the traditional blunt instrument. A
blackjack, perhaps. And why would anyone want to wield

that blackjack? The answer might be right there on the
medical report sheet. The girl was pregnant.

This was no accidental drowning; it was murder. So
County Detective Chief Richard Powell entered the case.
He was one of the best qualified men in the state for
the job, but even he found himself stymied at the outset
by the question of the girl’s identity. Every summer
Say at the lake was shown the body; all shook their

eads.

At this time word reached Powell’s ear of a missing girl
named Freda McKechnie, who lived in Edwardsville, a
suburb of Wilkes-Barre. It was a long shot, but Powell
grabbed it with both hands. He went to the McKechnie
home, explained his mission, and described the murder
victim to Mrs and Mrs McKechnie.

They were sick with apprehension, and then they hesitated.
Yes, the description fitted Freda—but pregnancy? They
knew nothing about that at all, they told Powell. All they
knew was that Freda had gone out for a drive with the boy
next door, had quarrelled with him, and had left him to come
home alone. He had come back, but the girl had mysteriously
disappeared.

The boy next door? A fine, decent boy, the son of long-
time neighbours. They would trust Bobby Edwards with their
daughter any time.

The discussion was suddenly cut short at this point by
startling news. Word came to Powell from the lake that the
girl’s clothes had been found. He left the identification of
the body to the McKechnies, and raced to the spot where
the garments had been discovered.

They had been thrown carelessly in a bush a quarter mile
from the lake, and Powell studied the scene carefully. It was
the discovery of heavy tyre tracks in a cleared space nearby

c

DEATH AT HER ELBOW 65

which helped Powell piece the first fragments of the picture
together.

The girl had driven with someone to the lake. She had
undressed in the car. She had walked to the beach unwarily,
unthinkingly, with death at her elbow. She had been struck
down on the beach, and her body was thrown in the water.
And then the murderer had gone back to the car, had tossed
the girl’s clothing out, and had driven away.

It was here in the investigation that the McKechnies
brokenly identified the victim as their daughter, Freda. And
it was here that the thought of Bobby Edwards, the ‘boy next
door’, grew larger and larger in Powell’s mind.

Bobby Edwards, he learned, was the kind of boy who is
the centre of the crowd at the local ice-cream parlour. Good-
looking, athletic, pleasant, he was admired by the boys who
knew him, adored by the girls.

In a 1929 high-school year-book, one of Powell’s men came
across a class prophecy, copied it, and handed it to Powell
without comment. The prophet had written:

‘Smiles for the ladies,
Never tears,

Bobby’s conquests
Will last for years.’

Powell read it and frowned. It wasn’t much as poetry, but
it threw an interesting light on Bobby. Interesting enough,
at least, to lead Powell and some of his men on an abrupt
visit to the Edwards’s home, even though it was long past
midnight.

Face to face with Bobby, Powell saw a clean-cut boy,
respectful in manner, obviously willing to help in any way
he could, and deeply upset by the tragedy that had come so
close to him.

Under Powell’s questioning, he told his story over and
Over again. He had gone for a ride with Freda and a
friend of hers, Rosetta Culver. It had started to rain,
and Bobby had driven back to town and left Rosetta at
her door. On the way to Freda’s home, Bobby and Freda


._ 62 KISS AND KILL

_._ her parents to ask them to send her money Guay had given
her a letter. It was headed: ‘To be thrown away after reading.’
It was a wild protestation of his love in which he promised that
he would soon be free of marriage. fe

It could be that the ’plane trip to the Seven Isles had sparked
a fiendish plot in his mind, and he was certainly unbalanced.
He told the girl that he wouldn’t be able to see her until she
was twenty-one, and asked her to wait for him, but by then
he had something else to think about. Murder.

The defence put Mary Angel through a meat-grinder, and
the grinding became very close-meshed when Mr Gerald
Levesque asked her point-blank, ‘Was that the first time you
had relations with men—with Guay?’

‘No,’ whispered a very subdued witness.

But her morals, or lack of them, could not materially
change the case as it affected the prisoner, and the jury
seemed restless and ready to have the case concluded. They
were absent only twenty minutes before returning with a
verdict of guilty. The crowd seemed stunned, but Judge
-~ Sévigny told them, ‘You have given a good verdict.’ To the
_ prisoner he said, ‘For hatred of your wife, and as the result of
_ =, your passion for your young mistress, you have perpetrated a
_.* diabolical, infamous crime.’ ae -

It was March 14th that Joseph Albert Guay, who preferred
-<_ his mistress to call him by his second name, heard the sentence
* of death delivered, but he did not meet the hangman until
~ January 10th, 1951. “3
_ He was only one of three who were executed for the

wrecking of the Dakota. Marie Petri and her crippled brother
had both been arrested and charged with complicity in the
crime. By then the police had uncovered fresh evidence to
_. Satisfy a jury that they knew they were abetting a murderer.

-Ruest died on the scaffold where his sister’s former lover
had stood eighteen months before. A year later Madame Le
Corbeau felt the hangman’s noose tighten around her plump
neck and ‘suddenly realized that lust and love sometimes
assume shapes of terror.

STANLEY ELLIN

Death at
Her Elbow

As a writer of mystery fiction, I have learned that there is
a basic formula for the classic murder. The victim must be
likeable, someone whose death occasions honest mourning.
The murderer must be seeking to gain something—money,
power, a woman, vengeance—something which for one
terrible moment of his being turns him into judge, jury,
and executioner.

There must be evidence of the crime. Not an eye-witness,
but circumstantial evidence which, if pieced together pro-
perly, will be the instrument of justice. And the detective
who enters the case must be capable of understanding the
evidence.

It sounds easy, wrapping that formula up in a story, but
it isn’t. Not in fiction, anyway. But in real life a case will
suddenly explode, whirl a handful of people in a gruesome
dance of death for a brief moment, and then, when all is
quiet again, show that it fits every requirement for the classic
murder. :

That’s what happened one incredible midsummer week in
1934 at Harvey’s Lake, a quiet resort spot near Wilkes-Barre,
Pennsylvania. It started with some children happily drifting
on the lake in an old row-boat.

The boat was almost on top of the body when the children
first saw it. It was the body of a lovely young girl dressed
in a tight one-piece bathing-suit and a white bathing-cap. It
rocked a little in the tiny wavelets of the lake, but apart from
that was very still. Frighteningly still.

63


Edited by
SEBASTIAN WOLFE

>

Carroll & Graf Publishers, Inc.

New ee


8 True Detective Mysteries

laid them on the bed and smoothed them affectionately. Her
heart was singing. 4

Freda McKechnie was going to be married!

Only a few weeks now and she would be a bride!

She thrilled to the thought. In a burst of happiness she
went dancing down the stairs, her gay voice lilting through the
quiet, modest little home.

Her mother, busy with the preparation of supper, heard
that voice and gratitude welled up within her. Her child was
happy. That was the only thing that mattered. She looked
up, smiling, as Freda appeared in the doorway, and the girl
impetuously rushed across the room and flung her arms around
her mother, and the two clung together.

There were tears in Mrs. McKechnie’s eyes when Freda ©

released her. :

“™ so glad for you,” she whispered.

They were still in the kitchen when Rosetta Culver,
Freda’s chum, came in. ;

“T just stopped by to tell you that I’ve got a new pattern
for that dress of yours,” she said.

“Qh, that’s grand,” Freda said. ‘“Let’s go over to your
house and look at it.”

The two girls went up to Freda’s room to look again at the
pretty frocks that were a part of the future bride’s trousseau.
i was still daylight when they started out for the Culver

ome. :

“I won’t be late, Mother,” Freda said.

She kissed her mother good-bye, and Mrs. McKechnie
walked to the front door with them and stood there on the
porch watching as they went, arm in arm, up the street.

How strange the sky looked, she thought. The sunset was
a yellow-red across the western heavens; but there was a
hint of storm at the edges of the clouds, and, from far off,
she caught the distant roll of thunder.

But the evening passed before the storm broke in its full
force upon Edwardsville, and it was still raining when gray-

haired, kindly George McKeghnie and his wife went to bed.

Long after, the mother woke with a start from restless
dreams. The storm had ceased, but clouds raced across the
watery moon, and the steady drip of rain fell from the trees
with monotonous tapping upon the vines outside her window.

A vague uneasiness swept her. She was frightened without
apparent reason. For she was safe in bed in her own home.
Her husband was sleeping peacefully at her side. And even
the night, which had been heavy and oppressive, was now

Aah wn

AANA a temmeaear

still and balmy. A faint breeze stirred the
curtains at the window. The slow mellow bell
on the tower of the town hall struck midnight.

The mother, still vaguely uneasy, turned her
face into the pillows with a long sigh, and slept
once more.

It was not until the next morning that Mrs.
McKechnie discovered Freda was not home.

Her bed had not been slept in. . The rain had
dashed through the window, left open during
the afternoon, and drenched the floor. The gay
frocks still lay spread out across her pillows
where she had left them.

FO a moment, Mrs. McKechnie stood there be-

possible her girl had stayed out all night.

Freda had never done such a thing before
without telling her. Why had she failed to come
home? }

.Then another thought came to her. Perhaps
Freda had eloped. Maybe she had met her fiancé
in the town and they had decided to run away to avoid a

But Freda had looked forward to the wedding. She was
making a special dress for the ceremony. Why should she
suddenly have decided to run away—in a gingham frock?

The idea piqued her.

“She couldn’t have done such a thing,” she told herself.

And suddenly she was annoyed at Bobby Edwards, much as

she liked him.

wildered. Surely this was not true. It wasn’t

“He shouldn’t hay
“It’s his fault j rate
eeu ult if they
_ She had worked her:
tion by the time her hi
fast.

The fragrant odo
And, as she t 0 fi
scolded, taal

“George, Freda’s

The father stead “bi

What for?’’ he asked

Po sy for?’ echoed

se she’s eloped—she h
That Bobby has ;

2 ies Y has just per

GRIN spread acrog

A “Well, we’ll be hes

chuckled. ‘Freda woulc

away—a bride!’’

He shook his head slow

“ Girls are funny now:

Now look at how I ch;

— Freda shows that -

im. It isn’t just the th

Oh, George,” Mrs. M.
run after Bobby.”

‘Well, she certainly wa

& nice enough boy, but it’s

not the girl,”’

‘nt breeze stirred the
athe slow mellow bell
a hall struck midnight.
ruely uneasy, turned her
th a long sigh, and slept

next morning that Mrs.
Freda was not em a
n slept in. The rain h

rindow, left open during
rched the floor. The gay
| out across her pillows

lL.

McKechnie stood there be-
is was not true. It wasn’t

tayed out all night.
pa such a thing before

Vhy had she failed to come

z me to her. Perhaps
Oo ne had met her fiancé
ad to run away to avoid a

to the wedding. She was
eremony. Why should -
wway—in & gingham fro

thing,” she told herself.
a Bobby Edwards, much as

‘ground “is: passi
where,the body °

ft, opposite page) Freda Mc-
Kechnie, the murdered girl, who
loved greatly, but not wisely: He Re

(Right) Margaret Crain, the second
‘woman ‘in the ‘love tangle, _as she
Jooked on™ her arrival in’ Pennsyl-.
aos vania to be near her fiance =)

‘ ” OE ates Re

bs

“He shouldn’t have coaxed Freda,” she said.
“Tt’s his fault if they’ve eloped. He’s talked her
into it,’

She had worked herself into a state of indigna-
tion by the time her husband came down to break-
fast.

The fragrant odor of coffee filled the kitchen.
And, as she turned to fill his cup, Mrs. MeKechnie
scolded,

“George, Freda’s run away!’’

The father stared blankly at her.

“What for?” he asked.

“What for?” echoed his wife. “Why, I sup-
pose she’s eloped—she hasn’t been home all night.
That Bobby has just persuaded her to go off some-
where,”’

A GRIN spread across McKechnie’s face.
“Well, we’ll be hearing in a little bit,” he
chuckled. ‘Freda would never be able to stay
away—a bride!’’

He shook his head slowly.

“Girls are funny nowadays,” he philosophized.
“Now look at how I chased you! You know, sometimes I
think Freda shows that young man too much how she likes
him. It isn’t just the thing to do.” —

“Oh, George,”’ Mrs. McKechnie chided him, “Freda didn’t
run after Bobby.” ; :

“Well, she certainly wants to marry him. Of course, he’s
& nice enough boy, but it’s the man who ought to be anxious—

not the girl.”

Black-Jacked Love! 9

Mrs. McKechnie stared out the window, coffee-pot in hand.

“Goodness knows,” she murmured, “he’s practically lived
in, this house’ for years.’’

And it’ was while she was standing there that the mother
suddenly caught sight of a tall youth in the yard next door.

“Why, there’s Bobby now, over at his house!” she cried.

She put the coffee-pot on the stove with a thud, and hurried
out of the kitchen. At the sound of the screen slamming
behind her,*the young man across the way looked over and |
waved his hand.

“Hello,” he called, with a grin.

He was a handsome youth with thick, dark hair growing
back, sleek and smooth, from a broad, intelligent forehead.
His eyes were dark and alive, his mouth wide and petulant—
and attractive.

Even in that second, Mrs. McKechnie thought,

“It’s no wonder Freda’s crazy about him.”

But she cried,

“Bobby, where’s Freda? Is she at your house? Why
didn’t you tell me?”

The boy stared at her without speaking for a moment.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“You know what I mean,”’ she answered. ‘“Where’s Freda?”

| Sofa! EDWARDS continued to regard her with a blank
expression.

“T don’t know what you're talking about,” he replied. “Isn’t
she home?”

The mother could make no answer. She looked bewildered.
Her eyes sought some explanation from him, but he stood there
gaping.

When she spoke her voice was thick as though the effort
choked her.

“No,” she gasped, “you know she isn’t home. She eloped
with you—” her voice faltered, “didn’t she, Bobby—didn’t
she run away with you?” There was a new note in her ques-
tion now. She was pleading with the boy for an answer.

Young Robert Edwards was immediately concerned.

“Why, no,” he said, taking a step forward, “‘I haven’t seen
Freda since last night. I met her with Rosetta on the street
and I took them in my car. We dropped Rosetta off at her
house and Freda said she was going to her little niece’s.”’

“But she isn’t home,” Mrs. McKechnie repeated.

“Well, where did she go?’”’ Bobby asked. ‘She told me she
was coming right home.” ;

He climbed over the fence and took the mother’s arm and


The, woes of one
st. The happiness en-

le town. ;
tly above Edwardsville that
brighter than the happiness

ft work. Up in her bedroom

she took out once more the
such painstaking care. She

LL
iA

(Left) Robert (Bobby)
Edwards, third angle
of the triangle in this
appalling American
tragedy

(Above) The incrimi-
nating black-jack, a
fearsome exhibit in the
State’s case against
the sweetheart-
murderer

(Right) Chief of De-
tectives Richard
Powell who has given
this prominent case
to TRUE DETECTIVE

:
3)
4
weal
eres

ty
we fe
ey

Pos

egit. <
on fale


walked into the kitchen with her, talking as he went.
There the conversation was repeated to George McKechnie.

He was just getting ready to leave the house.

“Oh, don’t go!’’ his wife cried. ‘Something dreadful has
happened—I know it has.”
Bobby tried to comfort her.

“Don’t say that,’’ he begged. ‘Nothing has happened.
She’ll be home. Didn’t she say what she planned
to do?”

“No, no!”’ the mother cried. “I thought she
was with you.”
“Well, we’ll soon find out. I’ll go see Rosetta,’’

_ he said.

“What time was it, Bobby,’”’ the mother pleaded,

‘when she left you?”

“About eight-thirty, I guess,’’ he answered.

“Don’t worry, please. When it started to rain

I guess she decided to go to Rosetta’s for the

(Right) George McKechnie, kindly,
gray-haired Scotch father of the
slain girl, shown on the witness-
stand at the trial of his daughter’s

murderer

(Left) District At-
torney Thomas M.
Lewis, of Wilkes-
Barre, prosecutor at
the trial of Freda
McKechnie’s killer

The mother followed him to the door. She
put a hand on his sleeve. Tears were running
: down her face.

“Bobby,” she begged, “you aren’t teasing me, are you? Did you and
Freda get married?”

The boy patted her hand.

“T only wish we had,” he said. “T’ll be back in a little while.’’

George McKechnie, smoking his old pipe, said nothing.

The day dragged slowly by. Late in the afternoon, almost beside herself
with fear, Mrs. McKechnie went with her husband to report Freda missing
to police. When they returned to the house, Rosetta came in, breathless.

“Oh, Rosetta, I’m so worried,’’ Mrs. McKechnie sobbed. “Why didn’t
you come sooner? You might at least have come over to ask about Freda—”

“Why, I only heard about it a few minutes ago,” the girl replied.

“Bobby told you this morning,’”’ the mother reproached her. ‘He said
he’d go right to your house.’’

Rosetta shook her head.

“T haven’t even geen him,”’ she retorted, then looked puzzled.

night. I'll go and make some _inquiries.”’.

“What's th
that, Hosta

“No—not sin

The father ty
Robert Patton
down heavily, dj)

While sorrow

dwardsville—s;
minds of the litt].
vat Harvey’s Lak,
oblivious to care

Long ago, the
Some cf the mo:
posing homes ling
hills.

Nestled in this

tracted visitors from a]
many of the earlier reg
tions elsewhere. Gradvu
spot. Slowly, the mid
810ns Were opened on t
ecame a sort of mini:
continued to draw tho
Every summer the be

A little fleet of rowboa:
mers to cruise around {
laughter floated on the
— is S vorite haunt

mountain spri

best athletes. ee
Even little five-year-o].
of One swimmer that Ju]
Mummy, look at the
shrill, childish voice. «

she stays under the wat


se, she may have
some trifling pur-
k street she might

.

ance to the police,
rrhood. They also
lvania State Police
a description and

Clark.

was being enacted
ilar with the resi-

‘| companion were
m of the preceding

\

night, when they sighted a strange object floating on the sur-
face.

“Look at-that bundle of clothes somebody threw away,” one
of them said, "

But as they came closer, little Betty exclaimed: “Why, it’s
—it’s a body. The body of a girl!”

Hurriedly they pulled for the shore, where they reported
their find to the residents of the cottages. Two lifeguards,
Mollwin Williams and George Jones, set out with some of the
residents toward the object some 100 yards from shore, soon
returning with a human form that already was cold and. stiff
in death. The corpse was clad in a red bathing suit. In the
white bathing cap there was a gash—a gash extending down
into the scalp—which was slimy with blood. ve

“She must have been in the water all night,” the resort
people said to one another. “But how . . .?”

The girl might have died as the result of an accident, yet
fear and suspicion of murder was reflected in the eyes of:
those gathered around the pitifully rigid remains lying on
the sandy beach.

While somebody went to call the police, a new arrival
brought news for further speculation. gS

“There’s a small pile of women’s clothing back the road
a bit,” he said. “Must have belonged to this girl. A print
dress, stockings, shoes, underwear, hat, topcoat ... And

right near the stuff, in the mud left from last night’s rain,

there are some clear tire tracks.”

Chief of Police Ira Stevenson of Harvey’s Lake, and State
Trooper Worden Bader arrived within a half-hour to begin
the investigation. They concurred with the opinion of the
vacationists that the body had been in the lake all night;
otherwise the air-filled lungs would not have brought it to
the surface. The girl, they found, was a brunette, a little over
five feet in height, about twenty-eight years of age. Trooper
Bader whistled in shocked amazement as he inspected the
cut on the head. ;

“Looks like this is murder!” he said tersely to Chief
Stevenson.

Calls were put in to-Wilkes-Barre and the Wyoming bar-
racks, and soon additional investigators and medical ex-
aminers were rushing to the scene. Among them was Chief
of County Detectives Richard Powell, Detective John Demp-

“SHE WAS TO BECOME A MOTHER!"
These words, uttered by Dr. Thomas J. Wenner (below),
who performed an autopsy on Freda McKechnie’s body,
tossed a bombshell into the official investigation.

sey, and Dr. Thomas Wenner of the coroner’s office. Mean-
while Trooper Bader examined the feminine apparel discov-
ered on the road at the lake’s edge and made a plaster of
Paris imprint of the tire tracks found in the mud.

‘When the first report reached the troopers’ headquarters,
with only a meager description of the victim, Captain Clark
called the McKechnie home in Edwardsville and asked
whether the body could by any chance be that of the missing
Freda. Mrs, McKechnie was emphatic in her denial. Her
daughter, she said, would never have gone to Harvey’s Lake
without revealing her plans. No, that could not be her Freda.

But at 5:30 Captain Clark called again. There could be no
doubt now as to the identity of the dead girl; the clothing
tallied exactly with that worn by Freda when she disappeared.

Bobby Edwards was in the McKechnie home when this
news was received. He had been repeating details of his ac-
tivities on ‘the night before, sticking to the story he had re-
lated at noon. But when told that Freda had been found
dead, his composure deserted him. Evidently fearing violence
at the hands of the powerful George McKechnie, he bolted
out the rear door of the house and ran pell-mell to his own
home nearby.

At the orders of Chief Powell, who had been in communica-
tion with the McKechnie household, Edwards soon was
picked up at his home and taken to the state police head-
quarters for questioning.

“I understand you were out with Freda last night,” Powell
told him, “and naturally we've got to get your story for the
records. You had been going with her for quite a while,
hadn’t you ?”

“Sure, I’ve known her for years,” was the sullen reply,
“and I did see her for a little while last night. But I dropped
her before nine, and I don’t know anything about how she
got to Harvey’s Lake. Maybe she was running around with
some other fellow... .”

“Let’s see—you dropped her before nine, and I understand
you didn’t get home till almost midnight. Where were you °
in the meantime ?”

“Oh, just riding around,” said Edwards.

“Where did you go? What streets did you cover ?”

“How can I remember all that?” Bobby flared. “I tell you |
was just driving around . . . It was too early to go to bed.”

SMALL BUT DEADLY
County Detective John Dempsey holds the lead-weighted,
leather-covered blackjack which the killer swung mer-
cilessly and laid bare the scalp of his unsuspecting victim.


SHE DISTRUSTED EDWARDS

Mrs. George McKechnie, mother of the slain girl, had for-
bidden Freda to go out with Bobby Edwards because he
was said to be “keeping company” with another girl.

At this juncture an officer hurried into the room and.
whispered in Powell’s ear. The detegtive chief now addressed
the youth more harshly:

“You say you didn’t go to the lake, and yet there is a new
tire on your car that matches tire prints found on the road
beside Freda’s clothing. Come on, now—don’t you think
you'd better tell the truth ?”

Bobby Edwards’ handsome face flushed.
speak, then remained silent.

“You know, that makes pretty good evidence—especially
since it’s an' uncommon type of tread,” Powell prodded him.

“Well—oh, all right! I went to the lake with her then,
if that’s what you’ve got to know. I—I was afraid to admit
it because I thought you might blame me for the accident
she had.”

_ ‘Accident ?”

“Well, yes. We went in swimming, and she hurt herself.
I got kind of rattled, I guess, and while I drove home I de-
cided I hadn’t better tell anybody I’d been out there with
her... .”

The admission was a great concession, the detective chief
knew. And Bobby might be telling the truth. If he was
trying to cover up something—if, indeed, Freda McKechnie
had been the victim of murder—he already was getting
tangled up in his own falsehoods. Powell thought of the old
proverb: “Give a man enough rope and he’ll hang’ himself.”

But Bobby Edwards was not the usual criminal type. He
had spent two years in college, he was intelligent, seemingly
respectable, a match for his questioners. He could not be
broken down by third-degree methods; the best plan would
be to pretend sympathetic understanding, and to let him talk.
By his explanations, and by his own egotism, Powell felt, the
youth would trap himself if he were guilty. So he called in
Detective Dempsey and a couple of troopers and urged Bobby
to go ahead and tell his story.

“As a matter of fact,” the youth began, “I didn’t meet
Freda by accident. I had seen her during the day, and we
had talked about going to Harvey’s Lake for a swim. -When
I picked up her and Rosetta Culver, she had her bathing suit
with her, and mine was in the car. We dropped Rosetta in
Wilkes-Barre, then went straight to the lake.”

“Pretty fond of Freda, weren’t you,” demanded Captain
Clark, who had just entered, “even though she was. seven
years older than you?” es

“Oh, sure. We’d been going together for four or five years

20

He started to

ey

SORROWING FATHER

His face clearly reflecting his grief, George McKechnie
(center) confers with Assistant District Attorney Harold
J. Flannery (left) and District Attorney Thomas Lewis.

and had even talked of getting married. That’s why all this
was such a shock. I hardly knew what to do when I found
out that she was dead.”

“Now about this accident—’ Chief Powell prompted.

“Well, we got out to the lake and I parked beside the road
under, some trees, out of the rain. I got outside and ‘changed
into my bathing suit, while Freda was getting ready in the
car. We ran down the beach to the water, laughing and
clowning, and raced out to a float a couple of hundred feet
off shore. We lay on the float for a while, then went in again.
Freda stayed near the float while I swam a little ways out.

“We were feeling good, fooling around, and I thought I’d
scare her. So I took a deep breath and swam toward her
under water, intending to stay under a long time and then
come up right beside her. But I was going faster than I
thought when I came up, and my hands, stretched out in
front of me, hit her square in the face. Her head jerked
backward and she hit the sharp corner of the float.”

“And then she went under?” Captgin Clark asked, adopting
Powell’s sympathetic attitude.

“No, not then. She seemed a little dazed. I asked her if
she was hurt, and she said she was all right—just a little

\ dizzy. Then we went for a final swim before returning to

shore. I was ahead of her. After a while I turned around
to look for her, and couldn’t see her anywhere. I swam back
and hunted for her but couldn’t find her. Then I knew that
she must have drowned because of that crack she got on
her head.

“You know how you feel in a spot like that,” Bobby con-
cluded. “You can’t think straight. The only thing I had in
my mind then was getting away from the lake as fast as I
could. I hurried to shore, got dressed, and turned the car
around and drove away, leaving. her clothes beside the road.
. .. And that’s the whole story.”

HE YOUTH let out a big sigh of relief. Powell patted
him on the shoulder and said, “Well, Bobby, I’m glad
you've straightened this out. You would only have gotten in
trouble trying to hide the truth any longer. We'll check over

_ some of your story tonight and tomorrow, and meanwhile we
want you to stay here at the barracks. Just an official pro-

cedure, you know.”

Edwards nodded. ‘That’s all right,” he said, “except that
I'd like to get back to work as soon as possible.”

After one of the troopers had led the suspect off to a cell,

; “She was
a baby, |
want to

» you tur

» lake an

'H
- Above is an e
garet Crain, w
volved in P

Clark voiced the
~ “A good story
have gotten that
~ float. And she \
‘did get it.”

At that momen
the-autopsy.
“The cut on th


e McKechnie
orney Harold
iomas Lewis.

iat’s why all this
do when I found

\l prompted.
d beside the road
tside and changed
ting ready in the
er, laughing and
» of hundred feet
ien went in again.
little ways out.
ind I thought I’d
swam toward her
ng time and then
ing faster than I
stretched out in
Her head jerked
he float.”
rk asked, adopting

d. I asked her if
ight—just a little
‘fore returning to
> I turned around
ere. I swam back
Then I knew that
crack she got on

that,” Bobby con-
nly thing I had in
lake as fast as I
nd turned the car
‘s beside the road.

ief. Powell patted
Bobby, I’m. glad
mly have gotten in
We'll check over
and meanwhile we
ust an official pro-

- said, “except that
sible.”
ispect off to a cell,

ILL-STARRED ROMANCE

Above is an earlier snapshot of Bobby Edwards and Mar-
garet Crain, who, through no fault of her own, became in-
volved in Pennsylvania's “American tragedy” case.

the detectives looked at each other questioningly. Captain

- Clark voiced the sentiments of the entire group when he said:

“A good story—but not good enough. The girl couldn’t
have gotten that gash just by bumping her head against the
float. And she wouldn’t have done any swimming after she
did get it.”

At that. moment Dr. Wenner came in to give the results of
the autopsy. :

“The cut on the head caused death, all right,” he said. “It’s

A LOVE LAID BARE
In her’ desire to aid authorities, Miss Crain surrendered
150 letters she had received from Edwards, among them
the one above. He had written them even while courting
Freda McKechnie, his old sweetheart, in Edwardsville.

t
about three inches long and nearly three-quarters of an inch
wide, going way down to the skull. Death was almost in-
stantaneous. There was a lot of blood inside the cap. We
found something else, too—the girl had been pregnant for
four months !”

For a moment, there ‘was utter silence in the little room.

“There’s the murder motive!” Powell said at last. “Re-
member, the mother had forbidden Freda to go out with
Bobby any. more because he was running around with an-
other girl.” ;

Captain Clark nodded. “It looks like another ‘American
tragedy’,” he said soberly. He was referring to a case a
quarter of a century ago in which a girl was found mysteri-
ously slain in a New York lake just as Freda McKechnie
met her doom—a parallel to Theodore Dreiser's striking
novel. ;

Aided by Harold Flannery, assistant district attorney of
Luzerne County, the detectives made a hurried preliminary
check into Bobby Edwards’ complicated love affairs, Talking
to the suspect’s family and friends and to the grief-stricken
McKechnies, they were able to pile up more information in
support of the “American tragedy” theory.

Bobby and Freda’s association had started when they were
children playing inthe same block. Despite the fact that
Freda was considerably older, Bobby carried her books to
school and showed other manifestations of “puppy love.”
They played together in their adjoining back lots, and some-
times they went on picnics and outings together with their
families.

About the time Bobby was a junior in high school and
Freda was already working as a switchboard operator, the
romance progressed into the more serious stages. They were
seen at dances, parties, and at the movies. When Bobby was
permitted to drive a car they took long rides through. the
country along the Susquehanna, sometimes parking in fa-
vorite “lovers’ lanes.” The McKechnies and the Edwardses
almost took it for granted that some day they would be
married.

But then Bobby went away to school—to the State Normal
College at Mansfield—and Freda saw him only during his
vacations and on occasional weekends. In this instance, ac-
cording to Freda’s parents and her friend, Rosetta Culver,
absence did not seem to make the (Continued on page 58) ~

21


ee =

‘Murder on the
Bathing Party

(Continued from page 21)

heart grow fonder. For a while Bobby
dutifully answered Freda’s letters, reassur-
ing her of his love. But as months passed
the letters dropped off steadily until the
correspondence was completely at an end.

The cause for this was that Bobby had.

found a sweetheart at the normal school—
a music student, a class or two ahead of
him, by the name of Margaret Crain. Mar-
garet was younger than Freda. She had the
alluring background of the campus instead
of the drab surroundings of Edwardsville,
and she was well dressed and attractive.
Before long Bobby was courting her as
ardently as he had paid suit to Freda.

During Bobby’s sophomore year Mar-
garet was not at Mansfield, but was teach-
ing music at East Aurora, New York. This
did not disrupt the love affair, however, for
young Edwards frequently visited her, and
he wrote her passionate letters two or three
times a week. They had even arrived at
the point where they were talking about
marriage.

The correspondence and visits continued
after Bobby quit school in the spring of
1933, and the investigators learned that
Margaret had purchased a second-hand car
for her sweetheart so that he could come
to see her more frequently.

Yet it was not in Bobby Edwards to be
faithful. Following his return to Edwards-
ville and his securing a position in the
Kingston mine; he once more started going
out with Freda McKechnie. And ‘Freda,
who thought she had lost Bobby forever,
was overjoyed. Once she asked him about
Margaret Crain, of whom she had heard
disquieting rumors.

“Oh, she doesn’t mean anything to me,”
Bobby told ther, smiling reassuringly.
“Why, I knew dozens of girls in school,
and she was only one of them. But I never
forgot you, and I always counted on com-
ing back to you some day. No other girl
ever meant a thing to me.”

And so Freda discarded other suitors she
had acquired while Bobby was away and
again was “going steady” with him. More
than ever, she was sure that they would
be married. Firm in this belief, trusting
implicitly in her childhood sweetheart, she
did not object too strenuously when he
made demands on her as they sat in the
car Margaret Crain’s money had purchased.

“Why wait?” he urged. “We're going to
be married as soon as I get enough
money... .”

Bobby had a variety of explanations for
the weekend trips he took away from Ed-
wardsville in the second-hand machine. It
was Mrs. McKechnie who discovered the
truth—that Bobby was seeing Margaret
Crain regularly, that he was showing her
as much attention as before, even while he
made love to Freda. It was at this time
that Mrsr McKechnie told her daughter
not to see Bobby any more. But now
Freda had to see him—she knew they would
have to get married.

Ae SO handsome, dark-eyed Bobby
Edwards was faced with the identical
problem that confronted the hero in
Dreiser’s famous novel. Should he do the
honorable thing and marry Freda, to whom
he had made so many false promises—or
should he find some means of sidestepping
his obvious duty so that he could wed the
younger, more attractive, and more socially
distinguished Margaret Crain?

The -Luzerne County investigators and
the state police, after piecing together the

58

INSIDE DETECTIVE
story, believed they knew how he had at-
tempted to solve his problem.

To prove in court that Freda McKech-
nie’s death had been premeditated murder
would be difficult, however. A clear con-
fession—not a statement about a fictitious
accident—was almost a necessity. Conse-
quently, the questioning was resumed the
morning after Bobby was taken into

custody. ony ,
Still the officers maintained their pose of

. sympathy. Appearing to swallow the sus-

pect’s story hook, line and sinker, they told
him they wanted to take him to Harvey’s
Lake so that he could show exactly how
the mishap had occurred. Bobby, suspect-
ing, nothing—and, indeed, seeming to be-
lieve that Powell, Captain Clerk, and Flan-
nery were merely good friends intent on
helping him—was almost eager to go to
the scene. Only once on the ride to the
lake did a gleam of distrust flash in his
eyes. That was when he was asked whether
he knew Freda would have had a baby in
a short time.

“Well, I did know—that is, she dropped
some hints about her condition,” he stam-
mered. “But I didn’t think it was certain.
Besides, we were going to get married.”

News of the tragedy had spread rapidly,
.and a‘ crowd of two or three hundred curi-
ous had gathered on the shore of Harvey’s
Lake by the time the officials arrived with
their. prisoner. Avidly they studied Bobby
Edwards in an attempt to detect a trace
of guilt on his handsome features. But he
was poker-faced; if he showed any emo-
tion at all, it was simply grief. There were
omg in the crowd who sympathized with

im.

Accompanied by Flannery, Detective
Dempsey and troopers, Bobby got in a boat
to go to the scene of the tragedy for a re-
enactment. Silently he pointed to the float,
or diving platform, some distance from
shore, and the boat moved in that direction.

“Now,” said Assistant Prosecutor Flan-

HOOSEGOW HARRY

Hoosegow Harry is one of those fel-
lows who just cannot keep out of
trouble. Everything he does is wrong.
He is not very bright, but he likes his
little joke even if it means bread and
water for him.

Nobody kaows what he’s in the
calaboose for, but it looks like Harry
will be there for a long time. Watch
for further adventures of this jailbird
jokester in INSIDE DETECTIVE.

nery when they reached the float, “point
out as nearly as you can where Freda
struck her head when you came up from
your dive.”

Bobby deliberated a moment; asked the
man at the oars to row slowly along the
edge of the platform. At last he pointed
to a corner of the float. At that spot there
was no sharp edge, no sheathing of steel,
to account for the wound inflicted on the
girl; the corner had been rounded from ex-
posure to the elements, and the wood was
soft and water-soaked.

Flannery pointed out that Freda could
not possibly have been injured in the man-
ner Bobby described. Feverishly the sus-
pect looked at various other parts of the
platform, but nowhere could he find a sharp
edge or projection that might have caused
the wound.

“Let’s go back to shore,” he said de-
jectedly. “I want to buy some cigarettes.
I’ve—I’ve got to make a change or two
in my story, too... .”

He -seemed to want to talk.to Chief
Powell alone, so the other investigators left
them together.

“Here’s the straight dope,” Edwards be-
gan, looking almost beseechingly at the de-
tective chief. “You’ve got to ‘believe this.
I made up that story about the float so that
things wouldn’t look so bad for me. /

“As it really happened, we went to the
boat landing instead of straight into the
water. We were unchaining one of the
boats when Freda  slipped—maybe she
fainted—and fell backwards and hit her
head against the hook in the bow.”

Because he was stricken by panic, Bobby
went on, he rowed out into the lake and
tossed the body overboard, so that it would
appear like a simple drowning. Two or
three times he felt her heart and pulse and
failed to note any blood action.

Powell listened in silence. Then he led
Bobby back to the other detectives and they
all went down to a boat, where the suspect
illustrated the manner of Freda’s supposed
fall. .

“But if she had gone down like that,”
Flannery objected, “she would have gotten
a gash on the back of hc head. The wound
that caused death was right on top of her
head.”

Bobby, ringed by the officers whose eyes
had become like chilled steel, abruptly lost
all the composure he had displayed since
arriving at the lake.

“What’s the matter?” he screamed hys-
terically. “Can’t you fellows believe any-
thing I tell you?”

“Tt would be much easier if you stuck
to the facts,” Flannery said. “We’ve-tripped
you up twice now. Come on—what’s the
real story?”

“You made a lot of mistakes,” Trooper
Bader chimed: in, “and one of them was
thinking we would believe Freda had
drowned at the spot where the body was
found. It’s only four and a half feet deep
out there.”

“Isn’t it true you wanted to get rid of
Freda so you wouldn’t have to break up
your affair with Margaret Crain?” Powell
demanded. “You didn’t want to marry her,
and you had to get her out of the way
somehow—isn’t that right? So you lured
her out here to the lake on a rainy night
when there wouldn’t be any other bathers.
You got her out from shore, then hit her
over the head... .”

Young Bobby Edwards suddenly crum-

pled. The color drained out of his face. The ,

defiant boldness left his eyes, and his lips
writhed with the torment of an‘ animal
caught in a trap. Even so, there was a
certain measure of relief evident in his at-
titude—relief that finally he could drop ‘the
pretense and ease his heavily burdened
conscience. ,

“Yes, I killed her,” he said, speaking
arely above a whisper. “I—I hit her with

a blackjack. You
of the lake... .”

E WAS returi
racks and left
or three more da
dragged out piec
the main, the patt:
as the investigato
his motive was to
riage, his scheme
_ Bobby said he
jack in the neck
they went in the
had gone out to
came up to thei
proached Freda
blackjack high ov
it down with a
top of her skull.
scream, then sile:
neath the surface
ripples to mark
been standing. |
from him, hurri
dressed and retu
he had previously
The case agains
killer was comple
blackjack and by
tional details pert:
Freda and Marga
_ The enormity
timing practiced
laid bare when |
Judge Alfred Va
in October, 1934, ]
Lewis headed the
_ chief defense att
Guigan.
Between the so
the trial opening,
* cooperation of M
college sweethear
girl, who at first
Bobby Edwards cc
der, now gave th
150 of the flamin
her by Bobby at 1
courting Freda M:
Some of these
Many of them,
blushes to the fac
Bobby had adc
variously as “My
Damozel,” and “\
concluded with tl
“T must have y
will take you to |
me all night. —
Another letter,
“My everlasting
coming to you thi
truly and would d
are eternally one.
way and I know

—Buddy.”

Again, the arde
your — — — an
for me.”

No better prooi
duplicity could hay
contained in these
miners and merchz
grim as they hear:
District Attorney
for murder was 01
had been present:
blackboard. Too,
plete confession, y
painted a graphic
crime,

The Keystone s
for murderers su
Edwards. When
deliberating, the

“Guilty—in the

And the shatter:
could perpetrate
tragedy” was led «
he remained unti
-penalty for the cri


Then, designating men to Stand guard, he went toa tele
phone and called me at my home.

& Ww.
As chief detective of Washington County I had been, ing
out on another case during the night, but I lost No time ig / kn
Speeding to the Scene of this latest and far more horrible r all
crime, att
As I stood upon the slight knoll jg a
SLIM CLUE that waste lot, and looked down upon ee B
Teivint p26 ti the battered body of lovely Tham
seemed, police kept Young, it seemed to me that never Be ha)
this overcoat but. had I encountered a more BTuesome Be Mi)
ton, picked up at Spectacle. It was clear that Motives y rin}
the murder scene, of the most brutish sort had led tp — tot
until they cornered the bloody work, and like every Be H
the killer who had other officer standing there Isilenty Be yom
lost it. pledged myself to Spare no efforts He on t
to track: the killer down. 4 A
After Photographing the area carefully, I went over Fe =s stan
the plot of barren earth and scrub brush literally on - she
ands and knees to note every evidence of what had # wal)
occurred. then
In one spot I came upon the scattered amber beads Blai
that had undoubtedly been around the neck of the girl
i when brute fingers stifled her cries. In another I found —
?

T found an old boiler on which the lifeblood of the
young victim had Spurted as she was driven to the ground
by blows from the brick in the killer’s hand

But more important than any of these was one other Me. |
discovery, I found a coat button,

SECOND tionally large, but not small. It wes Me
VICTIM? the type of button used on men’;
Elizabeth Louden, a °V€Fcoats. The broken brown threads ie I

servant girl living which clung in the holes had not
in a nearby town, Yet been injured by the weather,
meta fate similar in Which showed that it had lain on the
horror to Thelma ground for only a short time, P
Young’s. Was the Had it been torn off in the Struggle? Be T
killer the same? I had no way of knowing then, but i

bring Thelma’s attacker. to justice. On the other hand it for hon

might mean nothing. But J was glad to notice, as | i i
Placed the button in my pocket, that no one had seen me oo m : ‘
Pick it up. ; ; beim on o
Shortly afterwards, Constable Clark Miller, chief Peace “Hell,
officer of North Franklin Township, and a detachment of waved }
Pennsylvania State Police joined us and gain every inch That :
of the ground was searched carefully, disappe:
But in the end we had nothing very tangible with which Oregon
to work. There Was one imprint of a huge fist in a Patch B® =Sseentered:
of soft earth, and a plaster mold was This <
GRIM FIND made of this. But it was an imper- >. grade w:
Floating nude at fect print, not sharp, and gave little Ie ~ right. Bi
the edge of a creck, Promise of aid: - ab andon
Elizabeth Louden’s After the body had been taken to Me rugged g
body is shown as it a mortuary for an autopsy, and we up the hi
discovered a , @ Pp the
ier after her had concluded our search of the i I was :
disappearance, The \ SCene, we set out to check all move. J person w
man kneeling is ments of the girl from the time she Be some pei
’ John Herleman, her left home the night before. the mov}
fiancé, Thelma was employed during the S time she -


to

3

*
i

football and basketball seasons by her aunt, Mrs. Beulah
Wallace, caretaker of the athletic training house at Wash-
mgton and Jefferson College, in Washington. She was
mown by all the college athletes, and was well liked by
il of them. A comely girl, her well-developed body had
utracted admiring masculine eyes wherever she went.

He TRAIL on the night before was not hard to follow.

She had left home around seven o’clock, and about

lf an hour later she had met her sister, Mary Young
Miller, and her husband, Henry Miller, near the roller
tink on East Beau Street. She needed two cents, she said,
have enough money to go to the movies,

Her sister gave her the two cents and a back copy of a
tmance magazine she had wanted to read, and she went

@ ™ to the theater. f

About 9:45 her brother, Ray, saw her near a hot dog
sand just off Main Street on West Chestnut. He noticed
the had the magazine in her hand. Next she was seen

“walking down West Chestnut Street—it was about ten

then—by Glenn Stauffer. And a few minutes later Floyd
Blainey saw her on Rouple Avenue, apparently headed

“HER SLENDER BODY
‘WAS CRUELLY BARED-
FROM CRUSHED HEAD
10 SHOELESS FEET”

=

for home.

John Greco, watchman for the Pennsylvania Rail-
mad, seemed to be the last person to see her alive. She
vas at the West Wheeling Street crossing then, walking
bward Oregon Avenue,

“Hello,” she called cheerily to the watchman, and
waved her hand. He returned the greeting, :

That “Hello” was apparently Thelma’s last word. She
appeared from sight in the fog as she turned left on
Oregon Avenue, and a few seconds later she must have
@tered the fatal lane leading up the hill toward her home.

This alley had once been Baltimore Avenue, but the
pude was steep and the street had been curved off to the
tight. But the old dead-end was never filled, nor was it
dandoned, and rains over the years had cut it into a
naged gully. It was used by a majority of those who lived
the hill because it saved about two blocks of walking.

Iwas sure from the first that the killer must: be some
psn who knew about this Baltimore Avenue short-cut;
mme person perhaps, who knew that Thelma went to
te movies frequently and who could approximate the
fe she would arrive at that Spot on her way home, How

a

79

long he had waited for her was problematical. Certainly
he could not have watched her leaving the theatre and
beaten her to the alley, without having been seen.

It seemed rather that the killer must have been there

before the girl came along—a cold-blooded brute lurk-
ing in the fog, ready to pounce upon her,
. As we reconstructed the crime, the loiterer leaped from
behind the bushes and grasped her by the throat. At the
same time he must have swung the brick. But the girl,
even in the iron grip of the killer, and despite the bone-
crushing blow, apparently fought with all her young
strength, biting, kicking, and scratching; for the half-
soft earth showed unmistakable signs of a desperate
battle. ° .

The girl’s cries—if there were any—must have beén
drowned by radios in homes, or by the noise of locomo-
tives in the nearby railroad yards.

Unhampered, the assailant must have quickly over-
powered his victim and then dragged her through the
briars to the spot where the body was found. There, away
from the path, he had apparently finished his fiendish
job. Sex-mad, obviously, he had ripped the girl’s remain-
ing clothing from her, and while she lay on the ground
unconscious, he had satisfied his beastly lust.

The autopsy’ proved beyond any doubt that the girl
had been ravished. j

Thelma Young had a spotless reputation, and we aban-
doned almost at the start the theory that she might have
been the victim of some local youth whose advances she
had perhaps spurned. This murder, as I saw it, was not
the work of a boy, but the deed of .a powerful man
spurred by degénerate instincts. And that was the kind of
aman I sought from the beginning.

There was a Possibility, because of the proximity of
the Pennsylvania and Baltimore & Ohio railroads, that
Thelma had been attacked by a hobo. But I felt certain
that the killer would be found to be someone who had
previously known her, and who was impelled to slay lest
he be later identified by his victim.

Accordingly, when on the day following the murder
I was told.that a Negro who lived only a few blocks from
the scene of the crime, was apparently fearful of some-
thing and had gone into hiding, I hurried to his home.

I found a large young Negro shaking in terror beneath
a bed. He refused to come out at my command, so I took
him by the feet and hauled him out. Imagine my surprise
when, as his head appeared from beneath the bed, he
shouted: | “

“I didn’t do it, boss! But I know who did!”

Could it be that in a few hours’ time this vicious slaying
was to be cleared up and the killer’s identity revealed?

But this hope was short-lived. There had been a rob-
bery in town the night before and this boy, while not in
on it, knew who was. When I seized him in his home, he
became hysterical in the belief that he was being sought
for the robbery!.

Bf hipexe LEAD proved false, the hunt was on again, and
nobody was to be spared. I determined to question
every person who was in the vicinity that night, regard-
less of rank, reputation or race. And those who had oc-
casion to use the same path that Thelma Young had taken
were in for a double questioning.
But when the body of the victim had been laid in its
grave two days later, the killer was still at large. There
wasn’t a thing that pointed to a definite suspect.

Washington seethed with fury. Clyde C. Young, brother —

of the murder victim, was an ex-soldier, member of Com-
pany H, 110th Infantry, and his friends immediately
launched a determined campaign to bring the slayer to
justice.

“Men,” Captain Raymond E. Goodridge, the Command-

Se ee Pe

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Ge a Nw RE Bs i Saat Sak

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80. FRONT PAGE DETECTIVE

ue, it is your duty.as soldiers and citi-
zens to report it to the authorities at once!”

This drive was -to have a far-reaching effect, because
everywhere the soldiers went their ears were cocked for
any slip of the tongue that might put us on the trail of
our man.

In fact, that was how I learned that on the murder night
two men had been seen standing on the very corner where

faction.

More than two weeks passed. By the middle of J anuary,
we were as far from a solution of the mystery as we had
been ten minutes after the body was found.

Then came a grim development.

On January 17, a young business man named Israel
Slotsky was slain a few minutes after he left the home of
his fiancée. A man apparently of brute strength, wield-

- If so, where would he strike next?
Fear gripped the entire county. An iron bar had killed
Slotsky—a bar so heavy only a powerful man could have
Swung it. Such a man had also killed Thelma Young, This

CLUES WHICH WON

Left: Lieut. H. c. Joliffe, County
Detective McBride and Chief
County Detective Powell (left to
right) examine the few. objects
gleaned from the murder spot—
objects which aided in the final

PERSISTENT SLEUTH

Former Chief County Detective
Dinsmore. (below), co-author of
this story, got the killer's confes.
sion after eight disappointing

years of failure.

monster killer ha
Warren S. Burchinall had just taken office as distri¢

Slater came to Washington and we began working to.

gether. He was a firm and consistent believer in advertis. F
ing. A stranger in Washington, he actually inserted ads in &

to admit, finally, that we were baffled.
“You’ve got to get a break, Bill,” Slater told me the day
he left. “These cases leave nothing to work on. Go after

He was right. There didn’t seem anything in the work
now that would put us on the trail of Thelma Young’
killer, or the thug who murdered Slotsky, except som
chance clue,

But three weeks after Slater left, I got a new lead in
the Slotsky case, A woman had gone to a magistrate com.

solution. F


County
i Chief
(left to
objects
* spot—
he final

TH

stective
thor of
confes-
ointing

SNARED AT LAST

Questioned as a suspect, this

man wilted and confessed

when he saw the telltale coat

button, and paid for his

crime in Pennsyivania’s elec-
tric chair.

plaining of her husband,, who she said had been robbing
houses. Constable Miller called me, then took the woman’s
husband in for questioning. He was one Ray Wormsley.
Ichecked on the night of the Slotsky murder and found
that Slotsky had been in a public place before going to
see his girl friend, and had displayed a fat roll of bills.
Ironically, we afterwards learned he had rolled a few bills
around some pieces of paper to play a trick on his friends.
But Ray Wormsley had been there at the time!
I went after Wormsley.
“Where were you the night of January 17, Ray?” 1b

sly! @ asked. 3
s district. | He told me every place he had been that day and night,
ninistra- hours before and long after the killing. The story was
asty con- ~ too good—or his memory was phenomenal. I asked him
ati man- where he was the day before that, and the day after. He
Mellett, didn’t know. :
“You're trying to tie me up with that Slotsky murder,”
‘king to- he said. “Well, don’t bother. I didn’t do it.”
idvertis- ‘Tm not trying to tie you up with it,” I shot back. “I’ve
edadsin  @ got you tied up with it. You killed Slotsky and robbed
inviting ~ him!”
> Canton “Why, you’re crazy!” he snorted.
ided his | I was so sure of myself that I decided to take a wild
shot. é
.wehad | “Two people saw you that night, Ray,” I lied.
His face turned pale, his eyes suddenly apprehensive.
‘theday “And I'll prove it to you,” I went on, “by telling you
Go after .) just what happened.”
ur only | Then I related my own reconstructed version of the
a Slotsky killing—how Wormsley lay in wait for his victim,
ie world ~ watching through a crack in a high board fence until he
Young's — saw him approach, brought the iron bar down on his head,
pt some and then fled with his loot.
4 Wormsley’s eyes were wide with fear when I finished.
lead in | The ruse proved more successful than I had hoped.
te come a

“I was sure no one saw me!” he stammered.

FRONT PAGE DETECTIVE

81
This man went to the chair eventually, but we were
utterly unable to connect him with the killing of Thelma
Young. i
Up in the vault at the courthouse still lay the brick that
had struck Thelma down, and her torn clothing. Attached
. toa label and wrapped in the center of the clothing, was
my find—the coat button. Even then, no one except the
district attorney and my immediate associates knew that
it was there. Somehow I had a strange confidence in that
clue, if clue it was, and every day I looked at coat buttons
as I passed men in the streets, but the buttons I wanted to
see never showed up.

On April 13, 1928, three and a half months after
Thelma’s death and just after the Slotsky case had been
settled, came what looked like,the first real development.

” We were informed that Clarence Klingensmith, a pris-
oner in the Allegheny County workhouse, knew the solu-
tion of the murder.

We took Klingensmith from the workhouse on April 24
and questioned him in Washington. He implicated a man
then in Durham, North Carolina. So Frank Krepps my

~ yee

=e, assistant went to Durham for the suspect.

Confronted with what Klingensmith had told us, this
man instantly denounced the convict as a liar, waived
extradition and came back to face his accuser. .

Then Klingensmith grinned and admitted he was lying.

He said he just “wanted publicity”!

je, cotmiontd A YEAR dragged by after that, and then

came another report with promise. On March 13,
1929, the identification officer at the Mansfield Reforma-
tory in Ohio wrote that one Paul Girard, alias Paul Hobbs,
had confessed that he had killed Thelma Young.

We brought him to Washington and he detailed the
crime and actually signed a confession.

But he, too, was playing a game. The details he gave
didn’t fit, though they did agree with the newspaper ac-
counts. I was convinced that here was another man who
had fabricated a story from reading the papers, and upon
investigation we found he had been an inmate of the
Pittsburgh City Home at Mayview the night Thelma
Young was murdered.

We were so puzzled by Girard’s insistence that he was
guilty that we had a specialist examine him. .

The specialist reported the man was of a type given
to reading and re-reading something until he had placed
himself in the role of the “bad man” of the story. But
we couldn’t shake the fellow’s belief that -he ‘was the
killer. When I put him on a train to go home to his mother
—his sentence at the reformatory being completed when
we got him—he couldn’t understand it..

“I don’t see why you're letting me go, Mr. Dinsmore,”
he said, “when I’m the murderer of that girl.”

More than six years went by after that, and we ran
down everything that appeared to be a clue, without suc-
cess. It appeared that the killer of Thelma Young would
escape justice entirely. Perhaps he was even dead now,
or thousands of miles away. Yet somehow I had a feeling
that we still had a chance,

December, 1935, drew toward its close. I was retiring
the first of the year, as a new district attorney, James C.
Bane, took office. I was greatly disappointed that the
Young murder was still unsolved. Eight years had gone
by since the murder, and I had never ceased to work on it.
The thing that seemed strange to me was that the killer,
being the type he apparently was, had made no attempt
to molest other girls. But in all those eight years we had
received no report of that kind.

Then, just a few days before my term ended, came re-
ports from three neighborhood girls that a man had been
seen lurking at night at the spot where Thelma Young
had died. (Continued on page 120 )


maga-

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cating

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e torn

hands,
ttered
tective

vediate

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arages,
picket

ered a

(Center) Anthony

Grecco, last person to
see Thelma alive,
waved a greeting to
her as she crossed the
railroad tracks at this
point. (Right) Views
of the little-used
short-cut where a
killer lay in wait, and
Thelma Young’s home

Sea

a

re
ay
‘

PENNSYLVANIA’S

RAVISHER

DREAMER ENIGMA

He pointed out unmistakable bloodstains, head-high, on
the weather-beaten pole. Additional evidence pointed to the
manner in which the ghastly crime had been enacted, signs
of a struggle being everywhere in evidence. Mud on the sides
of the steep bank bordering the alley clearly showed where
«man’s feet had slipped in the wet clay. Leading west from
the body were a man’s footprints, indicating the direction
ol the slayer’s flight.

Chief Dinsmore reconstructed the scene in this fashion:

“The murderer crouched behind the telephone pole and
leaped at his victim when she arrived within arm’s reach.
Quickly he stunned her by battering her head against the
pole, then dragged her up the slippery bank where the
ussault took place.”

However, that the slayer had not been entirely successful
in rendering his vietim unconscious before her ravishment
was indicated by signs of another terrific scuffle at the top
of the bank.

Here were found a bloodstained brick, the weapon used
to inflict the terrible wounds upon the girl’s head; her missing
shoe; a string of broken beads, a Macfadden’s True Story
magazine and a brown overcoat. button. Could any of these
objects be a elue to the phantom killer?

Chief Dinsmore found the button buried in the clay beside
the body. Carefully he brushed off the mud, wrapped it in
tis handkerchief and deposited it in his pocket.

“I've a hunch this is going to be mighty important
evidence,” he said tersely. “Evidently it was torn from the
killer's coat during the struggle.”

The grim truth of Dinsmore’s prophecy was to be estab-

lished in a dramatic and quite unexpected fashion, years later.

Following the arrival of District Attorney Burchinal and
the Coroner, the body was removed. But not before it was
positively identified by slender, fifteen-year-old Ray Young
of 63 Altamont Avenue.

Sobbing convulsively, the boy cried:

““Tt’s my sister, Thelma!”

An immediate autopsy by Dr. G. W. Ramsey revealed that
the pretty victim had died from shock, loss of blood and a
fractured skull. ;

“From the condition of the body I would say Miss Young
died sometime between 10:00 and 10:30 o’clock last night,”
Dr. Ramsey stated.

During the remainder of Friday and all day Saturday Chief
Dinsmore, Chief Verderber and State Police concentrated
their efforts toward apprehending all known perverts and
degenerates and in reconstructing Miss Young’s activities
during the hours preceding her death.

Prostrated with grief, the slain girl’s parents, Mr. and
Mrs. George Young, were unable to shed any light on the
mystery.

A quiet-mannered man employed in a local glass plant, Mr.
Young seemed stunned by the realization that his only un-
married daughter was the victim of a sex-fiend.

“Did Thelma keep company with a steady boy-friend?”
Dinsmore inquired gently. ‘

The father shook his head. “Not that I know of,” he
responded. “She was interested mostly in girls’ activities—
basket-ball, tennis and outdoor sports of that nature. Then
she liked to go to the movies.”

>R WASHINGTON COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA

TO

VIRGIL E. LAMARRE

31


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Trapping Pennsylvania's Roundhouse Ravisher 33

This time the victim was Israel Stosky, a twenty-seven-
year-old timekeeper for the Hazel-Atlas Glass Company.

The body of the young man was found lying in a pool of
hlood within a stone’s throw of his fiancée’s home. The pretty
irl to whom Slosky was engaged lived with her uncle and
aunt on Hawkins Street.

Beside the young timekeeper’s body we found a heavy steel
bar, one and one-half feet long and one inch square. It was
covered with matted hair and dried blood.

Investigating this second murder, Chief Dinsmore and I
were at first inclined to believe the slayer of Slosky was also
the slayer of Thelma Young—head-high bloodstains found on
« picket fence indicated the same diabolical technique, of
first stunning his victim before administering the coup-de-
grice, had been used upon Slosky.

Further investigation revealed that the uncle and aunt of
Slosky’s fiancée were unusually strict with their pretty niece.
For one thing they insisted that all shades be up in the room
und all the lights be turned on when the young timekeeper
paid court to the girl of his heart. This led us to suspect the
murderer spied upon the young couple, then waylaid Slosky
outside his fianeée’s house.

Te girl stated that Izzy, as he was known to his intimates,
lived alone and that he often carried large sums of money.
When found, however, his pockets were empty.

Weeks passed and we got no farther with this second mur-
der than with the first. In the meantime, public opinion sky-
rocketed to new heights of indignation.

At length, early in February, Chief Dinsmore and District
Attorney Burchinal decided to enlist the aid of Ora Slater,
well-known Cincinnati private detective. Promptly accepting
the invitation, Slater shortly arrived in Washington.

Meanwhile a series of burglaries, averaging about two per
day, plagued us still further. Harassed on all sides, we
worked under a terrific strain.

As usual, collections of nondescript suspects were hauled
into custody daily, questioned, released. To enumerate the
names of even a third of them would take several pages. Yet
we made no headway.

After a month on the two baffling cases, Slater retired with
this comment:

“I gave everything I had and was unable to get anywhere.
My frank opinion is that everything depends upon a break.”

Several days after Slater’s departure a break did occur. A
young negro woman appeared at Dinsmore’s office and told
lum her husband, with whom she recently had quarreled,
knew something about the recent series of robberies and
stickups.

Although familiar with the desire of many irate wives to
ensnare their husbands in the toils of the law, Dinsmore im-
mediately checked up on the woman’s husband, a strapping
youth of twenty, Wray Wormsley.

For three days Dinsmore questioned Wormsley, an intelli-
yent negro, regarding the recent series df robberies. Finally,
with a heave of his huge shoulders, Wormsley exclaimed:

“Oh, what’s the use! Ill confess.”

And confess he did—to seventeen robberies and stickups!

Next, Dinsmore set to work grilling the negro concerning
the lzzy Slosky slaying. For several more days the negro
held out stubbornly. But finally, hopelessly tangled in con-
theting tales, he confessed he had murdered the young time-
keeper, ‘

“IT saw him flash a large roll of bills in front of his girl,”
Wormsley said. “I spied on them in the living-room of her
home.”

Hopeful now that the murder of Thelma Young might also
tw cleaned up, Dinsmore intensified his efforts in an attempt
to link the young negro with that slaying.

To lend strength to Dinsmore’s hope was the darky’s ready
alibi for his activities the night of December 29th, yet his
inability to give a satisfactory account of his actions the
mght preceding and following that date.

“It looks to me as if you deliberately fabricated an alibi for
that night,’ Dinsmore accused.

To this the negro shrugged his broad shoulders and smiled.

“Well,” he said softly, “why shouldn’t I? You’re going to
hang me once for one murder and maybe if I confessed to
nother you might hang me twice.”

Several months later, questioned again by Dinsmore a
few minutes before he walked the last. mile at Rockview

Penitentiary, Wormsley clung to his original statement of in-
nocence,

“Believe me, Mr. Dinsmore,” he said earnestly, “I didn’t
kill Thelma Young.” Whereupon the young ‘negro shook
hands with the officer, walked unassisted into the execution
chamber, seated himself in the electric chair without a single
indication of nervousness and a few moments later was pro-
nounced dead.

Some men die like that.

On April 24th a flurry of excitement was caused by the
confession of a pasty-faced, twenty-four-year-old suspect,
Clarence Klingensmith, that he murdered Thelma Young.

He involved as his co-murderer a well-known baseball um-
pire—a man prominent in Pennsylvania baseball circles
through his activities in the Twilight League, engaged at the
time of Klingensmith’s confession in the Palmetto League in
North Carolina.

As a result of the young suspect’s confession the baseball
umpire was returned to Washington from Durham, North
Carolina, where he speedily proved not only his innocence
but his ignorance of his accuser’s identity.

Incidentally, Klingensmith’s confession was found to be a
phony, it being proven beyond a doubt that he was an in-
mate of the Allegheny Workhouse, about forty-two miles
from Washington, when the murder occurred!

He ultimately confessed his motive was newspaper notoriety
and possibility of obtaining some of the reward. The possi-
bility he might have gone to the electric chair as a result of
his “confession” had not occurred to him, he said.

Years passed and the murder of Thelma Young was almost
forgotten, that is, by all but those of us who participated in
the original investigation.

The next development in this bizarre case came March
13th, 1929, in the form of a communication from E. C. Fuller,
Identification Officer at the Ohio State Reformatory, Mans-
field, Ohio.

An inmate, Paul Girard, alias Paul Hobbs, serving time for
larceny, had confessed the murder of Thelma Young. :

We lost no time in extraditing the young prisoner. And
our hopes lifted immediately following his arrival when he
directed us to the murder scene and re-enacted the entire
crime. Almost too readily he described every act in the mur-
der drama; dwelling at length upon the salacious details of
the criminal assault that preceded the actual slaying. «

Soon the obviously strange behavior of the young prisoner
aroused our suspicions, whereupon (Continued on page 91)

VICTIM—Smiling, seventeen-year-old Thelma
Young had no fears as she walked home after
seeing a movie on that fatal night when Death
stalked the streets and alleys of Washington

&
.


a ae

KILLER—For nine years this phantom slayer
dodged the consequences of his horrible deeds.
But, at last, the law, in the hands of relentless
manhunters, caught up and justice triumphed

The parents were agreed that Thelma had left home, which
is some distance from the heart of the city, Thursday evening
at seven o'clock for downtown Washington.

Asked why they had not turned in an alarm when Thelma
failed to return, the parents stated they believed she had
remained in town with a chum.

However, the dead girl’s elder sister, Mrs. Mary Miller
and her husband, Henry, lifted some of the mystery surround-
ing the slain girl’s activities the preceding evening.

“My husband and I met Thelma in front of the skating
rink on East Beau Street last. evening,” Mrs. Miller said
brokenly.

“What time was it?” Dinsmore asked.

“Around 7:30.”

“Was she alone?”

“Yes.”

“And did she say what she intended doing?”

“GHE said she wanted to go to the Regent Theater. So we
gave her a True Story magazine and some money to buy

‘a theater ticket. That was the last we saw of her.”

Had the girl attended the movies or had she met a young
suitor and gone out with him ’ ;

That was the question uppermost in Dinsmore’s mind as
he questioned the girl in the ticket office at the Regent
Theater.

There, however, he was informed that Thelma had indeed
attended the theater the previous evening, the youthful ticket-
seller saying:

“She got here around 7:30 or 7:45. I know it was she
because I’ve known her all my life.”

The dead girl’s own brother, Ray, supplied the next link
in the chain of events preceding the tragedy. :

“T saw Thelma about 9:45 last night near the hot-dog
stand on West Chestnut just off Main Street,” the boy said.

“Did you talk to her?”

The boy’s answer was wistful. “No, I guess she didn’t see
me,” he said.

“Which direction was.she going?”

“Toward home.”

“And was she alone?”

“Ves,”

So far, Dinsmore reasoned, everything checked. He had

accounted for Thelma’s activities up until a half or three-
quarters of an hour before the time Ramsey asserted she was
ravished and slain.

Dinsmore’s next move was to retrace the probable route
taken by the girl on her way home. He interviewed shop-
keepers, gasoline station attendants and residents along this
route. And his efforts proved worth-while.

A young man, Glen Stauffer, lounging in front of a pool-
room on West Chestnut Street, half-way between Main and
Franklin Streets, said:

“Sure I saw Thelma last night. She passed here between
9:30 and 10:00 o'clock.” Pressed for more details Stauffer
placed the time at 9:50 p. nm.

Another citizen, Floyd Blaney, saw Thelma Young still
closer to her home—on Ruple Avenue between West Beau
and West Wheeling Streets, going toward Wheeling, about
9:55.

“She had a magazine under her arm,” Blaney said.

The last person to see Thelma Young proved to be a rail-
road watchman, Anthony Grecco, stationed at the West
Maiden Street crossing. He said:

“She passed here about 10:00 o’clock. She was on the
other side of the street, but I hollered ‘hello’ and she waved
back at me.”

“Was she alone?”

“Ves.”

“Did you see her turn at the corner?”

“Yes. After she crossed the tracks I saw her turn left at
Or-oon Street.”

’ spot where the railroad watchman so Thelma turn

into Oregon Street is only a half-block fron spot where
her body was found.
From the foregoing the reader will reac » discern that

any possibility Thelma Young may have been ravished, then
slain by a suitor or intimate was exceedingly remote, Dins-
more’s investigation having produced eye-witnesses positively
identifying the girl’s actions throughout the evening until
a few minutes before the fatal attack. And remember,
when last seén she was alone, a half-block from the spot
where her body was found and only three blocks from
home.

Two days after the discovery of Thelma Young’s body, I
was sworn into office as Constable of Franklin Township,
Washington County. An interested spectator up to this point,
I now joined the investigation in my official capacity.

From the very outset I was fascinated by the brown over-
coat button, found by Chief Dinsmore near the scene of the
crime. Also by the tell-tale bloodstains, head-high, on the
telephone pole near where the body lay.

“If only we could find the overcoat this button was torn
from,” I said to a detective, fingering the brown, shiny
button speculatively.

“Not much of a chance there,” the officer said gloomily,
“there’s nothing out of the ordinary about it. We might
find several hundred coats like it right here in Washington.”

Reluctantly conceding the truth of: the officer’s statement,
nevertheless I clung to a vague hope the button would some-
how prove an important clue.

Discussing the bloodstains on the telephone pole with Chief
Dinsmore, I advanced my theory:

“This looks to me as if we’re dealing with a dyed-in-the-
wool sex degenerate; one who not only is familiar with the
Kalorama neighborhood but uses a distinct method of his own
in attacking women.”

Dinsmore nodded slowly, then said: “No doubt he grabbed

‘her with one hand, held the other over her mouth to stifle

any screams, then stunned her momentarily by banging her
head against the pole.” ‘

A wave of horror caused me to shiver as I considered the
cold-blooded cunning of the phantom slayer.

Despite our every effort during the days that followed, our
investigation bogged down in the mire of dismal failure.

Through the local and state press the public clamored for
action. A total of $2,500 reward was offered for information
leading to the arrest and conviction of the predatory fiend
who slew Thelma Young.

As a result, all of us were on edge, the pressure of public
opinion taking its inevitable toll.

Then, on January 17th, our troubles increased when a
second murder occurred under highly mysterious circum-
stances.

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Trapping
Pennsylvania’s
Roundhouse Ravisher

(Continued from page 33)

we had him examined by a psychiatrist.

The latter assured us that Girard, alias
Hobbs, was obviously a moron; that he
had read everything he could find about
the crime, thereby familiarizing himself
with all details.

“Although I am confident this man
is innocent,” stated the psychiatrist,
“through self-suggestion he has actually
convinced himself he performed the
crime,”

Several days later, thoroughly convinced
that Hobbs was in no way involved, Chief
Dinsmore accompanied the young moron
and his guard to the train.

Hobbs’ last words to Chief Dinsmore,
whose patience had already been stretched
to the breaking point, ‘are worthy of
repetition:

“Mr. Dinsmore,” he said seriously, “why
are you sending me away when I killed
Thelma Young?”

gr Chief’s reply is not for publica-
tion.

More years passed. It was .early Janu-
ary, 1936. Thelma Young had been in her
grave nine years and I had served as Con-
stable an equal length of time.

More important than my period of
service was ‘he scope of my acquaintance

among t zens of t} lorama dis-
trict, for v I kney cally every
man, wo. aad child township.

Thus, early in Janua ral persons
informed me_ that Vague but sinister
rumors were moving through the town-
ship—that wives, sisters and daughters of
Kalorama men were desperately afraid to
walk the streets after dark. Fear of
something _ horrible, something sinister
seemed to have engulfed every woman in
the district.

These rumors were transform /upt-
ly into stark reality when my quiet
efforts uncovered startling evi that
a number of women and girls dents

of the same neighborhood as Lhelma
Young, had been waylaid and assaulted
by a phantom — rapist, Invariably, I
learned, this monster leaped at his un-
suspecting prey from the sanctuary of a
darkened alley, doorway or shrub.

And without exception all had been
warned, under pain of instant death, never
to breathe a word of their ravishment,

To me if scemed unbelievable that any

womal ' could be so terrified that
she \ al the identity of her as-
saila: \d good reason to suspect
that Was known to at least
a fe tims. Yet that was the
situs

Tk iad_ learned enough. And,
arm > significant information I

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the double and hot-footed to a tele-
phone where he called Chief McGin-
ley, crackled out his information,
heard the Chief reply, “Perfect. Be-
cause Herleman’s out of it. It’s not
blood on his clothes and his teeth don’t
fit. Ill get hold of Chief Powell at
Washington. You can look up the
waitress.”

That’s how they worked it. Dreamer
was arrested by Constable Clark Mil-
ler, State Trooper John E. Gettier and
Detective Chief Powell in Washington
and hustled to Headquarters. There
he denied he had murdered Betty Lou-
den, furnished an alibi for the time of
her death.

Maybe it was true. Detective Ritz
went to work on it.

But the alibi wasn’t true. It didn’t
stand up. The people with whom
Dreamer had been staying, according
to his story, swore they hadn’t seen
him the night Elizabeth Louden was
murdered.

And something more—those people
remembered, too, that Dreamer had
been strangely agitated the next morn-
ing when he showed up. As agitated
as he had been eight years before, just

bringing it to closer scrutiny. Then
he said, without glancing up, “You
find something else in alley, no?”

For a moment the room was deathly
still. Patiently the Chinaman waited,
and Himes knew it would be useless
to lie to him.

Shirran didn’t. Instead he evaded
the question and asked, “What is it,
Ming?”

“Is dlagon,” Ming said. “Velly
pretty.” He turned it around in his
hands, looking at it, completely at ease,
his face unchanged. :

“What does it mean?” Shirran asked.

“In China,” Ming said, his voice
sing-song, “jade is velly much money.
Is honored possession.”

“What about the dragon?”

“Dilagon .velly nasty,” said Ming
Chin. “In China dlagon bling death.”
He paused. “But in America jade
dlagon is toy. Only toy.” |

Again the room was silent.

“Ts that all you can tell us, Ming?”
Shirran asked.

Ming Chin spread his hands. “Ming
Chin, him velly ignorant: man. Is all

after Thelma Young was murdered.
And on this other date, and that one,
and that one—dates, Ritz realized
grimly, that corresponded with the at-
tacks of the Vampire.

Big, shambling, loose - mouthed
Dreamer sat in Chief Powell’s office
and denied everything.

Detective Ritz and Washington
County detectives, and State Troopers
kept on with their inexorable check-
ing.

They found the woman who did
Dreamer’s washing. She remembered
the night Thelma Young was killed.
She remembered doing up Dreamer’s
clothes and scrubbing bloodstains and
mud out of them.

They found acquaintances of Dream-
er who recalled how Dreamer con-
stantly brought up the Thelma Young
case, harped on it, almost gloated over
it.

They learned that Dreamer had been
working nights in a factory near the
field where Thelma Young was slain,
that Dreamer worked alone and might
have sneaked out, could have sneaked
out.

So it was Dreamer. Detective Ritz

said, “Well, he didn’t tell us much.”

“Not in words,” said Shirran.

“What do you make out of it?”
Himes asked.

“A tong war,” said Shirran. “That’s
about the only thing that would scare
Ming Chin into silence.”

Himes said, “Well, cripes, we can’t
let that get started. What’re we going

to do?”

And what were they going to do?
How could they prevent the tong
war that threatened—tong war with
hatchetmen on the rampage, with doz-
ens of deaths, with every large city
in the country aroused? Tong war,
when tong members settle. their own
grievances in their-own way, resenting
and obstructing any interference.

“There’s just one thing,” Shirran
said. “We’ve got to find the murderer
before the: tongs do. If we put him
away then they’ won’t have to take
their own vengeance.”

He lapsed into silence. After a few
blocks he said, “Maybe Harry John-
son’s got something for us—the identity
of the victim, anyway.”

plopped down in a chair in Chief
Powell’s office and sighed. The case
was as good as solved. He thought of
Herleman and the little pop-eyed man
and Matowski and Crawford and all
the other futile angles in this case,
all the hours he had spent investigating
it. And now the killer was caught.

Dreamer cracked that afternoon.
Chief Powell shoved a button at him,
a button found beside the dead body of
Thelma Young eight years before, a
distinctive button with an odd shape.

“Ever see this before?” Chief Pow-
ell asked.

Dreamer, his eyes blinking, his voice
calm, replied, “Sure. It’s off an old
raincoat I used to own.”

“We found it beside the body of
Thelma Young,” said Chief Powell.

And Dreamer nodded. “Yeah, I guess
I lost it then,” he said. “I remember
about it now. I guess you got me.”

That was enough for Powell. That
and identifications by several of the
women who had been attacked. Mc-
Ginley and Ritz still had a case to
solve. They were morally certain that
the Vampire was responsible for both
crimes, for the murder of Elizabeth

could be the first in a series of long,
vicious murders.

Finally Shirran said, “Keep it quiet,
will you, Harry?”

“Sure,” said Johnson. “You can trust
our office. But I don’t think that’ll do
you any good. Probably everybody in
Chinatown knows more about it than
we do.”

The officers left then. Their one
chance to avert a disastrous war, they
knew, was to keep the slaying a secret,
if, indeed, it was not already known
throughout Chinatown. Keep it from
the prying eyes of newspapermen, keep
any mention of it from Chinatown
and the temples and restaurants and
opium dens. Let the murder die with
the victim—until the police themselves
were able to confront the only other
man who knew about it—the killer
himself.

After a few short hours of rest, the
two detectives met again at Head-
quarters to set out for Profanity Hill
and the dingy frame buildings that
house the many Chinese residents of
Seattle. Ahead of them was the all-

Louden as well as Thelma Young.
They had to prove it.

But it wasn’t difficult. Impressions
of Dreamer’s teeth clinched the thing.
They matched perfectly casts of teeth-
marks in Elizabeth Louden’s body.

Washington County tried Dreamer
first for the murder of Thelma Young.
McGinley and District Attorney Park
waited, with a battery of convincing
evidence on the Louden murder,
should the man slip through this first
case. But he didn’t. A jury found
him guilty, recommended no mercy.
Dreamer was electrocuted at Rock-
view Penitentiary at Bellefonte.

And if the teeth-molds are not suf-
ficient evidence in anyone’s mind, Dis-
trict Attorney Park will point out,
through his records, that the Vam-
pire has not struck in Allegheny or
Washington Counties since Robert
Dreamer’s arrest.

The names John Matowski and
Homer Crawford in this story are
fictitious.

Another picture with this story is
on Page 41.

“When Dlagon Talk, Look-See Velly Bad Murder’? (Continued from Page 20)

around, occasionally seeing a lone per-
son or two of them talking, but never
coming within hailing distance. Finally
Shirran said:

“Well, let’s try the laundries. These
fellows can’t afford to keep their busi-
nesses closed.”

A thin, emaciated old man was alone
in the first shop the officers visited.
Shirran brought out the pajama top.

“Me wash it for you,” the China-
man said. “Yeh. Yeh, sure. Sat-
dee.” He held out his hand for the
garment.

“No,” said Shirran. “No, that’s not
what I want.” He turned back the
collar until the label showed. “See
this?” he asked. “Is this yours?”

T= ‘elderly man stared blankly at
the detective, then at the label, then
back at Shirran.

“No savvy,” he said.

Shirran jabbed a finger at the mark.
“This mark,” he said. “This yours?
You mark clothes like this, no?”

The same blank~look was on the
man’s face for a minute. Then it was

CValW wah crea

up a child end hudezi
glaring at mim.
Straight thre-zg
Shirran ren.
No one
vanished.

“Who was that fe
Yong Lee shrugge
“Him flend,” ne sz.
“What's his name‘~
Yong Lee shruggeé zg

he said.

Himes reached ovez th:
plucked a shirt from a
clothes. He glanced cxce
of the collar.

“Look here!”’ he saiz. “
This is the place!”

Shirran looked, ari be
the laundry mark or the
held in his hand was the
on the pajama top.

Shirran glared arcund
His eye fell on the doy
a corner.

“Come on outside, rou,
and Himes strode o:t o
walk.

The boy followed, slov

later.

Shirran showed him th
“Whose is this?” he ask:

The boy shrugged his st
savvy,” he said.

Himes stepped up. “Li
said, “don’t pull that stuf
didn’t get that sweater w
ing English! Now, whos
jama top?”

The boy paled. Ther

“down the street a few s

detectives followed. Whe
out of sight of the laund
tur.

ned.

“The shirt is the righ
of the heirs of Lee Wir
said. :

“Who’s Lee Wing Qu
asked.

“Lee Wing Quen was <
boy said. “He has gone
ancestors.”

“Where did he live?”

The boy gave them a
the same street.

“More than that,” he s
within my power to tell :
may be more successful
the Hip Sing Temple.”

“The-Hip Sing Temple?
ran. “Why there?”

The boy shrugged his

“The Hip Sing Temple
of Madame Sing Loy,”
is understood the Jealous
mestic Tranquillity visit:

pad =

nan Tee Wine ’

ery

hy HIEF of Detectives William B. Dinsmore was middle-
aged, stocky, gray-haired, genial; and courteous—
except when chasing a criminal. For 15 years he
served as chief of detectives for Washington County,
Pennsylvania, and in those years he had only one out-
standing failure.

That explains why for nine years, even after he retired,
the brown overcoat button, frayed at the edges, with a
deep red stain of blood in the center, remained on his
desk, the sole clue to the one murder mystery never
solved during his tenure of office.

It didn’t look like much of a clue to his fellow officers,
and they laughed about the button and joked about it.
But one quality Dinsmore had was the stubbornness ofa
Missouri mule, and he swore that he would never
actually retire until that button solved Washington’s
most baffling and brutal murder. ie

The case broken the morning of December 30, 1927.
Dinsmore got the news while he was at breakfast. Desk
Sergeant George Haines of the Police Department called
him and told him that the body of an 18-year-old girl,
savagely beaten and criminally attacked, had been found
in the Kalomara district in Washington: Dinsmore swal-
lowed his- cup of hot coffee, called District Attorney
Warren Burchinal, Sergeant William Jones of the State

“Well, I'm in for it!

Police, and
Dinsmore ¢
He had n
lay. A larg
alley that
Avenue. T
by resident
the two th
and some «
detectives
back.

It was c
but the vic
a very feu
The rest otf

Detectiv

“Giyl's |
back. Left

“completely

Skirt rippe
and left s|
Cuts on fc
hands, left

After joi
Verderber


night of December 29, eight years be-
fore. She worked as a waitress at
Washington and Jefferson College
there. On her way home that night
she headed across a lonely field. There
the Vampire struck her down, ravished
her, murdered her, left his teeth marks
on her cheek.

The weapon was not found. The
only clew was a single button, appar-
ently torn from the murderer’s cloth-
ing as Thelma battled furiously for
her life. The clothes of every suspect
picked up were examined. But none
had a missing button like the one
found beside the dead beauty’s body.

“That’s not all,” said McGinley. “A
month ago a man attacked a girl in
a lonely field on the edge of Wash-
ington. She was hysterical and half
dead when somebody came along and
the killer ran. And,” he said, leaning
forward, “the same thing happened to
another girl a week later.

“We've got one thing to go on, and
one thing only. We’ve got a cast of
the killer’s teeth marks. Teeth marks
are like finger-prints. And the man
whose teeth fit the gouges on those
two dead girls’ bodies is the man who
killed them.”

Ritz knew there was a possibility

that something in the life of Betty
Louden—some tangled emotion—had
flamed into crimson violence. And the
person who probably best could tell
him if such a thing had existed was
Herleman.

With his partner, Kline, Ritz went
to Herleman’s furnished rooms and
found him in bed, shaky, nervous,
staring at the detectives with small,
dark, frightened eyes.

Ritz identified himself and told
Herleman, “I want to have a look
through your place while this officer
talks to you.”

His search got quick results. For
from under the bed he drew a tire
iron—an instrument with a sharp,
narrow edge. And beside it lay a coat
and shirt with big dark stains. Blood?

Whatever the stains, whatever the
significance of the heavy tire iron, Ritz
knew grimly that Herleman had some
questions to answer. Silently he drew
his partner aside while Herleman
watched apprehensively,

Ritz showed Kline the tire iron and
stained clothing and said, “Let’s show
this to the Chief.”

They did. The Chief’s eyes gleamed.
“Fine,” he said. “Because a couple
other leads blew up. Matowski is out
of it with a perfect alibi. So’s Craw-
ford. He spent that night in the hill
district of Pittsburgh and half a dozen
people back him up. Moreover, we
made casts of his teeth and they don’t
match at all with the teeth marks on
Betty’s cheek,”

Ritz asked, “Shall we talk to Herle-
man?”

“Yes,” .

For hour upon hour they flung ques-
tions at him.

“You had a date with her that night,
didn’t you?”

“Yes,”

“What'd you and she do?”

“She never showed up.”

“You never saw her at all that
night?”

“That’s right. She stood me up.”

“Did she do that often?”

“Never before,” Herleman said, and
then his voice broke and he looked
up at the grim-faced officers. He was
pleading for belief. “Honest, fellows,
you don’t think I’d hurt her, do you?
Why, I loved her. We were going to
be married as soon as I got a job.
We—”

“Where,” the Chief cut in harshly,
“were you during that night?”

Herleman gave them his alibi. He
claimed he had been drinking in
Miller’s Hotel from 6 p.m. until a lit-
tle after 7. Then, he said, he went
home with one of his friends. Then
he went to Betty’s house, about nine.
She wasn’t there yet so he figured she
had had to work late and he went
back to the hotel and waited for her.
He finally went home. He didn’t know
what time that was.

“So help me,” Herleman ended, “it’s

ID -5

the truth. I haven’t got any idea who
killed her but if I ever get my hands
on him I’ll—”

“Never mind,” McGinley said cold-
ly, then to Ritz, “I want to talk to you
privately. Take this guy out and get
a mold of his teeth and send his shirt
and pants to the chemist to see if those
are bloodstains. Then check his alibi
clear up to the shoulder.”

Herleman bit his lip, blinked, but
spoke no word. Ritz took him out
of the Chief’s office, relayed the or-
ders, then went back to McGinley and
closed the door.

“What do you think?” asked the
Chief.

“I don’t know,” Ritz said slowly.
“He told it pretty straight out. But
I still want to know if those stains are
blood and if his teeth fit. And where
he was between seven and seven-
thirty.”

McGinley nodded. “He told us he
left the hotel at seven to go to Betty’s

“Yes,” said Miller, “Herleman was
here when I went out to dinner at
six-thirty.”

“How long was he here? Where was
he between seven and seven-thirty?”

“I don’t know. I got back around
seven and he was gone. He came back
a little after nine.”

That didn’t help, Ritz thought. “How
did Herleman act when he came back
here at nine o’clock?”

“If you mean did he act funny, he
didn’t.”

“Were his clothes mussed up?”

Miller thought a minute, shook his
head slowly. “Not that I noticed, any-
way.”

This didn’t help any, Ritz. knew.
He still had to find out where Herle-
man was between seven and seven-
thirty. The detective got names of
men who had been in the hotel that
same evening and turned to leave.

But a man stopped him, a big burly
fellow who had been sitting in a booth.

Even though her husband was on his hospital bed Mrs. Alexander
Biri was not pleased with the gift of silk hose he had bought.
The story of the “Moth-Eaten Casanova" begins on Page 16

house. But we don’t know for sure
where he was during the next half-
hour.”

“One thing bothers me,” Ritz said,
frowning. “I don’t see how we can
hook him up to the other killing.”

“Thelma Young?”

“Yeah. That was eight years ago.
Eight years ago Betty was only seven
years old. Herleman was about twen-
t ”

McGinley thought about it. It
sounded reasonable. But was it? Was
it not possible that there actually was
some hidden connection?

“I think,” said McGinley slowly,
“that we. better take one thing at a
time. Let’s check Herleman’s alibi,
his clothes, his teeth. After that we
can go into the backgrounds of the
two dead girls more thoroughly. We—”

He was interrupted by a loud knock
on the door.

“Come in,” he called irritably, and
an officer stuck his head in and said
breathlessly, “We’ve got a fellow out
here who has pop eyes and who says
his wife has been, drowned. But she’s
alive and safe at home. So we pinched
’im.”

McGinley and Ritz stared at ‘each
other. The case was getting out of
hand. In most murder cases you
have very few clews or suspects.
Here there were so many they had
the officers running around in circles.

McGinley said, “Just a minute.”
Then to Ritz, “Forget this. Go on out
and work on Herleman’s alibi.”

On his way through the outer office
Ritz saw a wild-haired, pop-eyed man
sitting rigid in a chair against the
wall, staring blankly in front of him
while two plain-clothes men regarded
him curiously.

In' Walkers Mills Ritz talked to
Frank Miller, proprietor of the Miller
Hotel.

“You’re a cop, aren’t you?” this
fellow asked,

Ritz nodded.

“You’re looking for this Vampire,
aren’t you?”

Again Ritz nodded.

“Well, I seen something the other
day.”
4“ hat?”

The fellow went on slowly until
Ritz’ patience was almost exhausted.
He had seen a big, shambling man
leap on a waitress and choke her half
to death. The shambling man appar-
ently had lost his temper, a patron had
to pull him off the waitress.

“Maybe,” the fellow told Ritz, “this
guy was the Vampire.”

“What makes you think so?” Ritz
asked.

The fellow didn’t know. He just
thought so. Maybe because this man
got so mad and tried to choke the
waitress. “The guy who pulled him
off was Spiker, the railroad man. Why
don’t you see him?” he said.

Ritz thanked the man and walked
off. Here was another tip, another of
the many that they would have to
run down—another suspect like Craw-
ford or Matowski or the pop-eyed man
or even Herleman, where they had
some slight finger of suspicion that
eventually could prove either false or
true. :

But right then, Ritz knew, his job
was to check on Herleman’s alibi. This
other thing could wait.

Herleman said he had gone to Betty’s
house about nine. Ritz went there and
Betty’s parents thought that Herleman
had arrived a little after nine and left
almost immediately.

Was there time from the moment he
left the hotel until he arrived at
Betty’s home to hurry down the
Noblestown Road and intercept Betty
on her way home?

Ritz, tight-jawed, hunted up George
Robinson, who had been in the Miller
Hotel with Herleman that night.
Robinson said he was sure Herleman
was in the hotel at 7:20 and—

“Wait a minute,” Ritz interrupted.
That didn’t jibe. He saw Robinson’s
eyes get smaller, “You say Herleman
didn’t leave the hotel till seven-
twenty?”

“About that,” Robinson said, lower-
ing his gaze.

“Did he leave alone?”

Robinson hesitated, said cautiously,
“No, I don’t think so. I think he left
with Charlie Zetaslo.”

But Ritz was disgusted. tle'd heard
enough. The stories all concerned the
same people and the same times. But
not the same people at the same times.
He decided to go to Headquarters to
get the thing straightened cut.

There he told McGinley, “Some-
thing’s screwy. Somebody's holding
out on us.”

McGinley smiled at the harassed de-
tective. “Just tell me one thins have
you got it delinite yet exactly where
Herleman was between seven and
seven-thirty?”

“No,” said Ritz. “I’m going back to
hunt some more alibi witnesses for
Herleman. And if I don’t find ‘em... .”
He started out but stopped again.
“Anything on this pop-eyed vu

McGinley shook his head w’ ily.
“Nope. I can’t make any sense out
of him at all.”

Ritz grinned. “That puts us even.
I can’t make any sense out of Herle-
man’s alibi,”

Then he was gone—back to the
scene of the crime, to the Miller Hotel,
to saloons and dives in Walkers Mills
and Carnegie and all the surrounding
towns, wherever the trail led him as
he bounced from witness to witness,
from contradiction to contradiction.

And as he went his conviction grew
that somebody was holding out. Be-
cause everybody he talked to, every
miner, every steel-worker. every mill
hand, only confused the thing more.
All were willing to talk, but vaguely.
And when the detective tried to pin
them down they hedged and forgot.

Finally in desperation Ritz remem-
bered the story of the waitress get-
ting choked. He was in Carnegie any-
way; perhaps he should look up this
fellow Spiker.

The detective wondered if this was
a hot lead. Or would it peter out, like
so many others had? And what of
Herleman? And Pop Eye?

Spiker was bluff and brawny. Sure
he knew that dame. She was one of
the best-looking girls in the steel-
town saloons. So good-looking she'd
got herself choked half to death. Only
Spiker himself had saved her.

“Who tried to strangle her?”

“Some customer. Guy named
Dreamer. He grabbed her and near
had her gagging before I got his hunds
off her throat. He’s a big bum. I had
a pretty tough time with him and I’m
no kid myself.”

“This Dreamer—what sort of guy
is he?”

PIKER looked blank. “What do you

mean?”

“Well—” Ritz hesitated. “Pretty
good with the women, is he?”

Spiker’s laughter boomed across
the little hotel room. “I don’t know
how good he is. But he sure chases
fom. He's nuts about Cem. He asked
me how the pickings were around my
home town.”

“Where’s that?”

“Walkers Mills,” said Spiker prompt-
ly, and the detective’s heart skipped
faster.

“What,” he managed, “did you tell
him?”

Spiker laughed. “I told him he
ought to do all right around Walkers
Mills.”

Ritz had heard enough. He wanted
only the addresses of this Dreamer and
this good-looking waitress. She, said
Spiker, lived at Bridgeville. And
Dreamer? Why, he lived in Wash-
ington.

Washington—scene of the murder
eight years before of Thelma Young.

Ritz took it out of Spiker'’s room on

37


middle-
‘teous—
‘ears he
County,
yne out-

retired,
. witha
i on his
y never

officers,
ibout it.
iess of a
{ never
ington’s

30, 1927.
st. Desk
t called
old girl,
n found
re swal-
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zssailant.

cy

Police, and County Detective William Hamilton. Then
Dinsmore got in his car and drove out to Oregon Street.

He had no difficulty locating where the murdered girl
lay. A large crowd was gathered at the entrance of the
alley that connected Oregon Street with Baltimore
Avenue. The alley had no sidewalks and was used only
by residents of the neighborhood as a short cut between
the two thoroughfares. Chief of Police Joe Verderber
and some of his detectives were already there, and the
detectives had thrown out a cordon to keep the curious
back.

It was cold, and the ground was covered with snow,
but the victim of the murder was practically nude; only
a very few fragments of her clothes clung to her body.
The rest of her clothes lay scattered around near her.

Detective Dinsmore made the following notation:

“Girl’s body near upper end of picket fence, lying on
back. Left foot almost touching fence. Bloomers almost

‘completely ripped from body. Shirtwaist turned back.

Skirt ripped entire length. Garter-belt intact.- Hose torn
and left sleeve of jacket torn loose. One shoe missing.
Cuts on forehead, also back of head. Blood over face,
hands, left sleeve, girdle, bloomers and stockings.”

After jotting down these facts, Dinsmore said to Chief
Verderber: ‘‘Who is she?” °

The chief shook his head. ‘We don’t knqw yet. Prob-
ably some girl living in this neighborhood.”

D INSMORE and the chief started to study the ground
around the body. There was every evidence of a
violent struggle. The snow and the dirt were mixed to-
gether. The bank where the body of the 18-year-old
girl lay was steep, and there were marks where a man’s
feet had slipped down as he struggled with the girl. At
the bottom of the bank was a telephone pole, and when
Dinsmore looked at it, he gasped:: “Just look at the blood

up there—about as high as the girl was tall. The killer

was waiting here, crouching behind this pole, and when
the girl came alone, he grabbed her and knocked her
head against the post!”

Around the base of the telephone pole the snow and
the earth were covered with footprints, but further -up
the bank another struggle had taken place.

“The girl wasn’t completely: unconscious when he
tried to attack her on the bank,” Dinsmore added, “and
she struggled—put up such a whale of a fight—that he
had to kill her.” ;

The murder weapon lay there, in the snow and mud.
It was a brick, and it was covered with blood and human
hair. A broken string of beads (Continued on page 82)

BRUTAL KILLER—
Ain overcoat button was what
“buttoned up” a murder case
against him, and he burned.

59

ene
il 2 nn ye eS

ee

pad cay > ne oe


DREAMER, Rebert, white, elec. PA (W

Peculiarly shaped wounds on face, lips and throat
of Elizabeth Louden, below, were found to have been
made by teeth—the mark of a human vampire, right.

TRUE POLICE CASES
July, 1956

Concealed by :
his victim. Wh

B illows of sw

vapor, adding t
although the su:
West Wheeling
blotted out by tl
hurried along tt
familiar ground,
As the fog lif
terror at an apel
to scream, but fe
next instant, the
she tried to fight
ing hands.
Frantic now, tt
had left her spe

‘scream, a heavy

killing force. Mo
attacker towered
the fog mercifull;
of that crimson n

It was Dominic
the following mc
work, he stopped
shoe in his path.
telephone pole. In
tation pearls from
noticed a path of
blood and femini


we ey

was unconscious, then dragged her through the briars,”

Lieutenant Joliffe agreed. “The marks in the ground near
the fence mean that she must have regained her senses,”
Joliffe suggested. “She put up a fight, and in doing so she
tore off the overcoat button.”

Up to the moment that Thelma Young had encountered
her assailant, it was easy for the detectives to trace her
movements of that evening, for the girl possessed the atten-
tion-drawing, full-blown beauty of early maturity. She had
wavy brown hair, wide-spaced brown eyes and provocative
lips.

At 7 o’clock she had left the frame dwelling on Altamont
Avenue where she lived with her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Syl-
vester Young, and several brothers and sisters.

Half an hour later she met her older sister outside a skat-
ing rink in the downtown section and borrowed money for
a movie. She entered the Regent Theater unescorted—the
ticket taker smiled at her and said hello—and when the film
was over, she headed homeward, still by herself.

At about 10 p.m., an admirer saw her outside a restaurant
on Main Street.

Definite proof that Thelma was alone as she continued
toward her home was provided by the railway-crossing
watchman, Tony Greco. He said it was between 10 and 10:30
when she greeted him.

Chief Dinsmore questioned the watchman. “Did you see
anyone lurking about the streets at about the time Thelma
Young came by?”

Greco shook his head. “Not a soul,” he said. “There weren’t
many people out last night because of the weather.”

At this stage of the investigation Coroner Ramsey made
his report. “As near as I can determine,” he announced, “the
girl died between 10:30 and 11. Cause of death were mul-
tiple fractures of the skull and loss of blood. There were

peculiar bruises around her throat—they could have been

Savagely, the terrorist, right, tore garments from his hapless prey.
Below, Elizabeth Louden’s bloodstained slip hangs from a tree stump.

made by human teeth. As we suspected, she was the victim
of a sexual assault.”

From the laboratory where the coat button had been
subjected to scientific tests, it was found to bear a slight
film of grease and graphite, such as might have been acquired
in a machine shop or garage.

Since the scene of the crime was not far from the tracks
of both the Pennsylvania and the Baltimore & Ohio rail-
roads, Chief Dinsmore ordered a check of the shops in the
yards and at local garages. This, however, failed to bring
forth a likely suspect.

The round-up of suspected sex perverts in Washington
County was completed over the week end. But the result
was a complete disappointment, as all were able to establish
sound alibis for the night of the murder.

Three times in the 10 days following the slaying, the
authorities heard rumors of a man being seen at the spot
where Thelma Young’s body had been found. He was de-
scribed as a husky character, furtive in his actions, and
with his overcoat collar turned’up and his hat brim pulled
down over his eyes. This man was sighted at dusk or after
nightfall. When he saw anyone approaching, he turned and
ran.

“It could be the killer returning to look for the overcoat

$

button,” said C
actions.

A watch was
the alley, but t

scene.

As the days
shocking crime
the arrest and
no takers... .

The years pa:
been active on
retired and wa
James C. Bane
mained in offic:
Young’s ravish
Clark Miller, w
the girl had me
the case—neve
would be solve

The memory
fainter and fain
the slaying—th.
the rapist bega

News of his :
a vague sort of
and daughters
afraid to walk :

These rumors
when Miller’s ir
that a number
neighborhood a
saulted by a ph

It proved a lc
track down one
kept quiet a lon
stated, “because
my mouth.” Th
she had experie
before.

“T was walkin
out at me from
nue and West )

To Constable !
The intersectior
Thelma Young’


she was the victim

button had been
1 to bear a slight
cave been acquired

ir from the tracks
nore & Ohio rail-
f the shops in the
ar, failed to bring

ts in Washington
id. But the result
‘e able to establish

the slaying, the
3 seen at the spot
ound. He was de-
1 his actions, and
is hat brim pulled
d at dusk or after
ng, he turned and

k for the overcoat

button,” said Chief Dinsmore, when told of the stranger’s
actions.

A watch was established over the old picket fence near
the alley, but the suspect failed to pay another visit to the
scene.

As the days went by, public clamor for solution of the
shocking crime continued. Rewards of more than $2,000 for
the arrest and conviction of the slayer were offered—with
no takers....

The years passed, and with them went the officers who had
been active on the case. Chief County Detective Dinsmore
retired and was succeeded by Detective Michael J. Powell.
James C. Bane became district attorney. Only one man re-
mained in office who had been on the scene when Thelma
Young’s ravished body had been found. He was Constable
Clark Miller, whose bailiwick embraced the section in which
the girl had met her death. The constable never abandoned
the case—never gave up hope that some day the mystery
would be solved.

The memory of Thelma Young’s horrible fate became
fainter and fainter. But on January 9, 1936—eight years after
the slaying—the case was revived in dramatic fashion when
the rapist began to prowl again!

News of his activities began to reach Constable Miller in
a vague sort of way. He heard whispers that wives, sisters
and daughters of the men in the district were desperately
afraid to walk the streets after dark.

These rumors were transformed abruptly into stark reality
when Miller’s investigation uncovered the startling evidence
that a number of women and girls—residents of the same
neighborhood as Thelma Young—had been waylaid and as-
saulted by a phantom marauder.

It proved a long and arduous task for Constable Miller to
track down one of the victims, and to get her to talk. “I’ve
kept quiet a long time,” an attractive 28-year-old housewife
stated, “because I was told I would be killed if I ever opened
my mouth.” The young matron then described an attack
she had experienced at the hands of the rapist several weeks
before.

“I was walking home late at night when this man jumped
out at me from the tall grass at the corner of Baltimore Ave-
nue and West Maiden Street,” she said.

To Constable Miller this information was highly significant.
The intersection was scarcely 200 feet from the spot where
Thelma Young’s body had been found.

Police view nude and muti-
lated body of 16-year-old Eliza-
beth Louden, arrow, as it was
discovered in stream. Pickax was
murder weapon used by attacker.

“He clamped his hand over my mouth and started batter-
ing my head against the telephone pole,” the young woman
continued. “I could feel consciousness going, but I struggled
as hard as I could. Luck was with me, because all at once

‘a car drove past. It scared the man and I managed to break

away.

“But I didn’t get far. He ran after me and again threw me
to the ground, this time near a shed about 50 feet from the
pole. As he tried to rape me he said, ‘If you ever say a word
about this, I’ll come back and kill you.’ Just then the driver
of the car that had scared him the first time returned to see
what was going on. Seeing I was in trouble, he stopped. I
managed to get away from my attacker’s grip and ran to
the driver’s car and got in.”

The description of her assailant which the matron gave
matched that of the stranger who had been seen at the mur-
der scene, searching the ground. However, all efforts to
track him down failed.

Then on February 26, 1936, the grim specter of death was
to rise again, to add a new chapter to the sex crimes of
southwestern Pennsylvania.

Most of the snow that had fallen the week before had dis-
appeared in the vicinity of Walker’s Mills in Allegheny
County, a few miles from Washington. Going out to her
mailbox on Noblestown Road, a housewife, Mrs. Louis Wal-
lace, made a curious discovery. In a neat pile on the ground
were three items: a woman’s purse, a coat and an umbrella.

Investigating detectives found that the articles were the
property of 16-year-old Elizabeth Louden of Walker’s Mills,
who had disappeared on the night of January 18, and had
never been seen again. The finding of the items immediately
gave fresh impetus to the search for the missing girl.

No one was more surprised than young Harry Miller, a
farmhand, when, on the morning of February 27, he saw an
object half submerged in the muddy waters of a small brook
which flowed through a field not too far from the mailbox
where the Louden girl’s property had been found. The ob-
ject was almost hidden by the shore’s edge. After shouting
to officers in the searching party, Miller waded into the
stream and peered under the overhanging bank. He straight-
ened with a start, nodding an answer to the unasked questions
readable on the faces of the little group standing on the
shore. Elizabeth Louden had been found! ;

In a short time an ambulance arrived, followed by several
police cars bearing detectives [Continued on page 74}


Concealed by a dense fog, the beast man sprang out from behind a telephone pole to claim Thelma Young, right, as
his victim. When the girl struggled, the ape man used brute force to render her unconscious, tarry her to spot X.

illows of swirling fog rose and fell like some spidery
vapor, adding to the blackness of the winter night. But
although the surroundings in the alley which intersected
West Wheeling Street in Washington, Pennsylvania, were
blotted out by the enveloping mist, the attractive girl who
hurried along the roadway did not hesitate..She was on
familiar ground, only a short distance from her home.
As the fog lifted slightly, the young woman halted in
terror at an apelike figure looming up before her. She tried
to scream, but fear laid throttling fingers to her throat. The
next instant, the man seized her in a cruel grip. Desperately
she tried to fight him off, to break the grasp of those bruis-
ing hands.
Frantic now, the girl strove to overcome the terror which
had left her speechless; but even as she drew breath to

‘scream, a heavy object crashed down upon her skull with

killing force. Moaning, she slumped to the ground as her
attacker towered over her, a fiendish gleam in his eyes. Then
the fog mercifully closed in again to hide the further horrors
of that crimson night... .

It was Dominic Grisilio, a laborer, who found the body
the following morning. Taking a shortcut on his way to
work, he stopped suddenly when he saw a girl’s high-heeled
shoe in his path. Then he spotted a pool of blood near a
telephone pole. In the scarlet patch were strewn several imi-
tation pearls from a broken necklace. Stepping closer, Grisilio
noticed a path of trampled briars, marked by splotches of
blood and feminine undergarments. It led 20 yards up a

clay. bank and to the side of a sagging picket fence.

There, Grisilio discovered the half-nude girl. She was lying
on her back, body oddly twisted, with one arm partly raised
as if to ward off the blows which had rained upon her bat-
tered head and face. Grisilio paused just long enough to
make sure no spark of life remained in the young woman.
Then he ran to spread the alarm.

Among the residents of the vicinity who hurried to the
scene was a 15-year-old boy named Ray Young. He took one
look at the corpse and sobbed, “It’s my sister Thelma! We’ve
been looking for her all night!”

Presently a dozen officers arrived at the briar-covered
slope. The most experienced among them was William B.
Dinsmore, chief of Washington County detectives. Others
included District Attorney Warren Burchinal; Chief Joseph
Verderber and Lieutenant H. C. Joliffe of the city force;
State Police Sergeant William Jones; Constable Clark
Miller of North Franklin township, and Coroner G. W.
Ramsey.

It was evident immediately that the 18-year-old girl,
Thelma Young, had been the victim of a sex criminal. Her
dress had been ripped down the front and was spread beneath
her. Her brassiére and panties had been torn to shreds. She
wore only one stocking. A little distance from the corpse
was a black shoe, mate to the one laborer Grisilio had seen in
the path.

Beside Thelma’s battered head was a bloodstained rock—
obviously the murder weapon. There were marks of a strug-
gle in the soft earth, and in the mud a few inches from the
girl’s body was the imprint of a large hand.

“We'll make a plaster cast of that,” Chief Dinsmore mut-
tered.

Stooping, the chief saw something else. It was a large-
sized brown button apparently ripped from a.man’s overcoat.
Attached to the threads was a shred of light brown material.
Carefully, Dinsmore put his find in an envelope and dropped
it into his pocket. “As I see it,” the detective chief told the
others, “the murderer hid behind the telephone pole until
the girl came within reach, then he leaped out at her. He
knocked her head against the telephone pole until she

Only after the fiendish murderer had claimed his second young victim

did he trap himself. Thus he ended a series of shocking sex crimes


- =

Joseph Raber, a man of upwards of

sixty years of age, lived in a state of the

most abject poverty, in a dingy, deserted

charcoal-burners’ hut, in a sequestered
spot on the Blue mountains, known as

Indiantown Gap, in Lebanon county, Pa.

He had no occupation. but eked out a

scanty subsistence by performing such

little odd jobs as chance threw into his
way, depending mainly upon the charity
of the poverty-stricken neighborhood in
which he lived. His mode of life was
very primitive indeed. The hut which
he called his home, and in which, he pass-
ed the heat of summer and the rigors of
winter, was rudely constructed of rough-
hewn logs, and was so low that. an ordi-
nary-sized man could not stand erect in
it; there. wasno floor but hard-beaten
earth, and the furniture consisted of «
store box. which served the purpose of
table, washstand, bureau and general
receptacle for such household utensils As
the shanty contained, and a wooden
bench constructed on the very original
plan of driving stakes into the ground
and placing a plank on top. In this hut
Jiwed, with old man Raber, Polly Kreiser.
“who was his housekeeper.
Israel Brandt, whom we have reason
to consider as the originator of this terri-
ble tragedy. lived about three-fourths of
a qile from Raber’s hut. on the road
leading through the Gap, at a place
known as St. Joseph's Spring. He kept
some sort of a hotel, and. although the
place was not licensed, vet he sold liquor,
and his house wasa rendezvous where
all the rough mountaineers were wont to
resort to have their carousals.

Among the regular frequenters of this
place was Charles Drews, the oldest of
the convicted men, who resided about a
hundred yards to the southwest.

Henry F, Wise, Josiah tlaummel and
George Zechman lived along the moun-
tains to the east, about six miles {pom
Bruits place, e

Frank Stiehler lived about half a mile

from Brandt's.

In the latter part of July, 1878, Brandt.
Hummel, Wise and Zechman agreed
among themselves to have Raber’s life
insured for their benefit. George W.
Schweinhard, an insurance agent living
in Lebanon, was accordingly applied to
to make out the applications and procure
the policies on the life of the old man.
Whereupon Schweinhard visited Indian-
town Gap and met these parties in con-
sultation at Brandt's house. Here the
applications were made out, Wise paying
the necessary fees.

After the applications had been favor-
ably received by the various conapanies
and policies issued, Wise wrote a letter
to Schweinhard requesting him to meet
Brandt. Hummel, Zechman, Raber and
himself at Lebanon, for the purpose of
having the policies on old Raber’s lite
assigned to themselves, and taking out
some additional applications.

At that time a policy for $2,000 in the
Home Mutual Life Association in Leba-
non, was assigned to Josiah Humue!:
one for $1.000 in the New Era to Israel]
Brandt; one for $3,000 to George Zech-
man, and one for %2,000 to Henry fF.
Wise: the sum for all amounting to
$8,000,

The reason given by these men To
Schweinhard why these assignments

were made. was that Raber was a very .

poor man and that they had agreed to
support him.
Here then the preliminaries of the plot

were fully consummated, and it only re-"

mained to carry their hellish design into
effect.

The conspirators were in frequent ©
sultation at Brandt's. having been often
observed going back and forth from his

or

house during the space of some three
ling

>

four months
Raber’s death.
The result of these consultations

Immediately —preces

OW-¥

fo
ys
sf

aS Patani Bal i:

‘ ae ii aS a Sats 4

we

ty hii he

etl

5

24

that they agreed to employ a mat whos

wonld be willing todo the job for money

A
=

HISTORY OF THE RABER MURDER. 5

would escape the penalty of the crime,
while they would reap all the benefits.

This having been settled, the next step
was to find a willing tool to commit the
murder, which they found in the per-
son of Charles Drews. This unhappy
old man had a numerous family and was
in very straightened circumstances, and

like the murderer in Macbeth—

‘““So weary with disasters, tugg’d with fortune,
That he would set his life on any chance
To mend it, or be rid on’ t.”

Brandt was the first of the conspirators
to broach the subject to Drews, promis-
ing to give him $300, and stating that the
others would each pay the same amount.
Drews accepted, and asked Elijah Stich-
ler, an uncle to Frank Stichler, to help to
drown Raber in Kitsmiiler’s dam.

The following was their well concocted
plan: They would induce Raber to accom-
pany them to fish in the dam with a flat.
Drews was to push Raber off the flat and
Stichler was to pole over him and drown
him. Afterwards Stichler was to jump
into the water to get wet and then go to
Michael Kohr’s, who lived hard by, and’
get a change of clothing, stating that he
had gotten wet in trying to save Raber
from drowning:

For these services Drews offered to
give Stichler $100. Stichler refused to
agree to this.

Notwithstanding  Stichler’s
Drews, at the time appointed, went to
the dam, accompanied by his son-in-law,
Joseph F. Peters, who had returned
home on furlough from the regular army
about that time. When they arrived at
the dam they found the flat full of water,
and old Raber remarking that it was too
cold to fish anyhow, the party returned
home without accomplishing their dam-
nable purpose.

This attempt having proved abortive,
Charles Drews engaged Frank Sticbler
to assist him in doing the job. Accord-
ingly on the 7th of December, 1878,
Drews went to Raber’s hut and invited
‘him to come to his house to get some

tobacco. .

Drews returned to his house with
~ Raber, where Stichler was in waiting.
»Raber was then induced to go with them
-'to Kreiser’s under the pretext of getting

Meat.

refusal,

The way to Kreiser’s necessitated the
crossing of Indiantown creek, which is a
small stream about twelve feet wide and
seventeen inches deep, spanned by a
plank. When the party arrived at this
plank Stichler was in front, Raber next
and Drews in the rear. When Raber had.
reached the mfddle of the plank, Stichler
suddenly turned upon him, caught hold
of his shoulders, knocked his feet from
under him, threw him into the water and
jumped in on top of him and got him
by the hair; and, in order to keep his
head under water, Drews pressed upon
Stichler, and thus Raber was kept down
until life was extinct.

This scene was witnessed by Joseph F.
Peters from an upper window in Drews’
house.

Having committed the deed, Drews
and Stichler returned to Drews’ house,
where Stichler changed clothes. This
took place some time between 4 and 6
o’clock in the afternoon; and about two
hours later the neighborhood was thrown
into a state of consternation by the intel-
ligence that old Raber was drowned in
the creek. Immediately a crowd of ex-
cited people gathered around the place,
but the body was left undisturbed until
the arrival of the Coroner, who was sum-
moned by Brandt and Hummel,

When they arrived in Lebangn, Brandt

became considerably intoxicated, and

boastingly remarked that Raber was in-
sured for $20,000, and stated to the Cor-
oner that each of the men who had him
insured would give him .820 for a good
report.

The Coroner's inquest was held the
following day and resulted in the verdict
that the deceased came to his death from
natural causes.

Raber’s remains were consigned to
their final resting place on the 10th of
December, and three days later Schwein-
bard met Brandt, Hummel, Wise and
Stichler at Brandt's house to make out
the death proofs on the policies held.

At that time much suspicion began to
attach to the ease, owing to the bad char-
acter of the parties who were known to
have Raber’s life insured. Nothing defi-
nite, however, was discovered until some
time in January, 1879, when Joseph F.
Peters appeared before John H. Speck,


ortraits of

Jorrect

wT?
“5

orrect Portra

U

>,

IR By

CHA Gis ©

L BRANDT,

ASR Ae

BUEN.

Se Le a

JOSIAH HUMMEE,

HENRY Wisk.

A.

mber |

<

/ Executed Nove

«
+

THE GROUND PLOT OF THE SCENE,

oe

4
ey,

J
~“

Ne
ae

L

oo

—-

Ss
Ss
ee

a

1. Bre Ss ste ‘ :
hous. fp 2. Brandt's house. 38. Woods. 4. St.Jacob’s well, 5. Batl
10. Corn fiela ie pe y Drew's house. 8 Woods. 9. Cold Spring voad.
; . ; ace Ww . ‘ : vo _ K y ‘oad,
Plank where drowning took lace, Raber was found. 12, Indiantown creek. 13.

PREFACE.

One of the most brutal and appalling murders ever committed in Lebanon county,
a recital of which still causes the heart to sicken, is that of the murder of old Joseph
Raber, which is acknowledged as one of the most heinous and terrible tragedies on
the criminal record. There are many vague theories extant as to the correct mode
alopted by the parties interested in this outrageous business of insuring the old man
and then killing him for the purpose of receiving the insurance money, as well as the
names of those parties who took an actual part in this affair. We therefore dppend
a full and correct statement of all the facts in the case in the order in which they
come, giving a complete history of the case, which will be followed by sketches of

the lives of the condemned men and their last statements, as made to their counsel.


THE MIDR DER OF

a

—yOS! By? lel Babs Bd

THE ONLY FULL AND COMPLETE ACCOUNT OF THE’ CRUEL
MURDER OF JOSEPH RABER, WHICH OCCURRED

FS ey) » 2 ERP = ecisens
=m. _ = —s = =e =
Gea WU Set Wh tx

SVN wo x

TO RECOVER THE INSURANCE MONEY EFFECTED ON
HIS LIFE.

—- es  . -—- -

FULL AND FINAL CONFESSION OF H. F. WISE, AS
MADE TO HIS COUNSEL.

See: &

HISTORY OF THE CASE.

SHORT SKETCHES OF THE LIVES OF THE SIX MEN.

oo -  — e —_  —$—______

ep oes tO

Correct and Concige Confessions of the Criminals.

es aa ee - eg.

LEBANON, Pa.:

REINHARD & SHARP, PvcBrisHErs.
1880. 3


aad fist termes

Cletla arco


(this next line is omitted from the copy). Deputy Taylor did the same
with Shew. Then the black caps were adjusted, which were like large black
handkerchiefs, covering head and face. . At about, this point Eagan said to
Shew 'Goodbye,! and Shew seemed about to reply, when quick as a flash, at
a given signal, the rope was pulled that withdrew the bolts, the platform

_ fell, the men shot down, to the ends of the ropes, rebounded slightly,
then settled down, and the bodies swung half way round, The rope was
pulled by a man named Wheaton. Dr. Cecil McCoy of the Binghamton State Hos-
pital, the jail physician, Dr. C.D. Mackey, Dr. He. C. Knapp of Binghamton
Dr. Grandef of Forest City and Dr. Grander and Taylor of Hopbottom,. were
present to examine the bodies,

_. oe "THEIR, DEATHS,

"The physicians took their pulse continuously, noted the heart beats,. and
in due time pronounced them dead. Shew,. first, in dout 8 minutes, and. Eagan
about 15 minutes, but their bodies were allowed to hang for about 30 minutes,
They probably realized very. little. The neck, of. each man was. borken and the
rope had cut Eagan considerable. He had grown stout in. jail, weighing now
208 pounds - 60 pounds more than when arrested. The death warrant called
for executioh between 10 and 4 o'clock, but the Sheriff had all arrangments
made to proceed with the unpleasant affair early.as possible, and the exe-
cution was quick and sure, and in all its details thoroughly successful, and
no apbidangs. to, add horror to the. terrible affair. Sheriff Maxey read the
death warrants to them Saturday. here were more people. than usual in town.
Yet nothing like a surging crowd as it had been thought there might be, and
there was no disorder, The body of Eagan was taken down by Deputies Harring-
ton & Taylor, and laid on Undertaker Titman's stretcher and covered with a
black cloth; it was lifted into the Titman wagon and taken to the Under-
taking rooms, where it remained till 8 o'clock next morning when it was sent
on the train to Long Island to be cremahed. It was accompanied by E, C,
Sherman. The wagoh of Undertaker Telford of susquehanna, was waiting with-
out the gate, and policemen Baxter and Tingley brought in tye casket, Shew's
body was lowered and at once put into it, and conveyed to the wagon and stare
yed for Susquehanna, where it arrived after. dark. Reve Thomas went over to
Susquehanna to conduct the funeral which occurred at Telford's rooms Wednes-
day morning privately. Burial at Susquehanna.
? ee eas "THEIR LAST HOURS.
"Sunday night they slept soundly, till.9 o'clock. next morning, and had to be
called then. On Monday the prisoners were visited by a number of acquaint=
ances, also by the pastors and by Shew's cousin, Mr. Epps of Susquehanna.
Monday evening friends were present, and they did not retire till 2 acme
when they soon fell asleep and slept sweely apparently till 6 o'clock, when
they were called, They dress: d themselves with care, and até a substantial
breakfast Bf beefsteak, buckwheat cakes, coffee, cookies, oranges, nuts, can-
dies, etc. At 8 o'clock the chergyman came and remained as they had promised
the men they would, till it was all over and the bodies taken down,

) NEAGAN'S CONFESSION,
"On June 22, 1897, I, with Susie Graham, went from Rush to Susquehanna, where
we lived unfil Nov., 1897. "hile living there I worked at whatever I could
get to do. I was taken sick with a fever in September and was sick for se-
veral wegks., While I was sick Susie talked a great deal about the Peppers
and their money, and that they had all their money in their house. Sheeee
(this line is ommitted on this copy)eeewell.e I refused to do it, It was
while I was still unable to work that Shew came to the house to board. One
Sunday after he had been there for 2 or 3 weeks Susie told me that she was
going to get Shew to go to Rush and rob Jackson Pepper, and that I must go
with him. I did not want her to say anything to Shew and said I would not
go if Shew did. But at dinner that day she told Shew and asked him to go and
-get the money. Shew first thought she did not mean it, but she kept at
him and myself until we promised to go and see what we could doe She had
all kinds of plans and of course we all talked them over. All the.plans were
that no one was to be hurt, and that if we could not get the money without
we were to leave it. She wanted us to take chloroform but we would not for.
fear we,might gite too much, Shew bought a pistol’ and said we might. need it

EGAN, J. James, and SHEW, Cornelius, white, hanged at Montrose, Pa., on
Jane 9, 1900.

"Tuesday, Jan. 9, 1900, was the day set for the execution of. J. James Eagan
and Cornelius Wells Shew, for the murder of old Jackson Pepper, in Rush, Octe
19, 1897, in his barn, while he was engaged in husking corn. tickets of
admission had been issued by Sheriff W. J. Maxey, to the deputies, the
physicians, the newspaper reporters of this and nearby counties, and other
persons, and about 150 people were present, Under the law, at an execution

a jury of view, consisting of 12 men for each man executed, is to be presente
In this case they were: For Eagan - M. M. McVicar, H. D. Jones, J. F. Well-
brook, L. Be Miller, Dr. F. L. Grander, Otis Severence, F. L. Leonard,

Se L. Bevan, T. J. Behtecost, C. He Tiffany, Lester Turrell and E, A. Garratt
Bor Shews Thomas Kilrow, George Maxey, Herbert Johnson, A. H. Conrad, E. R.
rannan, H. S. Patrick, Dr. W. H. Conklin, Re Oc Bunnell, Dr. C. De. Mackey
Dre A. de Taylor, M. J. Walsh and E, W. Shay. These men met at the Slriff's
office in the Court House soon after 9 o'clock; also many others who were to
attend the execution and about 9:40 all went to the jail, where they were
admitted at the tower door, and passed across the corridor, out the opposite
door, which brought them into the yards; just outside the door was a wooden
platforn, erected the day. before (by J. F. Harrington and H. S. Conklin.)
.From this platform, 5 steps led, straight ahead, to the ground, or, if

while on this temporary platform one turned partly to the right one could
asfend 5 steps, which would bring one squarely on to the waffold platform
where Fagan and Shew a little later stood. The gallows faced directly
north - exactly towards the residence of H. S. Conklin, on the bank above.
The men there to witness the execution pressed, of couse, down. the 5 steps
mentioned, to the ground, and scattered about the yard in little groups and
guietly discussed the situation, the space being, perhaps, about half

filled. The prienmers had been removed from the cells on that. sideof the
jail, and did not see the execution. At 9:54 Sheriff Maxey came out of the
jail, stepped upon the scaffold, to test it once more, and see if all was
-pight, then went back in and Detlel and James F, Harrington stepped on it for
same purpose, to make assurance doubly sure. White the crowd waited, sounds
of singing came from the jail, the clergymen, Rev. E. K. Thomas of the Bap-
tist church, and Rev. H. B. Benedict, of the Methodist church, having spent
most of the forenoon with the condemned men, ‘they had also been with them —
on.other occasions and both. Eagan and Shew had expressed conversion, and giv=
en every evidence of it, it is said, and stated emphatically they were ready :
for death, and on the previous day fhe clergyman had administered the mcra- —
ment to them. At 19:03 Sheriff William J. Maxey came through the jail

door, followed by Revs, Benedict and Thomas, who stepped to one side, just

as the gallows was reached. Immediately behind was Eagan, accompanied: by
Deputy F, L. Leonard, and Shew, accompanied by Deputy H.-B. Jones, folhowed
by Deputies Conklin, Taylor, Kinney and Harrington. The gallows consisted

of 4.upright pieces, converging towards the top, with various cross pieces.
About 5 feet from the ground was a platform in p séctions - like 2 doors

Laid side by side. ‘these sections were fastened to the inside of frame by
hinges and were supported tn the centre by long bolts that ran into the frame
at .the sides, and upon the pulling of the rope attached, the ends of these
bolts would be withdrawn from their sockets in the frames, and the two sec-
tions of the platform being no longer supported, would drop (or fold) Quick
ly down and anything on them would fall. t the top of the tall fram of the
gallows were cross bars, and from these two ropes were to be seen suspended
with nooses at their ends, each one hanging directly above a section of the
platform. The condemned men stepped quickly and firmly onto-the scaffold
platform, each having their wrists handcuffed behind them. They gave no par-=
ticular sign or appearance of emotion and seemed to face the ordeal without

a quiver. Sheriff Maxey stepped in front of them and asked them if they had
anything to say, and they said: 'Nothing.' H. B. Jones quickly stepped up
behind Eagan, and began adjusting the noose, and F, Le. Leonard did the same
to Shew. Eagan remarked 'You are getting the rope outside my collar.' Con-


the man like that for would have the whole town after us before we had gone

EAGAN & SHEW, hanged Montrose,

Pae,y Jan. 9 - 1900 i
: Jane 9, - Continued,
in case there were Visitors

that we must hav at the house when we es
He and’ I went car some cord, which Susie said pile heed a

: the
eutcitiue incshart peeved and got the rope

lining I carried
_—* i

not li :
We left Susquehanna on Monday morning, oct eee 1o@

walked to Rush, arriving there in the afternoon of Oct. 19th. As soon as it
was dark, we want into the woods in front of the Pepper house. While we were
there we saw a man go to the spring and then back to the housee Susie had |
given us a plan of the house and w were looking to see how near right it
WwaSe It was cold and we were walking up and down in the road. While there
4 man (whom we afterwards learned was Jackson Pepper) came out of the house
and turned some horses out of the barn and then went into the barn. We went
to the door and looked in and he was husking corn. Shew asked me if that
was ‘Peppere I said I did not know but thought it must be. Shew then said
we must lose no chances but had better go in and tie him up and then go to
the house. I wanted to wait until they had gone to bed. Shew would note
He said he would go in and tie the man up and I could watch and tell him if
anyone came. Shew had a club but had throfn it aways He was to take Pepper
by ths houlders and throw him and tie him. He went into the barn and I went
toward :the road. I had just reached the road when I heard a blow. I went
to the barn and went in. I then saw Shew hit the man twice. I told him to
stop and asked him if he wanted to kill the man, He said: 'No, but I had
+5 hit hime! I wanted to get.out of there, but Shew said we could not leave

a mile. He then took the-ropes out of his.coat and I hekped to istie the ..
man. Then we took the lantern and put it out as the man was beginning to
come toe ‘We then went out of the barn and talked about who the man WaSe
We thought it was Pepper but did not know for suree While we were outside
we heard the old man groan and Shew said: 'That will never do,' and we went
into the barnes: I did not go but the once, I tried to get Shew away but he
would not>goe We went up and leaned against the fence, and I set the lantern
on the inside of the gate. Shew went back to the barn again and then after
a while went in again. -The last time he came out he said, 'That man won't
bother any more for awhile.' He then wanted to go into the house. I would
not go and while we were tlaking a team came along and we left and went to
kinner's Eddy and to Sayre and from there ta Susquehanna via the Erie Re
R. Shew did not intend to kill the man and did not think he had done so unti
he saw that the man was dead. We told Susie about it and she called us a
pair of fools for not getting the money. I did not think that anyone would
ever find it out for I knew that Susie was at the bottom of the whole bubi-
ness and had it not been for her Shew never ould have kKnownabout the moneye
I felt perfectly safe myself for I did not know that I could be brought into
3t as I had no idea that they would try to put it on me knowing that they
were more to blame than I. I thought t ey would keep still about it. I was
arrested on a warrant charging me with larceny at. Coventryville, N. Ye, on
Jan. 2, 1898, by T. Je McMahon, We De By Ainey, C. Se Ainey, Jack Palmer
‘and Thomas Tifte They brought me to Susquehanna, then W. Be. Be Ainey
C,H. Ainey and T. J. McMahon brought me to Montrosee I asked them whey they
brought me to M ntrose and they said I would have to wait for Court. When
we were coming over we were stuck in th e snow and were like to tip over,
When We De Be Ainey and msyelf got out to walke I was handcuffed to Ainey.
Tt was while we were walking that Ainey told me that he had me for the mur-
der of Jackson Pepper and that he had a sure case against me but said he H&
would save me if I would make a statement to him next morning. He said he
had a statement from Susie Graham, and one from Shew saying I did the
whole thing, planning, killing, and all, and that they were like little dogs
trotting along behind. He said he knew they were not telling the truth and
if I would make a statement to him he would save me. He said he had it in


V E WHISKER

332 S BEDFORD ST
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You heed ZF Noh please Contact me.
Khe ws hr, ah any hit Hier Aaka Obi the Tec hey So ee
(ise ae wll Colt fo sof YOU.
Hicerely / VOUS S

LG Ke viel CE


. EBERSOLE, Jonas, white, 33, electrocuted Pa. (Bedford County) July 17, 1922,

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then he told us what they did was none
of our business. Oh, it was horrible!”

“What did you do, Mrs. Daniels?”

“What could I do? I left. But Martin,
though—he doesn’t have children; he
can run away. ‘Ma, I can’t take it,’ he
said. ‘Ma, give me a day or two to think,
I can’t go home yet’.”

“He hasn't been home since?”

She shook her head.

OHNSTON, after an appropriate wait,

said, “Well, I'm sure he'll come back

to you now.” Then, “Can you tell us
where that taproom is?”

Mrs. Daniels did, and the officers
went through the house and down the
narrow stairs. In front they found De-
tective Sergeant Edmund Zongolowicz,
Detective Paul Witte and a technician.

The technician had dug out a slug
he'd found imbedded in the door, about
a foot and a half up from the top step.
It was badly battered and twisted but,

- bearing out Billy's story, of rifle length.

Witte and Zongolowicz agreed to
send out the alarm for the green and
white Pontiac and then to canvass the
neighbors. As they walked off together,
Hammes paused for a moment. He
glanced down at the steps on which
Daniels had been sitting with his boy,
then at the dozens of people clustered
all around. A truck rumbled by and as
it passed he looked across the street.
A row of six houses was over there, to
the south, while to the north was the
St. Peter’s Episcopal Cemetery. Above
the brick wall of the cemetery loomed
the eerie shapes of scattered tomb-
stones.

Johnston and Hammes strolled the
few blocks to the taproom. As they
were about to enter it, a voice called
from in back, “Officers!”

They turned around. A middle-aged
woman was approaching them.

“I've been following you,” she said,
out of breath. “I didn’t want to tell
you this in front of all those people.
You never know who’s listening.”

The car that was one bone of contention in a family;-and right, a
detective with the weapons found in it, a rifle and three knives

oy rae

“What is it?” Hammes asked.

“I saw the killer!”

The woman, in a hurry to pour it
out, didn’t wait for further questions.
She’d been standing on the corner, she
said, when she heard a shot and saw a
car tearing toward her. It zoomed
around the corner, then apparently cir-
cled the block, for a minute or two
later it came down Fourth Street again.
Daniels, in the meantime, had stag-
gered off the sidewalk and was lying in
the gutter.

“The driver tried to run him over.
He drove straight at him and he almost
hit him. And he kept right on going.”

“Did you see who they were?” John-
ston questioned.

“*They’?” the woman repeated, puz-
zled. “There was only one man in the
car.
Hammes frowned. ‘The car—it was
green and white, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, no! It was—I don't know—gray
or black. It was one of those tiny for-
eign cars. German, I think.”

“A Volkswagen?”

“That's right.”

“Look, Ma’am, are you sure about
this?” Hammes asked.

“Of course I’m sure. I saw it.”

Johnston said, “The man you saw.
Did you ever see him before?”

“No. But he had gray hair.”

The detectives watched the woman
as she walked away. What was this all
about? The usual confusion of wit-
nesses? Had the victim’s son been mis-
taken about the death car? Or had
this woman seen a Volkswagen all right
—one that had nothing to do with the
actual slaying?

They entered the taproom.

Because no drinks can be served in
Pennsylvania after midnight on Satur-
day, the bar was closed but the bar-
tender was still there, waiting for the
last patrons to set down their glasses
and go.

Yes; the man said in response to
(Continued on Page 48)


The Sins of Two Fathers (Continued from Page 19) othe

{ammes’ question, he’d worked Friday
ight. Why?

Instead of answering, Hammes said,
You know Martin Daniels?”

“Yeah.” Suspiciously.

“Did you see him here last night?”

“Did I!” The bartender rolled his
yes. “That bum! I wanted to plow
ito him! You should ’a heard him

alkin’ to his wife and kid, cursin’
hem! If he hadn’t been so loaded,
‘d’a—”

Johnston interrupted quietly with,
‘Daniels is dead. He was just shot to
leath.”. :

The bartender, in the middle of a
‘esture, froze. “Dead?”

“That’s right. Now last night he was
vith a woman. Her first name’s Connie.
do you know her?”

Slowly the bartender shook his head.
ie had never seen that woman before.
Jor did he know anyone nicknamed
scotty. :

The detectives questioned: the pa-
‘rons next. But here, too, they came up
vith hothing. A couple of them had
cnown Daniels fairly well, and their
»pinion of him was just about the same.
3ober, he was a terrific guy., Drunk,
vatch out.

WHILE the officers were talking to
these men, Hammes noticed De-
ective Witte outside the door, motion-
ng. They went out. ;

“We just picked up something pretty
jot,” Witte told them, “and I thought
you'd want to run it out with me. Ed’s
soing to stick around the neighbor-
aood.” oe

“Did you find out who Scotty is?”
Johnston asked. ig eo

“No, not that. But this ties in pretty
:00d with the gang idea. I was speak-
ng to a man who told me that Daniels
nad a pretty bad run-in a couple days
igo with a fellow named Danny Flange.

And Flange is supposed to be in the’

rackets.”

“What was it about?” Johnston and
Hammes were walking with Witte to
his car.

Behind the wheel, Witte said, “The
way I heard it, Daniels accused Flange
of keeping him out of work. I’m not
too clear how. Anyway, a few punches
were thrown.”

The car sped off.

Flange’s home was deeper in South
Philadelphia. It was a brick row house,
dark when the officers stopped in front
of it. The three of them got out and
Witte rang the bell.

After a few rings a light went on up-
stairs. Several minutes later the living-
room light clicked on. The door opened
slowly, but only so far. A chain held it.

“Who is it?” a raspy voice asked.

“The police, Flange,” Johnston said.
“We want to talk to you.”

The chain came off, the door opened
all the way. Flange was a short, stocky,
bald-headed man. His robe looked like
a tapestry of some sort.

Johnston said, ‘““We want to talk to
you about Martin Daniels.”

Flange scowled. “So he yelled ‘cop-
per’, did he? Oh, that crumb! Look,
he threw the first one! Did he'’say he
threw the first one?” :

Witte said, ‘‘He didn’t tell us any-

thing, Flange. He’s dead: Shot.” ee

Flange seemed not. to understand.
Then his mouth. dropped and _ he

stepped back. The officers followed him.
in :

“Shot?” he said then.

“Shot.”

He rubbed his neck. ‘Look, we had
a little fuss, but I didn’t -kill him!”

a us about that ‘fuss’,” Hammes
said.

“Aah, that guy was—” He checked
himself. “I forgot—he’s dead.” Then,
“But he was crazy that night. He said
all kinds of crazy things.”

“Like what?”

“Like I was the guy keepin’ him from

ian

workin’.

48

“Were you?”

“How could I be? I don’t know
nothin’ about that crummy job of his!”

“Why did he think you might?”

“That’s somethin’ I'd like to find out.
I don’t know, someone handed. him’
some malarkey, I guess. All I know is
he comes around one night and he’s
all full of fight and he says things I
don’t have to’ take. But I still don’t let

-him have it.‘ I’m waitin’, I’m thinkin’ .

‘Buddy, you take the first poke, I’ll take
the second.’ And damn ‘if he don't
swing. Oh, I give it to him good.”
Flange twisted a fist into a palm.

Johnston said, ‘“‘What do you do for
a living?”

“Oh, a little bit of everything. A pro-
moter, I guess you’d cal) me.”

Slowly, “Do we have your picture?”

“A few times for disorderlies. But no
convictions. You look it up, you’ll see.
No convictions.”

Hammes said, “What’s your story for
tonight?”

“T been here all night. Haven’t been
out since about seven. Maybe half-
past.”

.. “Anyone with you?”

“Not right now. The wife and kids
are over to my mother’s. But they’ll be
back soon.” :

“You drive?”

“Sure.”

“What kind of a car?”

“A Caddy. What other kind is there?”

Eying him, Hammes said, ‘‘Mind if I
use your phone?”

’ “Go ahead.”

Through Information, Hammes got
the number of a hospital in West Phila-
delphia. He wanted to see if the second
victim had come out of his coma. Per-
haps he’ said something that would
finger Flange. But he hadn’t. Hammes
spoke to the Division officer stationed
there and learned that the man was
still unconscious.

“Look,” Flange said as he walked the
officers to the door, “I feel pretty bad
about this thing. You know, fightin’
with a guy and now he’s dead. How do
you think the family’s fixed?”

“why?” Johnston asked.

“you know. Maybe I can help them
out. It costs to bury.”

“Y’m sure his wife will appreciate the
gesture,” Johnston said. “Goodnight,
Flange.”

The officers remained for awhile in
the car, looking at the house. Flange,
they felt, was a wrong guy. And as for
tonight, very possibly he’d been here
since evening. However, he had friends.
Aman in the rackets always has friends
he can call on for a favor.

“We can’t do anything with him
now,” Witte said. “That'll have to wait
till morning.”

“Let’s head back to Fourth Street,”
Johnston suggested. “Maybe Ed’s come
up with Scotty or the babe.”

Buz when they met Zongolowicz out-
side the house, they learned that
he’d located neither of them.

Hammes asked him, “Did anyone tell
you anything about a Volkswagen tear-
ing around here?” —

“No. Why?” ae

Hammes told him what they had
learned,- ~ ae :

_.“Ah, that woman must have been
seeing things,” Zongolowicz said.

“Did anyone else see the Pontiac
besides the kid?”

_ No, Zongolowicz answered. In fact he
hadn’t come up with any neighbor
who’d been out at the time, “But I'll

take the boy’s word for it. Kids today -

know more about cars than we do.”

Detective Johnston, meanwhile, was -

standing away from the others. He was
frowning. Next to the death steps was a
flight of stairs, with a metal door over
them, which led down to the basement.
The staircase was enclosed by a high
railing of pipes, one side of which-——the
side facing the corner—was covered by
a stee] plate.

“Look,” Johnston said.

“What is it, Will?” Witte asked.

“Sit on the top step, will you?”

Witte sat down while. Johnston
backed off—until he bumped into
someone. It was a man, weaving there
drunkenly.

“You an offsher?” The man’s shirt
was out, his tie askew.

“Come on, out of the way!”

Johnston walked on, but the man
trailed after.

“Got to talk to an offsher.”

“Later, Buddy, later.”

Johnston went into the street, near
the corner. He looked to where Witte
was sitting. “Sam!” he called.

Hammes strolled over. “What is it?”

“This is about where the kid said the
car was, isn’t it?”

“Just about.’”

“Well, look at the steps.”

Hammes did. He winced.

Daniels, they’d learned, had been
shot in the lower chest.

But from anywhere near this corner,
all they could see of Detective Witte was
his head.

“That bullet would have had to go
Aves through the steel] plate,” Hammes
said.

He and Johnston, with the other de-
tectives, examined the plate. It wasn’t
even dented.

Witte stared at the door to the house.
His face was somber.

“Look,” Hammes said, “he’s just a
kid. He got excited.”

“Offshers.”

They turned to the drunk.

“Go on, beat it,” one of them said.

“Lisshen. It’s important. I—” He
slapped himself heavily on the chest—
“I shaw whole thing.”

Johnston, studying the man, said,
“What did you see?”

“The whole thing. I went out and
got drunker. But I got to tell offsher.”

“Well, we’re here so tell us.”

“T saw him shot.”

“Did you see the car?”

“No car.” He shook his head several
times. Johnston had to brace him, for
he seemed about to fall. ‘“‘The shot came
from there!” and he aimed a finger at
the dead man’s house.

OHNSTON’S arm fell away from the

man slowly. He seemed hypnotized as

he followed the other officers up the
steps. ‘.

Witte knocked on the door and Mrs.
Daniels answered.

“Is Billy still up?” Witte asked.

“Yes, I’ve tried to put him to bed but
he just can't sleep.”

“May we talk to him again?”

Billy was on the sofa when the offi-
cers walked in. Hammes sat next to
him while the others stood nearby.

“Billy,” Hammes said, “we want to
know more about that car. Are you sure
it drew up to the curb at the corner?”

The youngster nodded.

“And you saw a man aim a rifle?”

Again that nod.

“You actually saw it, Billy?”

The boy squirmed. He leaned down
and scratched at his leg.

“Billy, did you really see that rifle?”

“Well—” He looked at his mother.

Gently, “Well, what, Billy?”

“Well, I heard it.”

“you mean you heard the rifle go off
but you didn’t see it?”

His head moved up and down.

“Then how did you know it was a
rifle, Billy? Why didn’t you think it
was a revolver?”

“Because rifles: make more noise.”

“What makes you say that?”

“J heard them’ in the movies.”

Hammes leaned back. They could
discount the boy’s entire story now.
He’d imagined the whole thing, appar-
ently. Or had he?

Getting up, Hammes joined the
others in a conference. Out of this came
the decision to give the youngster a
paraffin test, the test whereby melted

Read It First In
AL DETECTIVE STORIES

wax is molded onto a hand, then chem-
ically treated to see if any nitrates from
exploded gunpowder has_ been left
clinging to the skin.

About a half hour later, the detec-
tives and Mrs. Daniels—who’d left her
other children in the care of a neighbor
—were waiting outside a small office in
the Twelfth and Pine Streets Police
Station. In that office were Billy and
two members of the Mobile Crime Lab-
oratory. Mrs. Daniels was pathetic as
she stood by a window, staring out into
the night. She could not cry any more.
Her suffering, etched so deeply into her
face, was far too intense for that.

Then, at a sound from behind, she
wheeled about.

Billy and the lab men were stepping
out.

The boy ran to his mother’s side.

One of the lab men said, “We didn’t
find a thing.” :

After Billy and his relieved mother
left, the officials pondered their next
step. Still baffling to them was the
drunk’s story—of the gun-blast having
come from the house. They couldn’t
see how this was possible, because of the
bullet found in the outer door frame.
But, since the shot had not come from
the corner, they’d have to find out defi-
nitely where it had been triggered.

Perhaps the dead man himself could
help.

A short while after this, the detec-
tives were in the morgue, peering down
at the body. Post mortem examina-
tion had not been made as yet, and
would not be until morning. The skin
of the 35-year-old man already had the
cold rigidity and gray pallor of the long
dead. His face was calm, almost serene.
Only a small blood-clotted hole, near
his lower right ribs, spoke of violent
death. It seemed to the officers that a
man’s huge life could not possibly pour
out of such a tiny wound.

Detective Johnston, who is a licensed
mortician as well as a detective, studied
the hole carefully. Then, with the help
of an attendant, he turned the body
over and found the spot where the slug
had come out. With a pencil held
against the victim’s side, he indicated
the path of the bullet through the body.

“You can see,” he said, “that whoever
fired the shot into this man, fired it
from a higher level and somewhat to
the left of where he was sitting.”

“you mean standing right above
him?” Witte inquired. @

“J don’t think so. We'd see some
powder burns if he’d been that close.
No, the killer was a fair distance away
and on a higher level.”

“Like in a car?”

“No, a car wouldn’t be high enough

_for this angle.”

The officers decided to go back to
Daniels’ house. There, some 20 minutes
later, they were studying the scene from
the steps.

Bs crossed out an automobile. And
a. killer prowling about on foot. And
anyone standing close to the victim.

Which left only two possibilities.
The second-story windows of the six
houses across the street. Or the ceme-
tery which had a brick wall rising some
eight feet from the sidewalk.

Hammes pointed to the cemetery.’
“That's to the left.”

“I know.” Johnston, too, was peering
toward the wall through the night.
“But we can’t be sure. We don’t know
exactly which way Daniels was facing.
He could have been sitting at an angle.”

The detectives, in their routine can-
vass earlier, already had spoken to the
people living across the street. A more
intensive questioning would follow with
the lifting of the night. And with day-
break, too, would come a search of the
‘cemetery.

: Dawn was less than an hour and a
half away. The detectives, waiting,
, watched the darkness gradually fade.
‘As a gentle light seeped through the

tena aes

3AIL03430 TIDISIO |

JNawsasUu IVivizaaY

we ts we

blackness, washing it to a soft gray,
they wondered what they would un-
cover. Perhaps they would learn what
they had not been able to before—that
the phantom-like Scotty actually was a
friend of someone across the street. Or
perhaps that he’d lurked behind that
wall, a ghost among the gravestones
over there.

A milky haze finally covered the city
and the officers moved out. Their call
for reinforcements brought patrolmen
to the scene, to help in the search of
the cemetery.

A shroud of early morning mist hung
over the grounds. Dew lay thick on the
grass and the stones were like somber
figures looking on. The footsteps of the
officers were muted. Here and there a
bird rose up, like some quickness among
the dead, or something rustled among
the graves. It seemed a sacrilege to be
prowling there, to be searching out a
killer in this place—as though it
mocked the dead and their long sleep.

For this is one of the oldest cemeteries
in the old city of Philadelphia. The
officers passed many a headstone with a
weathered, barely legible inscription,
many a date in the late 1700’s and the
early 1800’s, many a line reading,
“... Soldier of the Revolution .. .”

They passed, too, the grave and the
monument to Stephen Decatur, early
hero of the United States Navy and the
War with Tripoli. An honor to the dead,
this monument, and a dishonor to the
living, this search among the monu-
ments and tombstones for the spot
where a killer had stood.

The officials didn’t know what they
hoped to find as they scanned the
grounds along the wall facing Fourth
Street. Maybe something lost or tossed
away. An ejected shell, perhaps, or ciga-
ret stubs or an empty match pad—or
foot-prints miraculously retained since
yesterday. Anything that could tell
them of a vigil, if not a name.

CCASIONALLY an officer would
reach down for something spark-
ling, only to find out it was just a shiny
pebble or the glint of dew. Someone
came up with a woman's soleless shoe
which a passerby undoubtedly had
tossed over the wall, and another found
half of a rubber ball some boy had
batted in. But nothing during those
first minutes that could help. -
Patrolman George Myers came across
the only clue, a cluster of four empty
soda pop bottles, two of them tilted
against a head-stone, two lying flat on
the grave.

Hammes made a move to pick one up,
then stopped, remembering finger-
prints. These bottles had been placed
there recently, for two of them still had
thin lines of soda in them.

Zongolowicz said, “This looks like the
place all right.”

Zongolowicz was at the wall,-only a
couple feet away. The grounds, within
the cemetery, were raised above side-
walk level and the wall there was only
about three feet high. Zongolowicz had
his arms in the position of firing a rifle.
The imaginary weapon was aimed in a
diagonal line toward the death steps,
just across the street.

“He could have hid behind this tree,”
Zongolowicz said, “and rested the gun
on the wall.” :

Johnston said, “If it was only one
man, he was sure pretty thirsty. My
guess is, if these bottles mean anything,
at least two people were here.”

Probably, they realized, the bottles
had nothing to do with the crime. Per-
haps some boys had been playing there.

However, they decided to see if any
of the neighborhood storekeepers re-
called selling these four sodas yester-
day, shortly before the slaying. The
difficulty, though, was that the soda
was one of the most popular brands.
Another obstacle was that none of the
stores were open this early in the morn-
ing, and most likely some of them
would not open at all on Sunday. But
this was only a temporary hurdle for,
as the officers soon learned, most of the
proprietors lived with their businesses.

Isaac Teitelbaum and the home he
died in: Fatal echoes from his
murder were heard five years later

They began to ring bells.

Bottled soda?

Oh, came the replies, they sell so
much soda in the Summer, especially
on Saturdays. Two bottles, four bottles,
cases—everything. Ice cream and soda,
that’s all the business you do.

Half the neighborhood, it seemed,
had filed in and out of these places.

“Look,” Detective Johnston said to
one man, still sleepy-eyed from having
been awakened, “it was sometime in the
evening—any time up to a quarter after
eleven. You're open that late, aren’t
you?”

“Sure. Night’s our busiest time.”

“Four bottles,” Hammes pressed.
“Not two, not five. Just four.”

“You know, I don't keep books,” the
man said. “You just come in, you pay
me, you take the bottles. That's all.
Tell me,” he said after a pause, “why
do you want to know this?”

“Because,” Johnston answered, “we
think whoever bought this soda was re-
sponsible for killing that man down the
street.”

“Really!” He turned to his wife who
was somewhere behind him. “Did you
hear that? I knew that man.”

“Uh-huh.” Johnston was anxious to
go now.

“You hear stories, but he was a
gentleman to me. It was always hello,
it was always how are you. And his
children, his wife—they’re all so nice.
I was just telling my wife this morning,
you're here today but you never know
what the next minute’s going to bring.
Like I saw his boy yesterday. He was
here, he was happy, did he know that
night his father-was going to die?”

Hammes said, “Which boy was that?"

“Marty. You know, his oldest. A real
fine boy, that Marty. Look.” The store-
keeper laughed. “You ask me about
people buying soda. Even Marty bought

12% 8 > : ~ 4 4 ie eee
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soda. I couldn’t even begin to tell you
all the people who did.”

Abruptly, White asked, “Did he drink
it here?”

“Did Marty drink it here?” The man
surveyed the ceiling. “It’s hard to re-
member. Let me see.” He looked down.
“No, now I remember: He was here
with some other boy, I don’t know him.
They took some out.”

“Four?”

“I don’t know four,” the man said
with a gesture. “It could be three, it
could be six.”

“What time was this?”

“I should say about eight, nine. Look,
_ a minute! You don’t think that

y—"

‘ ank you, Mister,” Johnston inter-
rupted, with a vigorous shake of his
hand. :

An alarm was immediately sent out
for Martin Daniels, Junior, missing
since the Friday night quarrel with his
father.

A little more than an hour later, the
youth was arrested by Patrolmen Fran-
cis Palmer and Frank Duda while driv-
ing in his car. With him at the time
were two other boys, fifteen-year-old
Albert Strolis and Curtis Raymond Ed-
wards.

Taken to Headquarters, Daniels—po-
lice say—made a startling statement
under questioning by Detective Captain
David R. Roberts, chief of the Homicide
Squad, and in the presence of Detective
Thomas Carmody, of the Juvenile Aid
Bureau. .

CCORDING to the police, Daniels
told them this: After the quarrel
with his father—during which the
father had threatened to beat him—he
had been afraid to go home. He met
Edwards and said, “He treated me and
Mom mean and cursed me... I’m going
to get even.” That night Daniels slept in
his car, then met Edwards and Strolis
the next day and talked them into join-
ing his plot. A rifle was obtained from
a friend, who knew nothing of their
plan, and after buying the sodas the
three boys slipped into the cemetery.
He knew of his father’s habit of sit-
ting out on the steps late at night, and

he and the other two waited sev
hours. for this. But when the fat
appeared with Billy, young Daniels
afraid he might hit his brother

passed the rifle to Edwards with

comment, “You'd better shoot; yo
a better marksman.” And Edwards,
lice claim, did.

That Edwards should be na
added an even more fantastic eler
to the case.

For Edwards was the son of an «
cuted murderer—Grover Cleveland
wards.

Almost 26 months prior to the da
the boy’s arrest, the father had gon
the electric chair for the slaying
Isaac Teitelbaum, a baker for wi
he'd once worked. The elder Edwar
a stevedore, as Martin Daniels
been—had shot Teitelbaum down w
a old man had been pleading for
ife.

First the father executed for mur

Now the son—a tall, slender, ch
like boy—under arrest: in a homic

In the midst of the general ho:
that the crime generated through
the city, young Daniels’ mother and
paternal grandmother leaped quick]
his defense. From them came sto
of the dead man’s brutality—const
beatings inflicted not only upon
children but also upon Mrs. Daniels
Daniels’ own mother. The boy, t
said, had been “goaded” into it; }
always been a good son, paying the:
and never once missing a day’s wor!
his job in a glass factory.

On June 25, 1957, Daniels, Edwz
and Strolis were held without bail c
charge of homicide by shooting.
July 17, all three youths were indic
by the grand jury on charges of mw:
and voluntary and involuntary m
slaughter. Bail was denied and they
being held in prison awaiting trial
the charges as OFFICIAL DETECT)
STORIES goes to press.

As for the man shot in West Ph
delphia, he has recovered—althoi
his assailants, at this writing, have
been apprehended.

The names Scotty and Connie «
Daniel Flange are fictitious.


~ each ban Bie A aa ya ade as alot tat ate

dab os RRS RET

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Lenawee

EDWARDS, Grover C., white, electrocuted Pennsylvania ( Philadelphia) --251955,

YOU END UP DEAD

You toil 57 years for security, then plead with a gunman for time to enjoy it

BY BOB FARRELL

Philadelphia, Pa., September 6, 1952
™@ ISAAC TEITELBAUM came awake sud-
denly. His wide nostrils worked in and
out like he was trying to smell what it
was that had awakened him. He held
his breath and listened but heard only
the sound of his own heart. Then from
upstairs came the soft thud of foot-
steps. Someone was moving around on
the third floor. Fear grabbed at his
heart because he knew he was. alone in
the house. His wife and son couldn’t
be home yet from Atlantic City. He
heard a drawer scrape and then more
footsteps. Then he relaxed a little. That
had to be Jules, he told himself. A
burglar wouldn’t make all that noise.
He knew he should find out if it was

\

his son but he didn’t want to. He was
still scared. He pulled the blanket over
his head. But the sounds from the third
floor came through, anyway. He lay
trembling under the blanket, breathing
stale breath, getting lightheaded. Finally,
he threw the blanket off his head and
dragged in fresh air. He listened to the
sounds above him. “I’ve got to find out
if that’s Jules,” he mumbled.

E kicked off the cover and swung.

out of bed. His long nightshirt
flapped as he padded across the room.
He paused at the door. His finger rested
on the light switch but he decided
not to turn the light on. He opened the
door and called, “Is that you, Jules?”

INSIDE DETECTIVE MAGAZINE, DECEMBER, 1953.

Neig ghbors of Isaac Teitelbaum tell of hearing shots, and then Teitelbaum
yelling, 'Murder!" from a window. His voice sounded like he was choking.

t

The silence beat on his ears like a
bass drum. Then, a muffled yes floated
down the: stairs.

Teitelbaum’s knees sagged as the
tension eased. A sigh slid past his thin
lips. He stumbled across the room and
fell face down on the bed. After a few
seconds, he turned over and grinned
at the ceiling. “Acted worse than a
woman,” he thought, half-smiling. He
noticed the dawn seeping around the
edges of the blind and glanced at the
clock. Almost 5. Might as well get
some more sleep. ;

His head settled back on the pillow
and the good: feeling came back. The
feeling he’d had since he retired a
couple of (Continued on page 50)

A sispectéd Killer, with head Bowed
was tracked by a cop on a vacation.

39


aa eee es ove rs Te erie —

att fy, , ast)
q .

County Detective Richard Powell examines the
blackjack found in the lake where Freda Me-
Kechnie met her tragic fate.

“Smiles for the ladies,
Never tears:

Bobbie’s conquests
Last for years.”

HAT was what the Classbook had said about
4 Bobbie Edwards when he was graduated from
the high school at Edwardsville, Pa., an honor
student, and the star lady-killer of the class. He was
handsome, his father had money and he a car of his
own. At the moment when he first became an object
of interest to the world he was sitting in that car, on
the evening of July 30, 1934, with one of those con-
quests beside him. The place was the little side road,
surrounded by trees, that bordered Harvey’s Lake,
near Wilkes-Barre. The conquest’s name was Freda
McKechnie; as Bobbie himself admitted, she was noth-
ing much to rave about for looks and only the daughter
of a miner. But her humble family lived conveniently
across the road from Bobbie’s wealthy one, and she
was always game for a dance or a party of any kind.
He was growing a little tired of her easily-won ca-
resses on that evening; besides, he supposed he would
have to break off with her some time, and it might
as well be the present. For Bobbie Edwards, that
breaker of feminine hearts, had himself fallen hard,
and it was not for Freda McKechnie. He had met a
girl at the Mansfield State Teacher’s College—Margaret
Crain, a music teacher, good-looking, educated and
gay, with all the charms Freda possessed and a great
many Freda did not possess. He had gone out with
her several times, and since then had driven up to
East Aurora, N. Y., where she lived, to visit her and
her family. And on the last of the visits, only a month

60 ]

ills

SECOND

AMERICAN

TRAGEDY

By Lum Smith

The strange real-life parallel
to Theodore Dreiser’ s celebrated
novel as written into the court
records at Wilkes-Barre
Pennsylvania

before, she had promised to marry him. A wave of
happiness went through Bobbie Edwards at the thought,
followed by a wave of annoyance as he came again to
the consciousness of the girl by his side. He gulped
a little and turned toward her:

“Freda,” he began, ‘I—”

Then he noted she was looking at him in a strange
way, and stopped. ‘“What’s the matter?” he inquired
sharply.

“Bobbie,” she said, “I didn’t feel good, so I went
ste: a doctor today. He says I’m going to have a
yaby,”

He could only stare, feeling the muscles of his scalp
tighten.

“Oh, Bobbie!” she suddenly threw her arms around
him. “You'll take care of me, won’t you? I love you,
Bobbie. You told me you would if anything happened.
I wouldn’t have done it for anyone but you, Bobbie.
I never went out with other boys. Tell Freda you still
love her.”

Bobbie Edwards was shaking inwardly, “Of course
I do, Freda... . What do you want to do?”

She crept into his arms. “What do you want me
to do? Oh, Bobbie, I was afraid this would happen.”

“Well, look here, let’s be sensible about it. You
can do one of two things. We can get married, or you
can go to a doctor about it. I think I know one that
will fix you up, but I’ll give you your choice.”

Her face was against his coat. “I’d rather get mar-
ried. Freda’d rather have a baby. It'll be your baby,
too.”

He stirred uncomfortably. She was just the kind
of fool girl who would expect him to settle down like

had Ries

PRP SS RO Whi Wa bo th spe ‘ one a in cali ns datas Paiace <A = ot
: ee
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TA
7 ? hE

ees (PSY

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a miner
In a cot-

tage some-

where. “Wel
all right,”
forced him:
to say, unab
sec any es
“Let’s go ofl
where. Let
Virginia

married. Y
have to ha
permissi
that red

“All right
ever you sa\
sion on her
was happy
that her f
“Let’s go fo:

“Aw, it’s
wards wante
and think.

“Well, rai
ter. It’s dark
Come on, \

He steppe
you Want Co
house.”

She chang:
ing to him t
running ove:
thought of n
ter was horril
he had prom
body say? A
the side-pock
something he
no thought o
solve crossed
trunks quick
and dashed d

It was dat
with her laug
distance out.
dock and be;

“It’s shallo
“only three o
flung up her
to rise beside
up in the glo
the bottom, b
his swimmin;


trallel
brated

court
re

A wave of
t the thought,
came again to
ve. He gulped

nin a strange
“he inquired

od, so I went
ing to have a

es of his scalp

‘arms around
1? I love you,
ing happened.
: you, Bobbie.
Freda you still

ve “Of course
o do?”

you want me
ould happen.”
out it. You
iarried, or you
‘now one that
choice.”

ither get mar-
be your baby,

just the kind
ttle down like

aminer
ina cot-

lage some-
where. “Well,
all right,” he
forced himself
to say, unable to
se any escape.
“Let’s go off some-

where. Let’s go to
Virginia and get
married. You don’t

have to have parents’
permission and all
that red tape _ there.”

“All right, Bobbie. What-
ever you say.” The expres-
sion on her face changed. She
was happy in the knowledge
that her future was secure.
“Let’s go for a swim to celebrate.”

“Aw, it’s too cold.” Bobbie Ed-
wards wanted to get away somewhere
and think. “Besides it’s raining.”

“Well, rain won’t hurt you in the wa-
ter. It’s dark and there’s nobody else around.
Come on, we can change in the car.”

He stepped on the starter. “All right if
- want to. We can park the bus behind the ice-
jouse.””

She changed first and ran happily to the dock, call-
ing to him to hurry. He undressed slowly, his mind
running over the thought of what he could do. The
thought of marrying this uneducated miner’s daugh-
ter was horrible. What would Margaret Crain, the girl
he had promised to marry, say? What would every-
body say? And then, as he was putting his watch in
the side-pocket of the car, his hand touched something;
something he had put there a long time before, with
no thought of anything like this. A sudden, fierce re-
solve crossed his brain. He pulled on his swimming
trunks quickly, slipped something down inside them
and dashed down to the dock after the girl.

It was dark around the lake, but the night rang
with her laughter. ‘“Yoo-hoo!” she called from a little
distance out. Bobbie Edwards slid gently from the
dock and began to swim toward her.

“It’s shallow here,” said the girl, as he approached,
“only three or four feet deep. Watch me dive.” She
flung up her arms, and plunged down into the water,
to rise beside him, her white swimming cap showing
up in the gloom. And Bobbie Edwards, standing on
the bottom, biting his lip till it bled, drew forth from
his swimming trunks the blackjack he had slipped

The real life
triangle that re-
sulted in the
death of Freda

McKechnice. Top
left, Freda McKech-
nie; Top right, Mar-
garet Crain, the girl
Robert Edwards was to
marry; Bottom center,

Robert Edwards.

inside them and struck
her on the top of the head
with all his strength—one
terrible, dull, smashing
shock. She never even cried
out; the white bathing cap
simply sank out of sight into the
water. Bobbie Edwards looked
round for a moment at the over-
hanging trees; but no accusing voice
came from the shadows. ‘Then he
flung the blackjack far out into the
lake and plunged through the water to-
ward the shore.
It was dark around the little lake, and now -
it was very still. The rain had stopped.
The girl’s clothes lay in the car; Bobbie Ed-
wards noticed them as he got in. Up to this moment
he had acted almost on impulse, but now he began to
plan furiously fast. When the body was found—his
mind hesitated over the thought—it would look like
an accidental drowning. She had often said her heart
was weak; it would be supposed that she suffered a
heart attack or a cramp while in the water. The bath-
ing cap the girl had worn and the mass of her hair
would have dampened the force of the blow; there
would be no marks to show she had been struck. He
only had to be careful and make certain that his own
presence there did not become known. He could leave
the clothes a little way back from the lake in a clump
of bushes where the young people of the neighborhood
sometimes changed before going for a swim. He must
remember to get all the things out of the car, that was
all. Then he could deny that he had been there. Hastily
he gathered up the murdered girl’s clothes, her purse,
her watch; fortunately he knew the ground and it
was only the work of a moment to place them under
a tree in the center of the thicket. He hurried; the
earlier he got home the more perfect the alibi he meant
to build up would be.
On the way through town, he noted that the drug-
store was still open. It gave him an idea; he halted the
car, went in and bought a couple of chocolate bars,

[ 6x


62 American Detective

waiting for dinner. Bobbie Edwards, sitting
on the porch, was looking over the Phila-
delphia papers, when Mary Ellen, Freda Mce-
Kechnie’s younger sister, appeared at the gate.

“Hey, Bobbic!”” she called, ‘mother wants
to see you.”

The youthful murderer’s heart contracted
suddenly—had the body been found? No,
there wasn’t time, and started across the road,
mentally rehearsing what he would say.

Mrs. McKechnie, a worn woman in her
fifties, stood beside her husband in the mean
little parlor, her face lined with worry. ‘Oh,
Bobbie,” she burst out, “I’m just crazy with
worry. Freda hasn’t been home all night and
all day. Where is she?”

He looked at her calmly, almost coldly. “I
don’t know, Roffy,” he answered, using the
name by which he had always called her when
he went to the McKechnie house for dinner.
“We met the Rosettis last night when we were
out driving and I took them home. Freda
asked me to Iet her out at Plymouth Street,
so I did, and came straight home. You see—
you see—she said you didn’t want me to go
out with her any more.”

“That isn’t true, Bobbie! I never said any-
thing like that to her and you know it. Oh,
Bobbie, tell me, what did you say to her be-
fore she got out of the car?” The woman was
wringing her hands.

Bobbie Edwards gulped. “Well, you see,
I’m going to marry a girl I met at Strate
Teacher’s College, and Freda and I have al-
ways been such good friends I thought I ought
to tell her about it.”

Mrs. McKechnie’s face suddenly became
dark with a great fear, and she slowly lifted
one hand to her mouth. ‘My God,” she said,
“what have you done to my Freda? Bobbie,
tell me, tell me.”

Robert Edwards, principal in | Pennsylvania’s “American
Tragedy” mystery is shown with Margaret Crain, the girl he
had hoped to marry.

glancing up at the clock as he did so.

~ “What’s the matter with your clock, Harvey?” he
asked casually. “Looks like it’s getting a little ahead
of time. Says half-past eleven up there, but my watch
is only ten minutes to.”

The druggist gazed up without great interest. “I
s’pose it’s wrong again,” he remarked, “that clock never
did run right.” ;

Edwards went out, mentally congratulating himself

on his cleverness. The lower rooms at home were dark,
but he noted a light upstairs which betokened that his
mother was not yet in bed.
_ “Mother!” he called, and when she answered, “Yes?”
went on, “I’ve brought you a couple of bars of choco-
late. I noticed it wasn’t eleven yet, so I thought you
wouldn’t be in bed. Shall I bring them up?”

“Oh, thank you, son,” she replied. ‘Yes do. That
was awfully thoughtful of you. Dear me, I thought
it was much later than that.”

«++.» It was the next evening and the family was

Bobbie Edwards shrugged his shoulders
“Oh, Roffy, don’t carry on like that. How
should I know what’s happened to her? She's
probably all right.” The father rose slowly,
glowering at the young man whom he had
always expected to marry his daughter.

And just at that moment the parlor door opened,
and in walked John McKechnie, Freda’s older brother.
Without a glance at the wealthy youth who stood
there, he walked across the room and whispered some-
thing in his father’s car. George McKechnie leaped to
his feet, flinging aside the hat that he had failed to
take off when he came home, and the whole room was
filled with the terrible cry he gave. “Our Freda is dead.
She’s been murdered. Murdered! Let me at him!” He
struggled in the arms of his wife and son. Mary Ellen
pushed the trembling Bobbie toward the door. “Get
out of here, quick!” she cried, ‘before my father kills
you.”

Bobbie Edwards needed no second injunction. He
raced from the house on trembling feet, across the road,
and back to lock himself in his own room. The thing
was proving more difficult to carry off then he imag-
ined, but he only had to stick to his story, stick to
his story, he told himself, and everything would be all

Mrs. Evel)
]


vo KISS AND KILL

‘All right,’ he shouted, ‘I hit her with a blackjack so she
wouldn’t suffer!’

As far as Powell was concerned, it was all over now except
for one thing—the motive for murder could be established
beyond all doubt. He turned his attention to Margaret Crain
in East Aurora, and she staunchly defended Bobby.

‘He couldn’t do such a thing!’ she told the investigator, and,
as proof of their mutual feelings, she turned over a bundle of
172 letters written to her by Bobby.

They were scorching, unprintable letters which gave Powell
the last link in the chain, the evidence of a fanatic passion in
Bobby Edwards for Margaret Crain. A passion which would
have been cheated if Freda McKechnie had been left alive to
press her claim on him.

The trial lasted one week, and up to the moment that
Bobby Edwards was found guilty and sentenced to death,
the pattern of the classic murder case was laid in place, bit
by bit.

It is likely that the only observer in the court-room to
realise this at the time was a quiet, greying man named
Theodore Dreiser. Ten years before he had written a novel
called An American Tragedy. It was about a boy who clumsily
drowned his pregnant girl friend because of his love for
another woman.

ERIC AMBLER

Doctor Finch and
Miss Tregoff

West Covina is a residential suburb in the eastern section
of the county of Los Angeles, California. Bisecting this
wilderness of long streets, dusty palm trees, small houses,
kidney-shaped swimming pools, dichondra lawns, and sprin-
kler systems, is the San Bernardino freeway. You may
drive to the downtown business area of Los Angeles in
thirty minutes. Economically, West Covina is plump; not
portly, as is Brentwood, nor bloated, as is Beverly Hills;
just respectably plump.

About a mile from the freeway is the South Hills Country
Club. On the arid slopes beyond are houses belonging to some
of the more prosperous members of the community. Until
1960, the home of Dr Raymond Bernard Finch on Lark Hill
Drive was one of them. It is in the modern Californian ‘ranch
house’ style and stands on the flattened top of a scrub-covered
eminence with a commanding view over the Country Club car
park. A steep, curving driveway leads down to the road. There
is a heated swimming pool and a four-car garage. Early in 1959
Dr Finch is said to have refused an offer of $100,000 for the
place. He would have done better to have accepted.

Shortly before midnight on Saturday, July 18 of that year,
the West Covina police were called to the house. They found
there a terrified and incoherent Swedish maid, and, at the
foot of some narrow steps leading down from the side of
the driveway, the dead body of Mrs Barbara Jean Finch, the
doctor’s wife. She was lying on the edge of a lawn belonging
to the adjoining house where her husband’s father lived. She

69

ere a confession was dic-

ind Love Letters

. following the confession,
t District Attorney Flan-
ied Bobby still further. He
nat Freda was in the way,
fered with young Edwards’
’ the other girl, the girl who
s sweetheart at Mansfield.
e had been unable to go on
lege work because of de-
ces, and that his college
ad graduated and then ob-
yyment as a music super-
ew York town. .
from an examination of
50 letters found in Bobby’s
ill about the girl. ;
letters, when they were in-
vidence at Bobby Edwards
ber, caused men to blush
packed in the throng of
vho crowded into the court-
<es-Barre, to faint.
hose burning messages of
read into the record, but
el for the defense waived
ug and the balance of the
dmitted without more ado.
rs, many of them unprint-
insight into the real char-
youth who was facing the
‘, on trial for his life.

Virgin,” one of . them
are my own. I wish we
no restrictions, so that
ome and go as we pleased.
y wife, aren’t you?

ou, darling. I am work-
iying and the time is not
{ take you in my arms for

ling is wonderful when
py and makes everyone
il, especially her adoring
worship you.”
the most voluptuous pas-
vfaupassant could approach
e intensity of those flam-
1s as Flannery read them
record,
was, perhaps, one of the
mal on record anywhere,
ted the lengths to which
id youth. Throughout the
startling courtroom drama,
d over each other as the
of Freda McKechnie and
cayal and death was told
d whose ears were strained
‘word of the testimony.
irse, under the hammering
of the district attorney
the real story of the case
is a story so similar to the
‘ster Gillette affair in New
; ago that it became known
d American Tragedy.” For,
led, the famous novelist,
siser, found the plot basis
‘ican Tragedy” in that same
tte case. .
prepared for the damning
sensuality that fell upon
room with the introduction
dant's letters, Bobby Ed-
el, like everyone else but
ittorneys, were astounded
counsel had been assured
t that the letters contained
a man would not write to
tended to marry,
se torrid missives were read
ord it was possible to see
s’ chances slipping. The

ee
—

youth himself, bearing up well until this
portion of the trial, dropped his head,
then buried his face on his arms as the
shocking phrases were presented by As-
sistant District Attorney Flannery,

Bobby Takes Stand

THEN, finally, Bobby Edwards took
the stand in his own defense, Pale
and haggard, his eyes r d-rimmed as
though he had been crying} he walked to
the witness stand, ;

Under questioning he told how he met
Freda when they both worked in a brok-
erage office, how they ha gone out to-
gether, walking, riding, s imming. Then
he related how he had feft for school
where he met the other, shore glamorous
girl and wooed her.

Returning to Edwar
parents no longer coul
him in school, he renewed his friendship
with Freda, He admifted that before
July 23, a week before/her death, there
had been no talk of arriage between
them. But on that date she phoned him
from the office of a ilkes-Barre phy-
sician and said that ghe must see him
that evening,

He met her as arr
walked she told him
The doctor had said
a mother.

It was then, Bobb said, that he of-
fered to elope with her. August 1 ws.
the date set for the w dding. He woflld’
have his pay check bx then. if

Testimony of other Witnesses d {ring
that dramatic trial revealed that prior to

d

ville when his
afford to keep

ged and as they
of her discovery.
€ was to become

But after that date she c anged
completely, seemed improved in health,
radiant with happiness. She began mak-
ing new clothes although no one knew
that she was working on a wedding
dress,

In his own defense, then, Bobby Ed-
wards denied that he killed th girl, the
home town girl whom he had /betrayed,

He testified that it was Freda who sug-
gested a swim on that fateful evening.

Despite the rain and electrical storm
which had swept the region they drove
out to Harvey’s Lake where they had
gone many times before. Her bathing
suit, he said, had been in his car for
several days.

He told how they were sitting in a
boat when Freda fainted. He claimed
he left her after an examination led him
to believe she was dead. He thought
of the blackjack in his car, he said, as
one means of covering up their ill-
starred romance. He got the weapon
and returned to where the girl still lay
limp in the boat. He struck her on the
head, thinking to make her death appear
accidental, and towed her body into the
water,

But that was not the story painted by
the prosecution. They maintained that
the two had waded into the lake and
that Bobby, watching for his chance,
struck the unsuspecting girl, the girl
who had given everything a woman has
to give, with the heavy mace, killing her,

There came a time when the evidence
was in, when Judge W. A. Valentine de-
livered his charge to the jury. That was
a period of suspense, not only for the
youth whose life hung in the balance,
but for thousands who had followed the
case avidly since the trial began.

And when, after a night of delibera-
tion, the jury indicated that it was ready
with a verdict, Bobby Edwards was led
into the courtroom in manacles. There
was a hush as those present waited to
hear the all-important words.

They came clearly, in the voice of a
clerk. And they found Bobby Edwards
guilty of murder in the first degree and
fixed death as the penalty,

And that verdict avenged the brutal
murder of little Freda McKechnie, the
trusting home town girl who loved and
was betrayed and then was slain to make

way for another, more attractive ro-
mance,

“IF THIS IS GIVEN TO POLICE™
OR PRESS, NOTHING CAN SAVE
STOLL,” was a threat in the ransom
note which struck terror into the heart
of the husband of the kidnaped woman.

he ransom note contained blank
spaces at the bottom of the sheet of in-
structions for the name of an inter-
mediary, and warned that: “THIS IN-
TERMEDIARY MUST HAVE ABSO-
LUTE FREEDOM FROM POLICE.
HE MUST NOT EVEN BE QUES-
TIONED BY ANYONE. YOU MUST
NOT CORRESPOND WITH HIM. IF
HE IS PUT WISE, THE DEAL IS
OFF, AND WE WILL CARRY OUT
OUR THREAT AS TO STOLL,”

The note suggested that “Stoll’s” ab-
sence be explained by saying that “he”
was ill or out of town—a suggestion al-
ready beyond the possibility of fulfill-
ment,

That ransom note was the single link
between the crime and its perpetrator.

The maid told police she believed the

THANK You For MENTION

kidnap car was a Ford V-8 coach. Her
“Geseription of the kidnaper was vague.
He was about 35 years of age, was about
five feet and six inches tall, well-dressed
and wore his black hair parted in the
middle, she said. During his stay in the

house, he used perfect English and
avoided use of profanity, Mrs. Woolet
stated.

Fear Victim Slain

NUGGET had fallen quickly after the
alarm was broadcast by police
radio. All roads leading out of Jefferson
county were blockaded and cars cross-
ing the Ohio River bridges were halted
and searched, but police feared they had
been too late to block escape of the kid-
naper.

Detailed upon the case by this time
were 135 local police, ninety detectives,
sixteen Department of Justice agents,
thirty county police, four Coast Guards-
men and twenty-five members of the
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HARMLESS

quarters where a confession was dic-
tated.

Find Love Letters

AY? there, following the confession,
Assistant District Attorney Flan-
nery questioned Bobby still further. He
established that Freda was in the way,
that she interfered with young Edwards’
plan to marry the other girl, the girl who
had been his sweetheart at Mansfield.
Bobby said he had been unable to go on
with his college work because of de-
pleted finances, and that his college
sweetheart had graduated and then ob-
tained employment as a music super-
visor in a New York town.

Flannery, from an examination of
more than 150 letters found in Bobby’s
room, knew all about the girl.

And those letters, when they were in-
troduced in evidence at Bobby Edwards’
trial in October, caused men to blush
and women, packed in the throng of
curious folk who crowded into the court-
room in Wilkes-Barre, to faint.

Many of those burning messages of
passion were read into the record, but
finally counsel for the defense waived
further reading and the balance of the
notes were admitted without more ado,

Those letters, many of them unprint-
able, gave an insight into the real char-
acter of the youth who was facing the
bar of justice, on trial for his life.

“Blessed Virgin,” one of them
read, “you are my own. I wish we
could have no restrictions, so that
we could come and go as we pleased.
You are my wife, aren’t you?

“I love you, darling. I am work-
ing and praying and the time is not
long when I take you in my arms for
always.

“My darling is wonderful when
she is happy and makes everyone
else cheerful, especially her adoring
husband. I worship you.”

Not even the most voluptuous pas-
sages of De Maupassant could approach
the passionate intensity of those flam-
ing paragraphs as Flannery read them
into the trial record,

That trial was, perhaps, one of the
most sensational on record anywhere.
It demonstrated the lengths to which
passion can lead youth. Throughout the
days of that startling courtroom drama,
thrills tumbled over each other as the
tragic story of Freda McKechnie and
her love, betrayal and death was told
before a crowd whose ears were strained
to catch every word of the testimony.

And, of course, under the hammering
determination of the district attorney
and his staff, the real story of the case
came ot, It is a story so similar to the
notorious Chester Gillette affair in New
England years ago that it became known
as the “Second American Tragedy.” For,
it was recalled, the famous novelist,
Theodore Dreiser, found the plot basis
for his “American Tragedy” in that same
Chester Gillette case.

Wholly unprepared for the damning
avalanche of sensuality that fell upon
the the courtroom with the introduction
of the defendant’s letters, Bobby Ed-
wirds’ counsel, like everyone else but
the state’s attorneys, were astounded
The defense counsel had been assured
by their client that the letters contained
nothing that a man would not write to
the girl he intended to marry.

And as those torrid missives were read
into the record it was possible to see
Bob Edwards’ chances slipping. The

Tank You For MEnvrIoninc Starting Detective ApvENTURES

+ commas
ae

youth hin
portion ©
then buri:
shocking
sistant D

HEN,
the st
and hags
though h:
the witne
Under «
Freda wh
erage off
gether, w
he relate
where he
girl and
Return
- parents :
him in sc
with Fre
July 23,
had bee:
them. B
from the
sician a!
that eve
He me
walked :
The doc:
a mothe
It was
fered to
the date
have his
Testin
that dra:
July 23,
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complet«
radiant \
ing new
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df saree |
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note wh
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The
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TERM!
LUTE

“That
betwee:
The :

i

youth himself, bearing up well until this
Portion of the trial, dropped his head,
then buried his face on his arms as the
shocking phrases were Presented by As-
sistant District Attorney Flannery,

Bobby Takes Stand
‘THEN. finally, Bobby Edwards took

the stand in his own defense. Pale
and haggard, his eyes red-rimmed as
though he had been crying, he walked to
the witness stand.

nder. questioning he told how he met
Freda when they both worked in a brok-
erage office, how they had gone out to-
gether, walking, riding, swimming. Then
he related how he had left for school
where he met the other, more glamorous
girl and wooed her.

Returning to Edwardsville when his
Parents no longer could afford to keep
him in school, he renewed his friendship
with Freda. He admitted that before
July 23, a week before her death, there
had been no talk of marriage between
them. But on that date she phoned him
from the office of a Wilkes-Barre phy-
sician and said that she must see him
that evening.

e met her as arranged and as they
walked she told him of her discovery,
The doctor had said she was to become
a mother.

It was then, Bobb said, that he of-
fered to elope with er. August 1 was
the date set for the wedding. He would
have his Pay check by then,

Testimony of other witnesses during
that dramatic trial] revealed that prior to
July 23, Freda had been ill and despon-
dent. But after that date she changed
completely, seemed improved in health,
radiant with happiness, She began mak-
ing new clothes although no one knew
that she was working on a wedding
dress,

In his own defense, then, Bobby Ed-
wards denied that he killed the girl, the
home town girl whom he had betrayed,

“IF THIS IS GIVEN TO POLICE
OR PRESS, NOTHING CAN SAVE
STOLL,” was a threat in the ransom
note which struck terror into the heart
of the husband of the kidnaped woman.

he ransom note contained blank
Spaces at the bottom of the sheet of in-
Structions for the name of an inter-

sence be explained by saying that “he”
was ill or out of town—a suggestion al-
ready beyond the Possibility of fulfill-

That ransom note was the single link
between the crime and its Perpetrator.
The maid told Police she believed the

THANK You For MENTIONING

Mat} a pe wha gneh
intied from’ page
EN

He testified that it was Freda who sug-
gested a swim on that fateful evening.
Despite the rain and electrical storm
which had swept the region they drove
out to Harvey’s Lake where they had
gone many times before. Her bathing
suit, he said, had been in his car for
several days.

He told how they were sitting in a
boat when Freda fainted. He claimed
he left her after an examination led him
to believe she was dead. He thought
of the blackjack in his car, he said, as
one means of covering up their ill-
Starred romance. He got the weapon
and returned to where the girl still lay
limp in the boat. He struck her on the
head, thinking to make her death appear
accidental, and towed her body into the
water,

But that was not the story painted by
the prosecution, They maintained that
the two had waded into the lake and
that Bobby, watching for his chance,
struck the unsuspecting girl, the girl
who had given everything a woman has
to give, with the heavy mace, killing her,

There came a time when the evidence
was in, when Judge W. A. Valentine de-
livered his charge to the jury. That was
a period of Suspense, not only for the
youth whose life hung in the balance,
but for thousands who had followed the
case avidly since the trial began.

And when, after a night of delibera-
tion, the jury indicated that it was ready
with a verdict, Bobby Edwards was led
into the courtroom in manacles. There
was a hush as those present waited to
hear the all-important words,

They came clearly, in the voice of a
clerk. And they found Bobby Edwards
guilty of murder in the first degree and
fixed death as the penalty,

And that verdict avenged the brutal
murder of little Freda McKechnie, the
trusting home town girl who loved and
was betrayed and then was slain to make
way for another, more attractive ro-
mance, .

Rahat

kidnap car was a Ford V-8 coach. Her
description of the kidnaper was vague,

€ was about 35 years of age, was about
five feet and six inches tall, well-dressed
and wore his black hair parted in the
middle, she said. During his stay in the
house, he used perfect English and
avoided use of profanity, Mrs. Woolet

Stated.
Fear Victim Slain

N/GHT had fallen quickly after the

alarm was broadcast by police
radio, All roads leading out of Jefferson
county were blockaded and cars cross-
ing the Ohio River bridges were halted
and searched, but police feared they had
been too late to block escape of the kid-
naper.

Detailed upon the case by this time
were 135 local police, ninety detectives,
sixteen Department of Justice agents,
thirty county police, four Coast Guards-
men and twenty-five members of the
State Militia.

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Startuine Derecriyy ADVENTURES 69


EDWARDS , Robert Allen, wh, elec PA (Luzerne) Mey 6,

Na ee

1935

Pennsylvania’ s Appalling
Sweetheart Slaying

drenched the countryside.
In the little town of Edwardsville, eighteen miles across

the Susquehanna River from Wilkes-Barre, life moved

in its accustomed, unhurried way. A cool breeze swept down

from ‘the great mountains that rose, majestic and remote,
against the skyline, and tempered the summer sun.

The town is in the heart of the anthracite coal regions of

Pennsylvania. It is a friendly little community, where

E was a hot bright July afternoon, and a brilliant sun

everybody knows everybody else. The.woes of one
family are the troubles of the rest. The happiness en-
joyed by one is shared by the whole town.

The sun that shone so brilliantly above Edwardsville that
day of July 30th, 1934, was no brighter than the happiness
in the heart of Freda McKechnie.

She sang as she went about her work. Up in her bedroom
on the second floor of her home, she took out once more the
dresses that had been made with such painstaking care. She

By Chief of Detectives

RICHARD POWELL

LUZERNE COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA

As told to D.

TRUE DETECTIVE, February, 1935

A. HARRISON

(Left) Robert Bobb
Edwards, thing pose
of the triangle in this
appalling American
tragedy

(Above) The incrimi-
nating black-jack, a
fearsome exhibit in the
State’s case against
the Sweetheart-
murderer

(Right) Chief of De-
tectives Richard
Powell who has given
this Prominent case
to TRUE DETECTIVE


‘alk and pavement.
and turned away.

vhispered. “I know
ht before without

nfort her. ‘She's
“Probably decided
t stop to think that
orning.”

ephoning in an at-
iot be quieted, and
is an innocent ex-
was clutched with

--old daughter, had
ig with her friend,

her parents, “but

ENOUGH

pats

BY pe a

daa tem ea em lens

MISSING DAUGHTER

“Something dreadful has happened!”
said Mrs. George McKechnie when ‘her
daughter Freda (sketched above) failed
to return after an evening with a friend.

“Have a good time,” her mother called after the two girls
as they went out the door. She was glad to see Freda going
out to enjoy herself with a girl friend. Some time ago she
had lost her job as a switchboard operator and had been un-
happy about her unemployment. There was another and more
serious cause for unhappiness, but—well, Mrs. McKechnie
thought, that will go away in time.

And so Freda had left her home, smiling, seemingly care-
free, and gone forth to a sinister fate. Never was she to re-
turn alive... .

By seven the next morning Mrs. McKechnie could control

her anxiety no longer. She telephoned Rosetta Culver at her
home in Wilkes-Barre. :

“No, Freda isn’t here,” the girl said. “Why, I can’t imagine
why she didn’t come home, I left her before nine last night
and I thought she was going home then. We had been riding
in Bobby Edwards’ car, and—”

“Bobby Edwards!” the mother exclaimed. “But Freda
wasn’t seeing him any more!”

“Oh, it was just accidental,” Rosetta explained. “We met
him on the street just after we left your house, and he in-

vited us to go for a ride. He and Freda dropped me off at my

home, then they were going back to Edwardsville.”
Bobby was the twenty-one-year-old son of Mr. and Mrs.

TO COMMIT THIS OUTRAGE

FORMER ADMIRER

Because he knew Freda’s parents dis-
approved of him, Bobby Edwards said
he dropped her off a block from her
house and ‘never saw her again.

Daniel Edwards, who lived in the same block as the McKech-
nies. He had “kept company” with Freda for some time,
but then Mrs. McKechnie learned he also was paying atten-
tion to another girl and forbade her daughter to go out with
him. Could he in any way be responsible for Freda’s dis-
appearance ?

Mrs. McKechnie called her neighbor, and Mrs. Edwards
came over promptly.

“Bobby returned home in the car before midnight,” she
said. “I didn’t have much time to talk to him before he left
for work this morning, but he didn’t say anything about hav-
ing seen Freda. Are you sure she didn't stay with her sister
overnight ?”

Mrs. McKechnie called her other daughter, Mrs. William
Patton, who reported that she had not seen Freda. All the
distraught mother could do now was await Bobby Edwards’
return from work at noon to get his story.

Bobby, his father, and McKechnie all worked at the same
mine in nearby Kingston. He was a_ well-proportioned,
handsome youth with a broad, open face and an engaging
smile. Following his graduation from the Edwardsville High
School, he had spent two years at a normal school, and then
joined the mine surveyor’s crew. When he appeared at the
McKechnie home at noon, he seemed as baffled as anyone
else over Freda’s disappearance.

“Yes, I gave her and Rosetta a ride in my car,” he admitted.
“But after we dropped off Rosetta in Wilkes-Barre we drove
right back to Edwardsville, and I dropped off Freda a block
or so away from home. She—she said you didn’t want me to
go out with her any more, and that’s why I didn’t drive right

YET IT HAPPENED!


greeted
ave her

ip,” she
ere you
be care-

vert Ed-
shining
odor of
, drifted

, waiting

He re-
’s Lake;
eart, and

f Robert
that left
sping in

n, it was
ns for a
1er home
ted mur-
Edwards-
and de-

1 thing!”
ver have
yng in all
it Freda;
wn as a
between
e and I
to have
—Ill stay
i—no one

ier. True,
After all,
ybby Ed-
iat other
she was
tly, Mar-
ler-sweet-
iendliness

this boy

re he was
her, Ed-
g himself
ther, and

rched the
ich dealt
the hands
and dam-
ined only
o run its

ymised to
Edwards
and com-
lay, after
return to

g disposi-
ards had

and ad-
r to bear.
id instead
| declared
it that “I

ards drew
ten many,
irl. These,
yw, in the

he had
s engaged

True Detective Mysteries 83

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to Freda. It also built up the motive
for the crime and tended to prove that
Edwards had ample reason for wanting to
be rid of his first love.

We got in touch with Margaret and
explained that if she would turn those let-
ters over to us it would be unnecessary
for her to come back for the trial. This
she agreed to do, and she placed in our
hands one hundred and seventy-two let-
ters she had received from the confessed
slayer.

Robert Edwards went on trial in the
Luzerne County Court House at Wilkes-
Barre, October 1st, before a jury of twelve
men and Judge William A. Valentine.

The defendant pleaded “Not Guilty”
when he was asked to answer to the in-
dictment and he sat, calm and undis-
turbed, while his attorney and the prose-
cutor fought to get a jury.

UT in the corridor a crowd struggled

to get in as spectators. To the hun-
dreds who sought admission, to the tales-
men who waited patiently to be called for
examination, this was more than a spec-
tacle of justice. It was to every man and
woman there. to those who were able to
get in and those who were in the milling
crowd outside, the: tragic epilogue of a
love story that was common knowledge.

The dead girl was “Freda” and the
boy about to go on trial for his life was
“Bob” to most of the spectators. And the
jurors chosen were not the usual run of
mine veniremen. They were fathers of
families, elderly men for the most part,
who had learned life by grim living,
some of them in the deep pits of the
hard-coal mines.

They were work-worn, grizzled men, on
brief holiday from the tipples and galler-
ies, from the powder fumes and the ghost-
ly light of miners’ lanterns.

And it was into the ears of these men
that the State poured forth its case of
illicit love and brutal murder. It was
to these plain, homely men that the burn-
ing love letters of Robert Edwards to
Margaret Crain were read.

In all my experience I have never seen
such a collection of letters. Throughout
them ran a thread of interesting sidelight
on Edwards’ character. They showed that
he never was devoted entirely to Freda;
that he disliked strong drink; that he did
not smoke, and frequently took a Bible
to his trysts with Margaret Crain.

So burning, so ardent were these letters,
that my chief, District Attorney Thomas
M. Lewis’ lips curled in contempt as he
laid them before the jury, one by one.
These letters, of degenerate-sex nature,
could not be published by this magazine,
although it is true they were made a part
of the court record; in fact a whole day
was consumed in the reading of these
missives. Back in the courtroom, Freda
McKechnie’s mother heard them with hor-
ror. Beside her, white-haired George Mc-
Kechnie clenched his hands and set his
jaw, tense with anger.

And Dan Edwards, the prisoner’s father,
trying to see his son “through,” listened
as long as he could and then got up and
groped his way out of the courtroom.

And even Robert Edwards, whose bland
expression of unconcern had caused whis-
pered comment throughout the room,
wilted beneath the lashing sarcastic tones
of the prosecutor as he sneeringly re-
peated the lines of those letters. So that,
at noon, when court adjourned for lunch,
Edwards, his face burning with shame,
pleaded with his jailers,

“For God’s sake, give me your gun and
let me end this!”

But he got a grip on himself later, and
when he went on the witness-stand in his

own defense he pleaded not guilty, and
charged that the police frightened him
into making and signing a confession. He
admitted that he struck Freda with the
blackjack but he insisted again that she
was already dead when he did so.

The jury, however, failed to believe
him. After a short trial he was con-
victed of murder in the first degree and
the penalty fixed at death in the electric
chair—the extreme price of Pennsylvania
law. .

The case was appealed; but on Novem-
ber 30th, Luzerne County Courts refused
the sweetheart-killer a new trial. This de-
cision was handed down by Judge Valen-
tine, who presided at the October trial.
nie was sentenced to die December
3rd.

HERE was never a crime that caused

quite the comment or feeling in this
little community as that murder at Har-
vey’s Lake—it has left such scars upon the
town and its people.

Robert Edwards’ mother, almost out of
her mind with grief, is utterly crushed by
the knowledge that her son must die.

And Freda McKechnie’s mother, bowed
in grief, cannot return to her old home.

It is filled with ghosts; the ghosts of
Sorrow and Disgrace.

And Robert Edwards—what does he
think as he sits through the long days
waiting for the State to exact the supreme
penalty for his crime?

Does he remember the trusting girl who
loved him, not wisely, but too well?

Does he recall his stolen hours with the
trim music teacher who gave him_ his
glimpse of that “higher life’ to which he
aspire

No one knows these answers. And the
town, the community which knew him,
sick at heart, asks no reply.


ee J

~~

EDWARDS, Rebert Allen, wh, elec.,
PA (Luzurne) May 6, 1935

Deinincteaiiad

BY CLAYTON D. CARTER

TRAGEDY RODE the summer storm that broke over the
Susquehanna Valley late on the night of July 30, 1934.

There was gloomy portent in the chill, slanting needles of
rain that washed over the collieries, the streets of Wilkes-
Barre, the rough terrain of Pennsylvania’s coal mining district.

At a lake twenty miles from Wilkes-Barre the quiet of the
night was eerily shattered by a woman’s screaming.

And in a humble home in the suburb of Edwardsville, lights
burned all through the hours of darkness.

A second “American tragedy’ was tn the making... .

OR THE twentieth time that night, Mrs. George McKechnie

went to the front door of her home with waning hope.
She pulled aside the curtain and stared out upon the rain-

‘igo

+

UE VL

drenched lawn, the darkly glistening sidewalk and pavement.
Seeing no one, she sighed apprehensively and turned away.
The clock on the mantel struck 4 a. M.

“Something terrible has happened,” she whispered. “I know
it has! Freda never stayed out all night before without
letting us know.”

Her burly husband gruffly tried to comfort her. ‘She’s
old enough to take care of herself,” he said. “Probably decided
to stay with Rosetta or her sister and didn’t stop to think that
we'd be worried. She'll be back in the morning.”

Although the mother refrained from telephoning in an at-
tempt to find the girl, her fears would not be quieted, and
she continued her vigil. Perhaps there was an innocent ex-
planation for this absence, yet her heart was clutched with
nameless dread.

Freda McKechnie, her twenty-eight-year-old daughter, had
left home about eight o’clock in the evening with her friend,
Rosetta Culver, ;

“Maybe we'll go to a movie,” she told her parents, “but
T’ll be home early.”

NO YOUTH COULD HAVE BEEN HEARTLESS ENOUGH

INSIDE DETECTIVE, August, 1938

~
.

rt,

m< serious cause for 1
», thought, that will g:

“Have a good tin

Ex, as they went out th:

= out to enjoy herseli
~ had lost her job as
happy about her une

And so Freda hac
free, and gone forth
turn alive... .

By seven the next

er anxiety no longe
home in Wilkes-Bar

“No, Freda isn’t h
why she didn’t com
and I thought she w:
in Bobby Edwards’

“Bobby Edwards
wasn’t seeing him an

“Oh, it was just ;
him on the street jt:

4 vited us to go for a1
»-home, then they wer

Bobby was the tw

TO COM


PATHOS

County Detective
Dempsey holds the
bathing cap of
the slain girl,
while Chief Coun-
ty Detective Rich-
ard Powell (with
glasses) and
Trooper Worden
Bader examine
dress she had
made for her
wedding.

Charming Rosetta
Culver (below)
knew only that
she had last seen
Freda driving
away with Bob-
by Edwards.

up in front. It was just about nine o’clock when I left her—
maybe a little later. Then I took a ride by myself and got
back home before midnight.”

“Did you notice if she started walking home?’ Mrs. Mc-
Kechnie demanded,

“Yes, she started in this direction,” Bobby answered. ;

The youth faced the mother squarely as he told his story.
There was no wavering of his dark eyes. His manner was
sympathetic, yet he did not seem overly concerned.

“T wouldn’t worry,” he declared: ‘She'll come back before
the day is over. If she isn’t here by the time I get through
work, I’ll go out and help look for her myself.”

With that promise, Bobby Edwards left to get lunch and
return ‘to the mine. The McKechnies now were confronted
with the question: What could have happened to Freda on
that brief walk from the street
corner to her home? Surely,
it looked more than ever like
foul play. She may have been
“picked up” by another car
and carried to a nameless fate.

SPREAD ALARM
With a companion, little Betty
Da Costa (right) sped for help
after she saw a body floating
face up in Harvey's. Lake,

18 ‘

Or, instead of going directly to the house, she may have

turned back and gone to a store to make some trifling pur-
chase—and during the walk down the dark street she might
have been assaulted or abducted.

The parents now reported the disappearance to. the police,
who at once began a search of the neighborhood. They also
went to the barracks of the efficient Pennsylvania State Police
in the nearby village of Wyoming to give a description and
photograph of the girl to Captain William Clark.

|X THE MEANTIME, a drama of death was being enacted
at Harvey’s Lake, a summer resort popular with the resi-
dents of Edwardsville and Wilkes-Barre.

Five-year-old Betty Da Costa and a girl companion were
rowing across the lake, placid after the storm of the preceding

night, when they si
face.
“Look at that bur
of them said.
But as they cam:
—it’s a body. The
Hurriedly they ;
their find to the rc
Mollwin Williams a
residents toward th.
returning with a hi
in death. The corp
white bathing cap t
into the scalp—whi
“She must have
people said to one :
The girl might hi
fear and suspicion
those gathered aro
the sandy beach.
While somebody
brought news for fu
“There’s a small
a bit,” he said. “M
dress, stockings, sl]

_Yight near the stuff

there are some clear

Chief of Police Ir
Trooper Worden B:
the investigation.
vacationists that th:
otherwise the air-fil
the surface. The gir
five feet in height, a
Bader whistled in
cut on the head.

“Looks Jike this
Stevenson.

Calls were put in
racks, and soon ad
aminers were rushin.
of County Detectives

"SHE WAS
These words, utte
who performed a
tossed a bomb


ieft them. The young man insisted that
something must have happened after he
left Freda on the corner, and he also in-
sisted that he was just as anxious as they
were to clear up the mystery. His tone
was convincing.

Powell pulled up a chair opposite him,
and inquired casually, “Bob, what hap-
pened on that picnic the other evening,
which so changed Freda?”

The young man turned to him, saying,
“Nothing so far as I remember.”

“Bob,” said the Chief, “you aren’t tell-
ing the truth. From what I now know,
I believe she must have told you, on that
evening, that she was going to have a
baby, and you promised to marry her.
She hurriedly made two new dresses, and
she changed from being sick and mel-
ancholy to being radiantly happy. The
relief in her behavior was apparent. You
evidently persuaded her to say nothing
about your plans, telling her it would be
less embarrassing to elope. Freda was
a trusting girl and she was madly in love
with you. She would never have believed
that you would not only deceive her, but
would deliberately plan to murder her.”

Bob sprang to his feet, pushing back
his chair, and facing the three officers:
angrily. ‘You have no right to say that,”
he told Powell. “I loved Freda and am
as anxious as you are to find her killer.
I would not have harmed her, as every-
one who knew us would realize.”

The Chief’s voice continued to be calm
as he announced, “I’ve talked to Freda’s
doctor. It was the day before the picnic
that she visited him and learned that she
was to have a baby. Now that’s signifi-
cant, but not so significant as the fact that
you were engaged to another girl, named
Margaret Crain, whom you met at college.

“You were persuading her to withhold
the announcement of your engagement
last week-end when Freda thought you
had gone to Buffalo on business. You
drove all night Sunday, and got in early

(Continued from page 43) Earl and she
had been sweethearts for several months.
She steadfastly denied that she had known
Earl was married. ‘He told me he was
studying to be an aviator,” she explained,
“and lived with his mother.”

“What was it he said about being able
to marry you when he got back?”

“Well, that was just what he said. He
told me he was going out to the Grand
Canyon for a few weeks and that by the
time he got back, he would be able to
marry me.”

“Didn’t he tell you why he would be
able to marry you?”

“No, but I thought he referred to money
matters. He was always broke.”

She was allowed to return to her work.

Meanwhile, from Doctors J. J. Kearns
and Thomas L. Dwyer, of the Coroners -
staff, had come a report on the examina-
tion of the dead girl’s body. It revealéd”
that the tiny abrasions on her face near
the mouth were a combination of bruises
and burns.

“Indications are,” the physicians re-
ported, “that this girl was under an an-
esthetic when she was shot. It might be
well to look for evidence to support that
belief.”

Dr. Wynekoop accompanied the officers
into her basement office. She looked at
her anesthetic supply. “Yes,” she said,
“there’s a bottle gone, all right. It’s one
that had been open for quite a while, but
it was tightly corked. I haven’t touched
it for two. weeks.”

In a wastepaper basket the officers found

66

yesterday morning. Last night you met
Freda and her friend. Your plans were
already worked out. You knew you
were going to kill her when you took
her and her friend into your car.”

Bob’s denial was so low as to be al-
most inaudible. “You see,” went on
Powell, “I’ve been talking over the long-
distance wire to your friends in Mansfield,
and I’ve learned the whole story from
them. You are in love with the Crain girl,
and left college so you could marry her.
When you learned that Freda was going to
have a child, and realized the position you
were in, you decided to get her out of the
way. You probably persuaded her that a
swim in the lake would be romantic on a
stormy night, and after you got her into
the water, you killed her in cold-blood.
The place was deserted, and you knew
there would be no witness to hear her cries
for help, if indeed she uttered any.”

There was a moment’s tense silence as
the Chief paused. Bob continued to fix
his gaze on the: speaker until Powell
stopped talking, then the youth suddenly
slumped down into the chair he had
pushed behind him. He said coolly:

“You are mistaken, except about one
thing. It is true that we went swimming
last evening. I haven’t mentioned it be-
cause I was afraid of incriminating my-
self. Freda fainted out at the float and
hit her head against it, then fell into the
water. I swam over to her as quickly
as I could, but she seemed lifeless. I was
terribly frightened, and not wanting’ to
be accused of her death, I swam ashore,
pulled on my clothing and drove off. I
suddenly realized her clothing was in my
car, so wrapped it in a newspaper and
went back and put it on a rock in among
the trees. Then I went home. Her
death was an accident. I had nothing
whatever to do with it.”

The officers stared at him, then Powell
suddenly pulled a heavy blackjack out
of his pocket and held it up for the young

Horror House

an empty chloroform bottle. Beneath
some gauze waste they found an anesthetic
mask.

“If Rheta was under an anesthetic, those
were probably used,” Dr. Wynekoop said.
“I don’t recall having given an anesthetic
down here recently. In fact, I haven’t
given one for at least a month and that
mask has been used recently. Neither the
mask nor the bottle was'in that basket day
before yesterday. Rheta and I cleaned up
down here Monday afternoon and I’m cer-
tain that basket was emptied at the time.”

The officers found some ashes in a por-
celain container to which they seemed to
attach considerable importance. They took
the ashes, the empty bottle and the mask to
Headquarters:

In reporting to Captain Stege, one of the

-det&étives said that in contrast to the

Benerally dusty condition. of the entire
house, the floor of the room in which
Rheta’s body had been found was striking-
ly clean. The ashes, the officers believed,
might have resulted from the burning of
rags that had been used to wash up blood,
which assuredly would have flowed from
the fatal wound unless, as had been sug-
gested by Dr. Wynekoop, the bleeding had
been internal.

“Someone in that household holds the
key to this murder,” Captain Stege de-
clared. “I’m convinced of that.”

Late Wednesday, Coroner Walsh opened
an inquest. Among others, Dr. Wynekoop
was called to the stand. She had answered
a half-dozen or so questions when Walsh
quietly asked:

man to see.

“That story won’t do. I have located
the man who sold you this blackjack the
day after Freda told you about the baby.
It was this weapon that struck Freda.
Her death was no accident. I found it
hidden in your car.”

When Bob Edwards finally broke down
and confessed, the story was as Chief
Powell had reconstructed it. Being des-
perately in love with Margaret Crain, he
had yet been flattered by Freda’s love for
him. © He had betrayed her and pretended
to be fond of her, while all the time plan-
ning to marry the other girl. He had
decided that the only way out of his di-
lemma was to kill Freda.

She had asked him to take her swim-
ming at Harvey’s Lake, and he had sug-
gested keeping her bathing suit in his car,
to which she had acquiesced. She had at
first objected to the night swim, but he
had persuaded her that it would be ro-
mantic—out there by themselves. As the
bathhouses were closed, they had taken
turns changing in the car. They had gone
down to the water, hand-in-hand.

“Tll beat you to the raft,” Freda had
called, and started for the float.

But he reached it first, and was waiting
with the blackjack raised for her to swim
past him, her back toward the float. He
had struck her a terrible blow over the
head and her body went under. Without
waiting to see whether she might still be
conscious, he had returned to shore. She
might still have been alive and fighting
alone there for her life, but he had swiftly
pulled on his clothes and driven off.

Robert Edwards was charged with the
murder and, at his trial the following
October, the jury convicted him’ and he
was sentenced to die. His appeal was
denied, and in May, 1935, he was put
to death.

Note: The name “Charles,” as used in this
article, is fictitious, to protect an innocent
person.—Ed.

“How much insurance, if any, did your
daughter-in-law carry?” ;

“I know that she had no insurance,” was
the reply.

“This inquest is adjourned until further
notice,” declared the Coroner abruptly.
He refused to state why he had called the
adjournment.

That night three policemen were placed
on guard at the Wynekoop home. No one
could say why.

On Thursday morning a taxi dashed up
to the Wynekoop stoop and out hopped a
young man carrying a suitcase.

“Just a minute, sir,” said one of the
officers. “No one is allowed to enter or
leave this house without an order from
Captain Stege. Who are you?”

@ “I’M EARL WYNEKOOP. I was in

Kansas City when I heard about the
murder of my wife. I just got here.”

He was quickly hustled off to Head-
quarters before he had had a chance to see
his mother. He was then taken to the
morgue. The scene was singularly devoid
of any drama.

Young Wynekoop, nattily dressed and
bearing a strong resemblance to his
mother, steeled himself as a detective
whisked away the cloth covering the body.

He shook his head slowly as he bent over
the dead girl for a long, lingering look at
his wife’s face, and then he swung around
suddenly and said hoarsely, “Let’s get
going.”

At the police station he was questioned
by Captains Stege and Duffy, and Assis-

MASTER DETECTIVE

tant State’s .

“Did you k
question the
him.

“TI certainly

“Do you kn

“No, I do 1
idea.”

He admittec
vanished after
marriage. “S)
he said. “Wh
she would dey
did.”

“What abou
you ask her to

Wynekoop d
question. He
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sort of under:
would marry ;

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day, and came
cause of this ;
wanted to see }

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the car. We ha
on it, and I saw
in that little to:
to have it done
Chicago. We p

“Was it becat
her that you di
you had come |

@ “PARTLY,”
other hand, °
tional. She wa:

a scene when I -

again, and I do

“Didn’t you te
married?”
Wynekoop dec
her because he
enough. “I inte)
“Your mother
you didn’t go ho
to town. She sai
your neighbors.”
Earl shrugged ;
had something to
must have guesse
was one of the re
“Your mother s
pretty well, doesr
“Yes, she does,
than anyone else ,

Ellen Hoyt’s el;
went unchallenge:
of the newspapers
jrate young woma
at the police stati;
that she was the
tended to marry.

“I met him at thi
were both workir
Sweet on me and p
fore I promised t
gave me a diamo)
until today though,
koop. He told me
Wynekoop.”

Miss Cline said F
home one day anc
mother as the only
loved. She Said
Wynekoop the en
8iven her.

"Or. Wynekoop 1
first sight and be
really worthy of
his home several
Michael, and his
called him to the

Naively the youn
believed that Ear] ;

“He showed me a
had listed the name
bers of fifty girls anc
them all up for me.’

Earl admitted the
Said he had hoped t:

FEBRUARY, 1942

Alvin Schafer, who lived on the Noblestown
Road two doors from the Allots, said he had.

“Where?” asked Ritz.

“On the road,” said Schafer. He had been driv-
ing through the snow, he said, when he passed the
girl, walking alone.

Ritz eyed him narrowly. “It was snowing pretty
hard. Didn’t you offer her a ride?”

“No. I’d seen her walking home a lot of times
and stopped but she never accepted. She almost
acted like she was afraid to get it. That’s why I
didn’t stop for her that night.”

That, Ritz thought, probably ruled out the theory
that Betty had been picked up in an auto and
slain elsewhere.

“Go ahead.”

Always the victim was young,

pretty,” vivacious. Always

the Yampire struck at night,

while Winter storms raged,

Models portray this scene
y BA

*
v

t

“Well,” said Schafer, “I saw somebody else on
the road just about then.”

“Who?”

“A man. A stranger. I’d never seen him before.
He was a big man, unusually big, and he had his
coat collar turned up against the snow. He was
walking away from Walkers Mills. He and Betty
would have met just about in front of Mrs. Wal-
lace’s house.”

|% FRONT of the Wallace home—the spot where
Betty had dropped her bag and umbrella. The
spot where she had been attacked. Was this man
the killer? -
“Can’t you describe him better than that?”
“No,” said Schafer. “I’m afraid not. He was

awfully big, and he had a peculiar sort of a
swinging walk, like you might expect a sailor or a
cowboy to have. But I couldn’t see his face at all.”

“What time was that?”

“A little after seven. Not more than fifteen or
twenty minutes.”

Ritz nodded, aching with disappointment. Here
was a witness who probably had seen the mur-
derer in the snow two or three minutes before he
met his victim. But this witness could not identify
the killer even if he saw him again.

Well, at least the time and place were nailed
down. Had anybody else seen the- killer?

Not so far as Ritz could discover. But the detec-
tive did manage to pick up another shred of testi
mony which seemed to (Continued on Page 36)

25


aasg aves age Le gue ee
half ac ‘isoners, awakened from
their sl rsed him for the noise
he was making.

“It looks like Ralph was right and
we were barking up the wrong tree,”
said Worker. “We’ll talk to Hughes
in the morning... Maybe he knows
somebody who wanted to kill his wife.”

The next morning when we arrived
at the jail Hughes was still sleeping.
Worker went into the man’s cell.

Shaking him, Worker said:

“Well, Hughes, we’re here to take
your confession. Tell us just how you
killed your wife. Come on, Man, get
it off your soul.”

Hughes rubbed the sleep from his
eyes. His answer came readily.

“T told you before that I didn’t kill
her,” he said. “Is she really dead?”

We told him. We asked him if Mrs.
Hughes had any enemies.

He was stunned. He couldn’t believe
us. He knew she wasn’t dead. He
knew she wouldn’t run off with an-
other man. He knew she had no ene-
mies.

“The

corroborate what he already knew.
He talked to Betty’s two best girl
friends, both of Walkers Mills. School-
girls, frightened by the horrible fate
which had overtaken their chum, they
spoke shyly to the bluff detective.
Hesitantly they told him that Betty
often had been afraid to walk home
because a man followed her.

“Did she recognize this man?” asked
Ritz sharply.

“No,” they said, eyes wide with
fright. “She just said he followed her
and she was scared of him. He always
had his hat pulled down over his eyes
and his coat collar turned up and he
was awful big. A big, dark man, she
said.”

Ritz nodded. That sounded like the
snow-shrouded_ stranger seen but
vaguely by Schafer. Was it the Vam-
pire? If he was at liberty long in ad-
vance of Betty’s death, stalking her,
he hardly could have been an inmate
of the home.

“Did he ever stop her?”

“Once he was waiting for her when
she got to the old McHugh coal mine.
I guess she was killed near there,
wasn’t she? But he never tried to
stop her. He just followed her and
then went away and she was so scared
she didn’t want to walk home.”

back that afternoon over the snow-
swept range and up through Raton
Pass. :

Here it was January 10, I thought,
as I drove, and we had made practi-
cally no progress in the,case. Hughes
mae in the clear, completely in the
clear.

BS I wondered about that suddenly.
Wasn’t he too much in the clear?
Didn’t everything help him out just
too much? .

I remembered the distinct smell of
gasoline on that chair in the Hughes
house. Hughes had told us the stain
was made two years before. But some-
one had tried to clean it recently, we
knew. Gasoline odors wouldn’t linger
for two years.

Thoughts similar to mine must have
been running through Sheriff Worker’s
mind. He was sitting in the rear of
the car with Hughes and Morse. He
said suddenly to Hughes:

“Where’s your dog, Hughes?”

“Dog?” said Hughes blankly.

Vampire’s Loose

That, thought Ritz, was odd. If she
was so frightened why did she turn
down offers of auto rides from re-
spectable citizens like Alvin Schafer?
It didn’t quite add up.

Ritz went to Betty’s home and talked
to her family. Her parents couldn’t
add much to what they’d already said,
but her sister, Margaret, told Ritz that
Betty had taken auto rides with a
couple of kids from another town.

Ritz asked quickly, “Are you sure?”

“I guess so. I saw her.”

“Who were these fellows?”

“I don’t know,” Margaret said. “I
just know one’s named Jim and they
both live in one of the towns around
here.”

“Did she date them?”

Margaret hesitated the barest frac-
tion of a second, then said, “No, not
exactly. She just went riding with
them. The only fellow she really
dated was John Herleman.”

Ritz kept a poker face. But his
mind was racing, pursuing a new, half-
formed theory, a theory based on
flaming youthful jealousy that might
have erupted into murder.

Margaret could tell him no more
but when he left he wondered if he
had stumbled on the most valuable
clew in the whole case. For Detective

I eased up on the accelerator.

“Stop here,” he said.

I stopped. Hughes climbed out of
the car and we followed him. We were
a few miles past Solddad, Colorado, a
hamlet at the foot of the pass.

He walked directly into the woods
for a distance of about 50 feet. Then
he stopped beside a small mound of
snow-covered dirt, a mound ‘six feet
in length and a few feet wide.

Wordlessly we dug. And-in a few
minutes we uncovered a Navajo blank-
et wrapped around the body of a
woman. 2

“T killed her,” Hughes said. He sat
down and told us about it.

“I had to kill her. It was her life
or mine.”

“About two months ago I came into
a little money—$1,500. A cousin of
mine died and willed it to me. I didn’t
intend to say anything about it to any-
one. I’ve never had a dollar I really
could. call my own. I always turned
my check over to the wife and she
gave me spending money.

Again ” (Continued from Page 25)

Ritz knew that kids aren’t like adults.
They take. seriously things which
adults ignore; they will laugh at death
and weep or kill over a broken date.
And Ritz knew he must delve into the
private life of lovely, fifteen-year-old
Betty Louden.

He went back to Headquarters and
told his Chief what was on his mind.
Then he asked if anything new had
turned up.

McGinley said, “The boys found out
that a man who lives right near Betty’s
home disappeared the day her body
was found.”

ITZ said, “Sounds hot. Want me to

get after it?”

“No. The boys are already working
on it. But that’s not all.” He ticked
off new developments. The canvass
for other persons who had traveled
Noblestown Road that night had pro-
duced a couple of young fellows named
John Kopsick and Mike Garan, who
lived in a near-by town, and they had
something to tell which sent a squad
whirling to the village of Camp Hill.
The boys said that, about 7:15 the
night of the murder, they had seen a
man they knew, Homer Crawford of
Camp Hill, walking on the Nobles-
town Road within 25 feet of the Wal-

tuipil Liugnes was wailing lor us

the county jail. Word of the con-

ssion had preceded us; photographers
were crowding around and flash-bulbs
popped right and left as father and
son met.

They embraced.

“Tell me what happened, Dad,”
Ralph Hughes said.

Hughes spread his hands. He said:

“Look at my hands, Son. There is
no blood on them. It was her life or
mine. I had to do it.”

Then he buried his head in his hands
and wept. ak biti

Ralph Hughes said, “Father,.I be-
lieve you.”

Hughes went on trial in March. He
pleaded not guilty by reason of in-
sanity. But a jury returned with a
verdict of guilty of first-degree mur-
der and sentenced him to life imprison-
ment.

He didn’t appeal; he’s in Canon City
Penitentiary today.

Another picture with this story is
on Page 48.

lace home where Betty had dropped
her purse. F

“The boys have gone out to question
this Crawford,” said McGinley. “And
here’s something else. Another wo-
man who lives in Carnegie has pre-
ferred charges of aggravated assault
and battery against a guy named John
Matowski. She claims he tried to at-
tack her and push her into a creek. So
he’s on his way to the D. A.’s office.”

“You going over there?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“You might as well go ahead with
your check on Betty like you out-
lined. Let me know how you come
out. But I doubt if you’ll get much.
I don’t think Betty was killed because
of something in her private life. I
think she was just the victim of the
same man who killed Thelma Young
and who’s pulled all this other rough
stuff during the last eight years.”

Ritz said, “Probably so. Have you
got any dope from Powell yet over in
Washington County on the Young
case?”

“Plenty,” said Chief McGinley, and
he shoved a batch of notes across the
desk to Ritz. The detective read them
eagerly. Thelma Young had died in
Washington, Pennsylvania, the bleak

August INTIMATE DETECTIVE STORIES Goes on Sale Wednesday, July 2

36

W- éa

a

Ritz knew there was a possibility

that something in the life of Betty
Louden—some tangled emotion—had
flamed into crimson violence. And the
person who probably best could tell
him if such a thing had existed was
Herleman.

With his partner, Kline, Ritz went
to Herleman’s furnished rooms and
found him in bed, shaky, nervous,
staring at the detectives with small,
dark, frightened eyes.

Ritz identified himself and told
Herleman, “I want to have a look
through your place while this officer
talks to you.”

His search got quick results. For
from under the bed he drew a tire
iron—an instrument with a sharp,
narrow edge. And beside it lay a coat
and shirt with big dark stains. Blood?

Whatever the stains, whatever the
significance of the heavy tire iron, Ritz
knew grimly that Herleman had some
questions to answer. Silently he drew
his partner aside while Herleman
watched apprehensively.

Ritz showed Kline the tire iron and
stained clothing and said, “Let’s show
this to the Chief.”

They did. The Chief’s eyes gleamed.
“Fine,” he said. “Because a couple
other leads blew up. Matowski is out
of it with a perfect alibi. So’s Craw-
ford. He spent that night in the hill
district of Pittsburgh and half a dozen
people back him up. Moreover, we
made casts of his teeth and they don’t
match at all with the teeth marks on
Betty’s cheek.”

Ritz asked, “Shall we talk to Herle-
man?”

“Yes.” .

For hour upon hour they flung ques-
tions at him.

“You had a date with her that night,
didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What’d you and she do?”

“She never showed up.”

“You never saw her at all that
night?”

“That’s right. She stood me up.”

“Did she do that often?”

“Never before,” Herleman said, and
then his voice broke and he looked
up at the grim-faced officers. He was
pleading for belief. “Honest, fellows,
you don’t think I’d hurt her, do you?
Why, I loved her. We were going to
be married as soon as I got a job.
We—”

“Where,” the Chief cut in harshly,
“were you during that night?”

Herleman gave them his alibi. He
claimed he had been drinking in
Miller’s Hotel from 6 p.m. until a lit-
tle after 7. Then, he said, he went
home with one of his friends. Then
he went to Betty’s house, about nine.
She wasn’t there yet so he figured she
had had to work late and he went
back to the hotel and waited for her.
He finally went home. He didn’t know
what time that was.

“So help me,” Herleman ended, “it’s

1D +3

eT

McG:

and wo
On h
Ritz sa’
sitting
wall, si
while t
him cu
In \
Frank °
Hotel.

By John Martin

Who Made a Special Investigation of This Case

HIVERING in the bitter wind, the detective

stood on the bank of the frozen stream and

looked down at the glistening, nude body of
the murdered girl.

“Dead,” he murmured. “Killed and stripped and
buried in ice.” j

They had been hunting her more than a month—
since that wild night of January 18, when she
walked out into the blizzard and disappeared. Her
name was Elizabeth Louden, and she was fifteen
years old, and she was lovely.

Her parents reported her missing and the police
scoured Allegheny County, Pennsylvania, day after
day until, on February 27, they found her um-
brella and purse buried beneath the snow on
Noblestown Road. They found her body next morn-
ing, locked in the frozen stream near by, and her
sweetheart was with the posse when they found her.

His name was John Herleman, and he stumbled
and sank to one knee when he saw the girl’s ice-
sheathed body. 5

Detective Frank Ritz told him gruffly, “You bet-
ter get back a little, Son. We’ll dig her out.”

He and his partner, Lawrence Kline, and half a
dozen possemen went to work. After a few minutes,
a few. minutes of complete silence except for the
chopping of the ice, they pried the body loose.

Then they: saw how she had died—at the hands
of a monster who had smashed her skull in a half-
dozen places, who had abused her and then flung
her into her icy grave.

But when they turned her body face up to cover _

it with a blanket and lift it onto a stretcher, they
saw the thing which brought sweat to their hands
in the wintry wind. For gouged into the perfectly
preserved white flesh of her left cheek was the
clear imprint of a set of human teeth.

“Good Heavens!” muttered a posseman. “The
vampire’s loose again!”

In grim silence the detectives watched while the

body was taken away, while the little group of
curious citizens moved off, pale and shaken with
terror. And, as they started back to Headquarters,
the detectives knew that once again they were
battling the human vampire who already had held
the people of two counties in a grip of terror..- They
knew that, this time, they could make no mistakes.
They knew they must get this monstrous killer who
had roamed the countryside in freedom so long.

They had seen the mark of the beast before—
eight years before, when another lovely girl’s body
was found in a near-by field. Thelma Young her
name had been, and she, too, had been raped and
clubbed to death and left in the field with the mark
of the beast on her face.

Her body had been found in Washington County
and for days the authorities there arrested suspect
after. suspect, only to release each one when he
proved an alibi. For months the heat of the investi-
gation flamed while women stayed close to home at
night, while men went armed about the country-
side after dark.

But as clew after clew failed, the officers knew
they were licked. Fear gripped the county for a
long time; a madman was at large, and no woman
was safe. But the weeks and months passed, and
gradually the fear subsided.

Until the monster struck again one blizzardy
night, sparing the girl’s life this time but little
else. And again, and again.

And still no clews, still nothing but a vague
description, born of frenzy, of a monstrous, leering,
evil creature barely human, raping and beating and
biting his victims.

Until, eight years later, he killed again. Until
the mark of the beast was found on the ice-clad
body of Elizabeth Louden.

That blustery day the word leaped like a swiftly
lengthening shadow across the county and as the
sun set and the quick Winter darkness fell, citizens

While posses searched

through snow-swept
fields, Elizabeth Louden
lay frozen in a creek,
as in the official coro-
ner's photograph at left

double-locked their doors and windows and went
fearfully to bed, wondering who would be next.
And that night lights burned late in the Head-
quarters of the County Detectives. Grim-faced,
tight-lipped, speaking little, officers studied the
case long past midnight, for they knew with deadly
certainty that this time they had to get the monster.
From the outset they were convinced that both
murders, and the many attacks as well, had been
committed by the same man. The crimes resem-
bled each other too closely to be only coincidentally

.similar. All of the girls had been beaten with a

sharp instrument; two had died from that beating.
All of them had been stripped and raped. All had
been attacked just after nightfall on a windy,
snowy night while walking alone in thinly popu-
lated sectors, far from witnesses. And all of them
were young, pretty, vivacious.

[yee ATTORNEY ANDREW T. PARK of

Allegheny County said, “Maybe we can get a
start on this new murder by looking up all the
facts in the investigation of Thelma Young’s death
eight years ago.”

“Sounds good,” said James McGinley, assistant
chief of detectives. “I’ll send a man over to talk
to John Powell first thing in the morning.”

Powell was Chief of Detectives in Washington
County, where Thelma Young had been slain eight
years before.

“For the present,” McGinley went on, “what’ve
we got on this new one?”
ine turned to Detective Ritz and said, “Give us a

-in.

Ritz had been assigned to search for Betty Louden
two days after she disappeared on Saturday night,
January 18. Her parents had reported her missing.
She lived in’ Walkers Mills, an unincorporated
cluster of houses in the mining and mill district
around Pittsburgh. She worked as a maid for Mr.

23


and Mrs. Robert Allot in Rennerdale, which was
a village about a mile beyond Walkers Mills. She
was off work at 7 p.m. on Saturday nights. She
was in the habit of walking home on the Nobles-
town Road.

On that Saturday night the county was Ppara-
lyzed by one of the worst blizzards in recent mem-
ory. Betty Louden had stepped out of the Allot
home into the snow-swept blackness of that night.
No one—no one but the vampire who murdered
her—ever had seen her alive again, so far as the
officers knew.

Search for her had languished
until Mrs. Louis Wallace found
Betty’s purse. Mrs. Wallace lived
on the Noblestown Road; Betty
would have passed her house on
the way home. Her purse and
umbrella were discovered buried
beneath snow in front of the
Wallace home.

Detective Ritz said, ‘Here are
her things,” and laid them on
the D. A.’s desk. “They were
lying at the side of the road only
about fifty yards from where her
body was.”

That meant, the D. A. thought,
that Betty probably had been
attacked on the blizzard-shroud-
ed highway in front of the Wal-
lace home. She dropped her
purse and umbrella when the
killer first struck.

Park opened the purse, took
out three one-dollar bills, a
small paper-backed school-girl
photo album and a half-dozen
letters addressed to her. The let-
ters were signed John Herleman.

“Who's Herleman?”

“He,” said Detective Ritz, “is
Betty’s boy friend.”

“Have you talked to him?”

Ritz nodded. “A little. When
Betty was first reported missing, we thought
she’d just run off and got married. We asked her
parents but they said she was only fifteen and she
only had one boy friend—this Herleman—and they
knew Betty hadn’t run off with him, because he’d
been helping them look for her. Matter of fact, he
had a date with her the night she disappeared.”

pink looked significantly at Chief McGinley.
Was this important?

“And you say Herleman aided in the search?”

“Right. He was with us when we found her.”

“What sort of a fellow is he?”

“He seems all right. He’s quite a bit older than
Betty. She was only fifteen; Herleman’s near thirty,
I’d guess. I don’t know much about him—haven’t
checked on him yet.”

“Do that right away,” Chief McGinley said.

Ritz said he would. They all wondered why an
innocent, pretty, fifteen-year-old school-girl dated
a man nearly twice her age. But it didn’t seem
very important right then and the D. A. went on
organizing the investigation.

24

The problem of detectives
was to find a man whose
teeth would fit the cast held
here by Detective John Wei-
ble and taken from the
body of Elizabeth Louden

“The first obvious job is to hunt an eye-witness.”

McGinley said doubtfully, “Chances are there
weren’t any. That was a nasty night—not many
people out. And that road’s a pretty lonesome one
any time.”

“I know,” said Park doggedly. “But just the
same we’ve got to make a canvass. Somebody
might’ve seen her.”

“You're pretty sure she was killed right there,

aren’t you?”
“It looks like. it, doesn’t it?” ,
“Maybe. But she might’ve been picked up in a

“’The Monster Struck Again
and Again...And Still No Clews

But a Vague Description of an

Evil Creature, Barely Human’’

car, driven somewhere else and killed, then brought
back there dead and dumped.”

“Why bring her back there?”

“How do I know? Why kill her in the first
place?”

“That’s pretty obvious.. It’s a plain sex-attack
case—just like the murder of Thelma Young eight
years ago. It’s the Vampire. What’s more, here’s a
bunch of reports on recent sex crimes that he is
probably responsible for.”

They studied the reports. A 52-year-old woman
who lived in Carnegie said that, three weeks be-
fore Betty disappeared, she had been seized by a
huge, hulking man on Noblestown Road. She had
been walking alone when suddenly talon-like hands
clutched her shoulders from behind and dragged
her into the ditch and stabbed her. But she fought
free and when auto headlights appeared, her at-
tacker released her and fled into the darkness. She
could give only a vague description of a huge
brute of a man with a wide, grinning mouth and
beady eyes. She doubted if she could identify the
man.

“Somebody better go talk to her just the same,”
Chief McGinléy said, and turned to the other re-
ports. There were plenty. Some were several
years old, others almost current. All told the same
story—a story of attack and terror, a story that
meant one thing: A.madman was loose.

“Madman,” murmured Detective Ritz, then,
slowly, he said, “The Woodville County Home’s
only two miles from the scene of all these attacks
on Noblestown Road.”

The officers looked at each other. Was that it?

“Had an escaped inmate ravished and murdered

lovely Betty Louden? But then was he the same
murderer who had left his teeth-marks on Thelma
Young’s cheek, the same who had committed the
other atrocities? ‘

Or was he? Was it not possible that some de-
mented inmate of the institution had found a means
of escaping at will? Stirred periodically by incon-
trollable lust, did he creep from the institution’s
gray buildings under cover of darkness, skulk
across the countryside, strike down some innocent
woman, then slink back to the institution in time
for the regular ‘check-up, never missed but leaving
behind him another dead girl or another fear-
crazed woman?

It sounded fantastic, certainly. But no more fan-
tastic than the bald fact that a vampire had mur-
dered a girl eight years before and had gone free
to oe other atrocities until he slew a second
gir. .

Cu McGINLEY ordered one of his men to talk
with authorities at the county institution the
next day and account for the movements of every

‘ inmate on the night Betty Louden died.

He had another angle, too. If the same sex fiend
were committing all these crimes, chances were
that he had a police record as a petty sex offender.
Chief McGinley told his detectives to pull in all
such known criminals. More, he ordered them to
canvass all the pool-halls and beer parlors in the
slums of the steel district. Perhaps, if the killer
had no police record, he did have a reputation as
a ladies’ man among the bums and hangers-on of
the underworld fringe.

“A man like this is liable to be pretty cocky about
his success with women,” the Chief said. “And
there’s a chance he might’ve bragged to somebody.
And if he did—” ‘

Detective Ritz was assigned to interview the
dead girl’s parents and friends to get a complete
picture of Betty’s background.

So the officers had their ‘in-
vestigation organized. Far-flung,
it embraced scores of angles.
They were efficient officers, they.
knew how to run an investiga-
tion. They had at their command
all the resources of the police of
two counties, as well as the as-
sistance of the State Police. But
was that enough? Were they
capable of coping with the Vam-
pire of Noblestown Road? Could
they get the murderer before he
struck again? ; 7

Routine moved rapidly. Coun-
ty Chemist F. C. Buckmaster
made a cast of the teeth-marks
on Betty’s cheek. Chief McGin-
ley sent a posse to scour: thé
woods and fields for the dead
girl’s clothing, hoping the place
the killer had thrown it might
give some clew to his identity.
Search was launched for the
weapon at the spot where the

ody was found; the cororer
thought it was some such instru-
ment as a hatchet or miner’s
pick-ax, wielded with terrible
force.

The local jail was filled rapid-
ly with criminals listed as sex
offenders. Each was questioned
minutely, asked for an alibi, released if the alibi
stood up, held for further investigation if there
was any doubt. .

Squads of detectives hung around the beer
joints, the railroad yards, the pool-halls of Car-
negie and all the surrounding little towns, trying
to pick up a stray bit of gossip about a man who
bragged of his prowess with women.

Other officers canvassed the near-by towns in
search of anybody who had traveled over the
Noblestown Road that wild night of the blizzard,
hoping somebody might have seen the Vampire
stalking Betty Louden to her death.

Te THE vicinity of the crime went Detective Ritz
and his partner, Kline, with two assistants from
the D. A.’s office, Roy T. Clunk and Jacob F. Kalson,
and Detectives John Moses and John Duderstadt.
They began a systematic house-to-house canvass
of the Noblestown Road between Betty’s home in
Walkers Mills and the Allots’ house where she
worked in Rennerdale. Who had seen Betty last
before the Vampire seized her? .


k and
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gation. They began with a roundup of all suspected sex
criminals, questioned friends and relatives of the dead girl,
sought to trace her movements in the hours which im-
mediately preceded her death, :

he grief-stricken parents told of Thelma’s leaving the
house at 7 o'clock the previous evening.

“I’m sure she didn’t intend to meet anyone,” the father
said, “Thelma would rather §0 to the movies alone than
out on a date. Of course, she had boy friends but they were
only casual acquaintances—she’d never had a ‘steady,’ ”

“Can you think of anyone who had pestered her for dates
repeatedly and been turned down, possibly an older man ?”
Chief Verderber asked.

Sylvester Young shook his head. “I’m sure there was no
one like that. If there had been, Thelma would have told
us. She was very frank with us.”

The victim’s married sister, Mrs. Henry Miller, and a
Score of other relatives and friends bore out these state-
ments,

Mrs. Miller told of meeting Thelma and talking with her
briefly on a downtown Street corner the previous evening
before the younger girl went to the movie theater. Others
who had seen her—including the ticket-taker at the theater
—enabled the investigators to piece together her actions.

ing watchman, Tony Greco, He said it was between 10 and
10:30 when she spoke to him.

“Did you see anyone lurking about the streets—anyone
acting suspiciously who walked up Oregon'Avenue a short
time before Thelma did?” Dinsmore asked.

“Not a soul. There weren't many people out last night.
Those that went over my crossing I recognized as men
and women who live around here.”

Greco named several persons he had seen, They were all
respected citizens, and. when they were questioned they
readily proved themselves above suspicion.

At this stage of the investigation Dr, Ramsey made his
autopsy report,

“As near as I can determine,” he said, “the girl died be-

Thelma Young had been strong and healthy, according.

[= ithe
pages ad ri
‘ “= ‘eg a, >
Ny ha

‘a

to the coroner. Therefore it seemed likely that her assailant
was a big, powerful man—one who could overwhelm her
before she was able to scream—and not a mere stripling
she may have known in high school,

The roundup of suspected sex perverts in Washington
County was completed over the weekend. But the result
was a complete disappointment as all were able to establish
sound alibis for the murder night.

Since the scene of the crime was not far from the tracks
of both the Pennsylvania and Baltimore & Ohio Railroads,
Chief Dinsmore and the other investigators did not over.
look the possibility that a tramp had been the slayer. They
raided hobo jungles and brought in a score of vagrants for
questioning, Here again, however, the results were nil,

The officers next concentrated on men who were in the
habit of using the short-cut from Oregon Avenue, but days
of questioning throughout the neighborhood failed to turn
up a single individual who might be considered a suspect.

Clyde Young, a brother of the victim and a war veteran,
enlisted the aid of his American Legion buddies in trying
to get a lead on the killer.

Three times in the ten days following the slaying the
authorities heard reports of a man being seen at the spot

“Could be the killer returning to the scene of his crime,”
Chief Dinsmore commented, “to look for a telltale bit of
evidence, such as the Overcoat button.”

A watch was established over the old picket fence near
the short-cut, but the Suspect failed to pay another visit.

As the days went by, public clamor for solution of the
shocking murder continued unabated, with rewards for
arrest and Conviction of the slayer rising to more than

?

Responding to this Pressure, Dinsmore and Prosecutor
Burchinal sought the assistance of Ora Slater of Cincinnati,
one of the country’s best-known private detectives,

Slater worked closely with the local authorities for more
than a week, but failed to turn up anything new in the
mystery,

“All you can do,” the private eye told Dinsmore and

[Continued on page 49]

The rape-murder of Elizabeth Louden, right, was followed in a few days
by the arrest of the suspect. Her nude body was found beside this brook.

23

Step

or ELI

22

District Attorney Bane, right, saw a familiar pattern in a later attack and
trapped this staring man, who had left two incriminating clues behind him.

It took over eight years to solve the
slaying of lovely Thelma Young.

to see her alive was a railroad crossing watchman whom she
knew.

“Nasty night, isn’t it?” she said to him,

“Sure is, Thelma,” he replied. “We hardly ever see a fog
like this in thé wintertime.”

The girl proceeded down Oregon Avenue, and her figure
was quickly swallowed up in the swirling mist.

From Oregon Avenue there was a short-cut leading up
the hill toward the Young home, some three blocks distant.
It was little more than a lane—a rutted path running across
backlots and through briar patches. At best it was a gloomy,
desolate stretch, and in that night of fog it was particularly
forbidding. But Thelma evidently entered the short-cut
without the slightest premonition of danger.

She didn’t have time to run, and probably was too para-
lyzed by fear to make an outcry, when the big man leaped
upon her from behind the shelter of a. telephone pole. He
clutched her by the throat and banged her head against
pole. Then he started dragging her through the
briars,...

T WAS Dominick Grisslow, a laborer, who found the
body the following morning. Taking the short-cut on

his way to work, he stopped suddenly when he saw a girl’s
high-heeled shoe in the path.

“What in the —!” he began to exclaim. Then he spotted
the blood on the telephone pole, the imitation pearls from a
broken necklace, and a little distance away a girl’s coat.
There was a path of tranipled briars, marked by splotches
of blood and other feminine garments. It led twenty yards

_ up a clay bank and to the side of a sagging picket fence.

At the fence, Grisslow paused just long enough to make
sure that the figure on the ground was cold and lifeless.
Then he ran to spread the alarm.

Among the residents of the vicinity who hurried to the
scene was a boy named Ray Young. He took one look at
the corpse and sobbed; “It’s my sister Thelma! We’ve
been looking for her all night!” .

Presently a dozen officers arrived at the briar-covered
slope. The most experienced among them was William B.

Dinsmore, chief of Washington County detectives. Others
included District Attorney Warren Burchinal; Chief
Joseph Verderber and Lieut. H. C. Joliffe of the city force;
State Police Sgt. William Jones; Constable Clark Miller
of North Franklin township, and Coroner G. W. Ramsey.

It was evident immediately that Thelma Young had been
the victim of a sex maniac. The dead girl was almost naked.
Her dress had been ripped down the front and was spread
beneath her. Her brassiere and panties had been torn to
ribbons. She wore only one stocking. A little distance from
the body was a pump, the mate to the shoe Grisslow had
seen in the path.

Beside the battered head was a blood-stained rock—
obviously the murder weapon. There were marks of a strug-
gle in the soft earth, and in the mud a foot or so from the
corpse was the imprint of a large hand.

“The hand of the killer,” Chief Dinsmore muttered.
“We'll make a plaster cast of that.”

Leaning down, he saw something else—a button appar-
ently ripped from a man’s overcoat, which still had a shred
of light brown material attached to it. The detective care-
fully put it in an envelope and dropped it in his pocket.

After going over the ground carefully the investigators
were able to reconstruct the crime in detail.

“Tt’s possible the killer knew Thelma Young, knew that
she would be coming through the short-cut last night,”
said Chief Verderber. “On the other hand, he might have
been waiting for just any girl to come along. .. .”

Dinsmore nodded. “I think that’s more likely. He hid
behind the telephone pole until Thelma came within reach,
then leaped out at her. He knocked her head against the
pole until she was unconscious, then dragged her through
the briars.”

“But she regained her senses,” Lieutenant Joliffe pointed
out. “The marks in the ground near the fence prove. that.
She put up a fight, and in doing so tore off the overcoat
button.”

“Chief Dinsmore expressed the sentiments of all the offi-
cers when he said, “In all my years on the force this is the
most bestial crime I have ever witnessed in Washington
County. There’s only one punishment that can fit it—and
that’s the electric chair !”

Police photographers shot pictures of the murder scene
from every angle and then Dr. Ramsey superintended re-
moval of the body to the morgue for an autopsy.

Dinsmore and Verderber and their men, with the co-

_operation of the state police, launched a many-sided investi-
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abandoned the questioning and Noble pre-
sented the evidence to the Hardin County
grand jury. On October 12, 1903, that
panel indicted the former Sunday School
teacher on a charge of first degree
murder,

Aware that poison cases are among the
most difficult to prosecute successfully,
Noble prepared his case carefully and
well, Early in February, Ebenezer S. Bly-
denburg was placed on trial before Judge
Charles Richards and a jury in Hardin
County Court at Eldora.

Relatives of all three dead wives were
among the witnesses; But Noble had one
serious handicap, Just two days before
the trial, Dr. Campbell, who had per-
formed the autopsy, dropped dead while
climbing the stairs to his office in Wau-
seon,

Others in the courtroom were the -de-
fendant’s daughter, Irene, and his brother,
Julius, Testifying for the defense, Irene
declared that she alone had cooked the
Sunday meal which her step-mother had
eaten before her death. Blydenburg fol-
lowed his daughter on the stand, testify-
ing in his own behalf, and corroborated
her testimony.

“My wife and I never had any trouble
beyond family quarrels of little conse-
quence,” he declared: “I had no reason
whatever to murder her.”

Late in the evening of February 5, after
deliberating for eight hours, the jury

found Blydenburg guilty of first degree
murder and recommended life imprison-
ment,

The conviction was appealed by Bly-
denburg’s attorneys, but months later it
was upheld by the Iowa Supreme Court,
with two justices dissenting. The gates
of Anamosa Prison clanged shut on the
erstwhile choir singer, presumably for the
rest of his natural life,

The final chapter in this weird case,
however, was still to be written. Blyden-
burg served three years of his sentence.
Then, through the persistent efforts of
his brother, Julius, who had Spared no
expense, he won a new trial.

Early in September, 1907, he faced a
jury for the second time in Hardin County
Court, with Judge Frank Evans presid-
ing. Once again the State presented a
Strong case, which the defense assailed
as purely circumstantial,

Then Judge Evans made a Startling
move. Taking the case out of the jury’s
hands, he handed down a decision which
set Eben Blydenburg free. It was not a
question of whether or not the defendant
had poisoned his third wife, the judge
ruled, but rather that the evidence pre-
sented against him was inconclusive. That
was more than forty years ago, and Eben

Blydenburg long since has died.

(The nume Mrs. Ruth Harvey is fictitious to
Share an innocent person possible embarrassment.
--The Editor.) :

Sex Monster
of the Fog

[Continued from page 23]

Burchinal before he left Washington, “is
to play a game of watchful waiting. It may
take months, even years, but if you’re
alert you will eventually get the break
you need, Perhaps this murdering rapist
may attempt another outrage and give
himself away.”

A second homicide rocked the city the
latter part of January. Was this a fulfill-
ment of Slater’s prediction? Although
there was no sex motivation, it seemed
likely that the killer might be the same
man who had attacked Thelma Young.

The victim in the new case was Israel
Slotsky, a factory timekeeper. He was
waylaid at night shortly after leaving his
fiancee’s home and beaten to death with

‘an iron bar. The murderer took his wallet

and some jewelry.

Verderber, Dinsmore and Constable
Miller put every available man to work on
the Slotsky murder, but for a time it

' seemed they were going to draw as many

blanks as in the Thelma Young probe.

Then, in. mid-February, a domestic
quarrel provided them with a suspect, A
young woman named Mrs. Ray Worms-
ley reported that her 20-year-old husband,
from whom she was estranged, had bur-
glarized a number of homes in recent
weeks.

On the night Slotsky was slain, the in-
vestigators learned, Wormsley had been
seen in a poolroom flashing a large roll of
bills.

Taken into custody, the suspect had an
alibi covering his actions every minute of
the night of the murder. Under investiga-
tion it failed to hold up, however, and
when subjected to relentless questioning
he finally confessed that he beat Slotsky
to death with the iron bar,

“You killed Thelma Young, too, didn’t
you, Wormsley?” Dinsmore accused,

“No, no—you can’t pin that on me!” the
terrified prisoner protested. “That was
before my wife split up with me. I was
home that night,”

Mrs. Wormsley told the investigators
that, to the best of her recollection, this
was true. But still the police were not en-
tirely convinced.

Wormsley went to trial for the Slotsky
murder, was found guilty, and sentenced
to die. A few months later Chief Dinsmore
quizzed him in his cell at the state peni-
tentiary at Rockview minutes before he
went to the electric chair,

“Tf you are guilty of the Thelma Young
killing, this is your last chance to clear
your conscience,” the detective told him.

“So help me, I didn’t murder that girl,”
the condemned man answered. “If T did,
I'd-tell the truth. I have nothing to lose
now--I might as well burn for two kill-
ings as for one. But, chief, I can’t confess
to something I didn’t do.”

Wormsley went to his death, and the
last doubt was cleared from Dinsmore’s
mind—the murderer of Thelma Young
was still at large!

As more months went by it began to
appear that the file on the rapist-slayer
might always remain “open.”

There was a flurry of excitement when
an inmate of the Allegheny County jail
boasted that he knew who had committed
the murder. Brought to Washington, he
nained an ex-con who was living in’ North
Carolina. This suspect came voluntarily
to Washington and completely established
his innocence.

Dinsmore angrily asked the “tipster”
why he had given the bum steer.

“Oh, I just wanted to get my name in
the papers,” was the reply.

From time to time in the following
years there were further false “confes-
sions” and reports of a big man lurking
in the Oregon Avenue short-cut. Two
young women complained he had at-
tempted to molest them and that they
had escaped by running frantically down
the hill,

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49


Officers were stationed again at the
-ene of the 1927 crime, but, as on previous
‘casions, they failed to catch the suspect.

On the eighth anniversary of Thelma
oung’s death—December 29, 1935—a true
alution of the case seemed more hopeless
ian ever. In the intervening time the
layer might have died, might have moved
» some distant part of the country. Or
e might be behind bars somewhere, serv-
1g out a sentence for another crime.

On January 1, 1936, a new district at-
ormey, James C. Bane, took office in
Vashington County, and Michael Powell
vecame chief of county detectives. The
jig regret Burchinal and Dinsmore had
pon leaving their posts was that they
iad been unable to solve the Thelma
Young mystery during their terms.

In the first weeks of the new year both
ocal authorities and the state police re-
-eived reports of several cases of at-
-empted rape. The complaints were filed
in Carnegie, a Pittsburgh suburb twenty-
ive miles northeast of Washington, as
well as in Washington itself.

The young women who fortunately
‘scaped molestation unanimously de-
scribed their would-be assailant as a big,
»owerful man with staring eyes, about 40
vears of age.

The story told to Constable Miller by
i attractive Washington matron was

boat ™
was walking ona lonely stretch down
fon Avenue when this man leaped out
rom behinda tree,” she said. “He grabbed
ne and pulled me toward the tree, as if
ie meant to batter my head against it. I
vas able to scream, and luckily a passing
notorist came to my aid. The man ran
ff in the darktess.”

(HIEF Powell, Miller, the state police
\4 and Prosecutor Bane agreed the noc-
curnal prowler sounded like the slayer of
Thelma Young. But efforts to trap him
vent unrewarded.

The terror striking in parts of Wash-
ington and Allegheny Counties was cli-
naxed on January 18 by the disappearance
of Elizabeth Louden, a 17-year-old do-
mestic worker, That night she left the
residence where she was employed and
started walking along a lonely road to
ner home in the hamlet of Walkers Mills,
just a few miles from Carnegie.

The fate of the pretty, dark-haired girl
was revealed when her nude body was
found beside a brook near the road. She»
had been ravished and beaten to death.

Three days later a report of still an-
other attempted assault was given to the
Carnegie police by a waitress employed
in one of the restaurants in the suburb’s
business section. Her story was similar
to all the rest—the big man leaping out
at her as she walked along a darkened
street, her screams, her escape. But it
varied in one tremendously important re-
spect. She had recognized her assailant!

“I know him because I’ve served him a
lot of times in the restaurant,” she de-
clared. “His name is Robert Dreamer, and
he commutes here from Washington
every day to work in the Pennsy Rail-
road shops.” :

The Carnegie authorities immediately
got in touch with the state police and
the Washington detectives. It was agreed

t an undercover check should be made

‘La’suspect prior to anarrest.

his investigation promptly paid divi-
dends, Dreamer, 38 years old, weighing
more than 200 pounds and an inch or two
over six feet in height, answered to the
many descriptions of the night terrorist.
Acquaintances said his eyes had a “star-
ing’ quality.

Bs Hess AAG HA SUR DA a aan

Married but estranged from his wife,
he lived at the home of relatives in Wash-
ington. At the time of the Thelma Young
murder he had _ occupied a house not far
from Oregon Avenue. And the tenants
who had succeeded him in this house said
that, in cleaning out rubbish in the base-
ment, they had found a light brown over-
coat. An attempt obviously had been made
to burn it, they recalled, and one button
was missing! They had thrown the coat
away.

Further, in December, 1927, Dreamer
was employed not in Carnegie but in
Washington—in the Pennsylvania Rail-
road roundhouse located just a few short
blocks from the murder’scene! He worked
at night, but had an hour off during his
shift—and this hour coincided with the
time of Thelma’s death.

Witnesses placed Dreamer at a point
only a few miles from Walkers Mills the
night Elizabeth Louden disappeared. Was
he, then, guilty of one murder—or of two?

Having collected their ammunition,
Chief Powell, Constable Miller, members
of the state police and other officers
closed in on Robert Dreamer when he re-
turned from Carnegie to Washington the
evening of January 22, 1936. He was taken
for safe-keeping to the troopers’ barracks
outside the city.

With Miller, Powell, Prosecutor Bane,
the state police, Former Chief Dinsmore
and other key officers participating,
Dreamer was questioned at intervals for
the next three days.

At first he was led to believe he was
suspected only of the attempted assaults.
The Carnegie waitress confronted him, as
did other women who had been terrorized.
All of them were positive in their identi-
fications of the prisoner.

But then the quizzing veered to the
eight-year-old murder of Thelma Young.
The officers matched his hand with the

.

plaster cast of the print found at the
crime scene, It was a perfect fit.

Caught off-guard, Dreamer admitted
having a vivid memory of the night of
December 29, 1927. It was quite warm,
he said, and there was a fog. He admitted,
too, that he’d owned a light brown over-
coat at that time.

“You have avery -good memory,
Dreamer,” Dinsmore told him. “Now,
suppose you try. your recollection on
this...” The retired detective opened his
fist and held the brown overcoat button
under the suspect’s startled gaze. “Re-
member where you lost it? And when?”

Prompted by his conscience, the sense
of guilt that had haunted him for so many
years, Dreamer darted forward and
grasped Dinsmore’s wrist. :

“That’s what I missed!” he gasped.
“That’s what I went back looking for so
many times!” P

The trick completely breached his re-

.serve. In the next half-hour he poured
out a full confession to the murder of
Thelma Young. The crime had taken place
exactly as the investigators had originally
reconstructed it. One question he cleared
up was whether or not he had known
Thelma. He hadn’t. He was waiting at the
Oregon Avenue short-cut that night for
a girl—any girl—to come along.

Dreamer stubbornly denied that he had
killed Elizabeth Louden as wellas Thelma.

“We think you did murder her, but we
haven’t got as much proof as in the other
case,” one of the officers told him. “It
doesn’t make any difference whether you
admit it or not, though—you'll pay the
price for one same as for two!”

This prophecy was borne out after
Robert Dreamer was found guilty in the
first degree and exhausted every avenue
of appeal. He shuffled down the last mile
at Rockview Penitentiary the night of
January 30, 1937.

HOSPITAL BED-CHECK

Captains in crime have used all kinds of hideouts from which to direct their
activites—from swank hotel suites to a hole-in-the-wall just around the corner
from Skid Row. But the most ingenious of all, a bed in a tuberculosis sana-
torium, is credited by Indiana authorities to cadaverous Clyde Isenhour, extreme
left. Arrested in Tampa, Fla., Isenhour was charged by Chief Deputy D. D.
Stephens with being the brain behind a 13-state check forgery gang which in
two years obtained $100,000 through its operations.
were, from left to right, Bertha Woodhall, Vera Mae Crawford and Robert
Chastaine. Isenhour had departed from the Indiana hospital before undercover
work by detectives pegged the dnstitution as the check gang headquarters,

Arrested with Isenhour

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51


) 2) SEG if ue : Pata) ay ;
: LA Foor vf (A. ct] / e/ lpi 27 ia i, 6”Lor Dar UR) auc Tbract len,
O° Tichar. Mere Kan ach fone Yoel vi Zé re Lhe Mrerdic~ Ta

ie i ee f Peter, a. hud Aad. Cop Laat Dea. bor ae
: a dalle Oheerwed f! y / s7 (x 21 =f A,X )


DREWS, Charlie,
SPICHLER, Franli

A MARKET FOR MURDER. |

History ef the. Infarnal Conspiracy to Kill
__ the Poor Old Imbecile, Baber, to. Obtain .
the Insurance on Hin. Life. “.

i eateineieental

cOLD- BLOODED . COMPACT.

Entered Into By the{Six Asesssins of
Indiantown Gap, Which has Thus
far Brought But Two of Them

Sckantraeand ;

=10 THE FATAL GALLOWS TRAP.

: With Hlustrations and Portraits.)

Leeaxon, Pa., Nov. 14.—Charles Drews aud Franklin
stichler were hanged to-day for one of the bdieckest
crimes that darkens the pages of Pennaylygals erim-
inal history, which seme ce... murders
the past eight years, Inas the northe¥n
frontier of this county, inhabited by very ignorant
sud immoral people, there resided, in company with
» hag known as Polly Kreiser, an old.man named
Joseph Raber. He subsisted on the charities of his
neighbors, and had acarcely enough clothing to “ae-
cently cover hie person. This poor fellow Israel

* Brandt, Josiah Hummel, George Zechman and Henry

F. Wise singled out se ® good subject for insurance
avd subsequent murder. Thechief conspirator was
Brandt, @ one-armed man, who had for years kept an
unlicensed groggery on the mountain, where the baser
sort were wont to congregate. He made known his
speculative scheme to Hummel, Wise and Zechman,
tit associates of the ringleader, and they readily en-
tered into it. Charles Drews, aged about sixty years,
was selected to drown the unsuspecting Raber, who
expressed bis willingness to be insured for any

amount in the interest ot the conspirators, under the |
inspiration of s promise that he should never want |

for the necessaries of life. The four men accordingly
had made out policies aggregating $20,000, which
they were .

TO BECKIVE AT THE DEATH OF THE INSURED.
The applications were made in August, 1878, and.on
the evening of the following 7th of December the

dead body of the old: man wae found in Indiantown |

creek, about one hundred yards from the residence of
two of the murderers. Deeth proofs were ecen after
made out in the presence of the conspirators, but the
money was never paid because of a suspicion that
Raber had been murdered. Asearching investigation

! was instituted. and facts were soon developed show-

ing, beyond a doubt, that the old man had been forci-
bly drowned, and the authors ofhis death were Stich.
ler, Drews, Brandt; Wise, Hummel snd Zechmenp,
aud they were arrested. Apumber of persons outside
this party had knowledge of the intended murder of
Raber, and ene had seen the crime committed, but,
owing to threats repestedly made that if they revealed
this secret they would be shot, they kept their. lips
vealed for several months, except among those con-
cerned in the plot. The firet person who gave the
insurance companies interested, and the authorities,

' important revelations relative to the crime, was

Joseph Peters, # young man who is married to one of
Drewa’ daughters. He had been in the army, and
coming home on & furiough was fally apprised of

THE *CHEME TO MURDER RABER.
Shortly before the commission of the crime, while
chopping wood in the mountain, his father-in-law
approached him with a proposition to make “a nice
pile of money without stealing.” He said that
Brandt had offered him $600 if he would drown the
old man, and that he had agreed to dothe job. He,

_ Lowever, desired assistance, and suggested that Peters

should come to his rescue. Peters seys he refused to
have anything to do with the murder, when Drews
threatened to shoot him if he disclosed the conversa-
tiun. Drews had also asked Elijah Stichler, a young
map of twenty, to aid him in the proposed drowning,
offering him $100 if he puled the flat—in which it was
proposed to take Raber—on a saw-mill dam several
miles distant. Brandt was in doubt whether Haber
could be induced to make the trip, but Zechman said
that he had the old man in tune now, and tLat a sim-
ple statement from him that his wife was hungry for
tish would be sufficient to induce Raber to go along.
Brandt afterward saw Elijah Stichler aud urged him
tv accept the proposition made him by Drewes, who
was to throw the victim into the water, after which
Stichler was to pole the flat over the drowning man,
preventing him from coming to the surface, and then
ump in as if to rescue Haber—all for the purpose of
aetting up @ .
THEORY OF ACCLDENTAL DROWNING.
stichler refased the bribe, and he, too, was told that if
ne exposed the plotters bis life would pay. the forfeit
‘or indiscretion. The murderous mission was under-
‘aken, Joseph Peters accompanying Drews, according
10 the latter’s confession made a few months ago, but
Naber was not drowned owing to Drew's lack of cour-
te. The next plot formed was to drcwn the old map
2 Indiantown cr.ek, and to assist him in the work
.« employed Franklin Stichler, twenty years old last
uonth, offering him $100 for his services. Stichler
.ad previously been solicitéd to commit the murder
‘'y Brandt, but, for some reason, the negotiations
‘+re pot pressed to asuccessful issue. On Seturday,
ie. 7, 1878, Drews paid several vivita to Kaber’s but,
.ud during the afternoon lured him into hir houre
«here he nade ap arrangement to accompany him
» the other side of Indiantown creek to get some
“at. Joseph Peters heard the two leave the house,
ad, looking through a dingy window of the attic,
sw them and Franklin Stichler proceeding by a
‘wall path toward the stream the shores of which are
ntected by a uarruw foot-bridge. When Raber bad

imecbed the middle of the creek, Stichler canyht bigs

‘y the shoulders, tripped and threw him inty the
*eter, Muun alter they returned to the Drews’ resi-

hanged Pa,(Lebanon) Nov. 14, 1879
n hanged Pa.(Lebanon) Nov.14, 1879

dence, having accomplished their murderous pur-
MOVEMENTS WERE WATORED BY PETERS.
As Stichler’s clothing was s.,aked with water, by ree-
ou of the diffieulty he hed tn keeping down the head
‘ofthe struggling victim, he exchanged it for some
belonging to Drews on the return of the murderers to
fhe house. In the presence. of Peters, Stichier re-
j that ifany one came into the house care should
Me taken thet the wet clothing was removed. Later }
th the day Stichler.ret to Drews’ residence and}
imguired if the reports that Raber had been drowned
were true, to which Drews replied in the affirmative,
ateting that-he had scen the old -man falling isto the
creek from‘a window if} the house. About a wtek
later Gtichler was a visitor at Drewes’ and while there
botfi of them, speaking toud-emowgh'to be heard by
f Peters’ and Drews’ family, tafired boldly of the crime,
remarking that it required their combined efforts to
| drown Raber. Prior to the commiesion of the ortme
] Drews had told his wife that he was to get $1,000 for,
| kiltiog Raber, which elicited the response that .he |
| might be cheated by those who employed him. This
} conversation occurred in the presence of Mrs. Peters,
who made use of it when called as a -witness-for the
I commuuwoutinn-”
_Early in February last Joseph Peters made infor-
mation against the four conspiretors, and the two
actual participants in the crime, and the following
April they were convicted, after an eventful trial of
seven days. The testimony against all the accused,
except Zechman, was overwhelming. The. principal
witnesses against-Drews was his own dedghter and
her husband, whoee testfmouy wae not shaken by the
most searching cross examination. Their statements
have since been corroborated by Drews and Stichler
in confessions made a few months since. iis:

.

National Police Gazette HaxxX

November 29, 1879


214 118 ATLANTIC REPORTER (N.z.

and natural justice, the accused was entitled
to explain, if he could, why he failed to
keep the alleged appointment. In denying
him this right, the court erred. But this

‘error in excluding the question does not

lead to a reversal, for it is apparent, from
a reading of the entire testimony of - the
accused, that the error was harmless. The
defendant, subsequent to the overruling of
the question, testified as to the cause why
he did not keep the appointment alleged to
have been made by him with the prosecutrix,
which testimony in effect was a full and
complete answer to the overruled question.

[8] The twentieth assignment of error,
which is next argued and relicd on‘as ground
for reversal, is founded upon the assertion
that the trial judge refused to charge the de-
fendant’s second request, as requested, and
which was as follows:

“Tf the complaining witness did not resist the
efforts of the defendant to have intercourse to
the Inst, but consented to such act of inter-
course at any time prior to the commission of
the act, by her acts, manner, and conduct, the
defendant cannot be convicted of rape.”

The trial judge said:

“That is more or less a repetition of the first
request. T will so charge that that is the law
on the subject. However, the allegation of
force, in the absence of previous consent, is
proved by any complete evidence showing that
either the person of the woman was violated
and her resistance overcome by physical force,
or that her will was overcome by the fear of
death, or by duress. In either case the allega-
tion is complete, although she ceased to offer
resistance before the act was finally consum-
mated.”

The contention of counsel is that this add-
ed statement to his request in effect nullified
it in its principal element, namely, in that
it eliminated from the request any considera-
tion of the conduct of the prosecutrix while
in the act of sexual intercourse with the de-
fendant. But a plain reading of what the
trial judge said does not warrant any such
inference. It was an accurate statement of
the law, and is not fairly subject to the
criticism passed upon it.

{9] The twenty-first assignment of error is
predicated upon what the trial judge said in
amplification of a request of counsel of de-

make such inferences as they have a perfect
right to do, from the lack of evidence that
might otherwise have been produced. This
contention is fallacious. A lack of evidence
may engender a reasonable doubt;. but that
circumstance, clearly, does not enter into de-
fining what a reasonable doubt is. The
question is, not what facts or .absence of
facts may engender a reasonable doubt, but
rather what in law constitutes a reasonable
doubt, The definition given by the trial judge,
while it may be accurate in a general way in
the popular sense of the term, was inaccurate
in the legal sense. See Donnelly v. State,
26 N. J. Law, 601, at page 615; Stata v.
Linker, 94 N. J. Law, 412, 111 Atl. 35. The
trial judge was not requested to define rea-
sonable doubt, and what he said on the sub-
ject was more favorable to the defendant
than the application of the test as to when
a reasonable doubt may be properly said to
exist, established by the cases above cited.
The test there stated is:

“That state of the case which, after the en-
tire comparison and consideration of all the
evidence, leaves the minds of the jurors in
that condition that they cannot say they feel
an abiding conviction to a moral certainty of
the truth of the charge.”

It is therefore quite obvious that the staté-
ment that a reasonable doubt is a doubt
which a reasonable man might entertain on
the testimony makes the reasonableness of
the doubt depend upon the circumstance
whether a reasonable person on the evidence
would entertain any doubt. Such a doctrine,
carried to its logical sequence, may convert
a possible doubt into a reasonable one, if a
reasonable man entertains the doubt. It is
therefore:clear that the defendant derived a
benefit through the erroneous conception of
the trial judge of what constitutes a reason-
able doubt.

We deem it to be advisable in this con-
nection to remark that it would be both
prudent and wise for a judge, in stating to
a jury what is meant in law by the term
“reasonable doubt,” to refrain from express-
ing his own views on the subject, lest he fall

tion of the term as given by Chief Justice
Shaw, in Commonwealth y. Webster, 5 Cush,
(Mass.) at page 820, 52 Am. Dec. 711, which

fendant that the jury be instructed as fol-
lows:

“<Tf there is a reasonable doubt in the minds
of the jury as to the guilt or innocence of the
defendant, ft must be resolved in favor of the

defendant, and your verdict in that case should |
be for the defendant.’ L will charge this re- |

definition was approved and adopted by our
{Court of Errors and Appeals in Donnelly ¥.
State, 26 N. J. Law, at page 615. See, also,
State v. Linker, 94 N. J. Law, 412, 111 Atl.

es

oD,
[10] Lastly, the twenty-second, twenty-

into error, but to follow closely the definl- .

quest. I might say that a reasonable doubt third, and twenty-fourth assignments of ét-
as to the guilt or innocence of the defendant | ror relate to comments made by court upon
does not mean any doubt that you may have; jthe testimony. The defendant’s counsel
it means such doubt as a reasonable man might claims that they were not justified by the
entertain after considering all the testimony facts in the case, ‘But a careful rending of
in the case.” the testimony clearly shows that this claim

This added instruction, it {s contended, is|is not borne out by the proof, and that the
error, because it does not permit the jury to | comments made by the court did not exceed

"hai 5

Dea D4

a

t
:

fa) COMMONWEALTH +, DREHER © 215
eS yr (118 A.)

the bounds of legal‘propriety. ‘We find noth:

ing legally objectionable in the staterient ot

the court:

!. “That the crime of rape was a’ serious charge,
one of the most serious charges that can be

brought against a man aside from murder; that nal debtor: * «-

it deserves the most serious consideration.”

Finding no error in the record, the ‘judg-
ment below must be affirmed, 069) 0:

At orayl
(At SG rastey

Bye > it ot

POTTASH et al. v. VIETOR (CORN EXCH,
NAT. BANK, Garnishee), eke

(Supreme Court’ of Pennsylvania: May 15,
1922.) ;

Attachment ¢=>102—Affidavit which failed to

aver performance In regard to shipment of
. goods held insufficient.
_. Where affidavit for attachment failed to
state that plaintiff had performed his part of
the contract sued on by shipping the goods dur-
ing the time and from the place agreed on, it
was insufficient. Bt g

Appeal from Court of Common Pleas, Phil-
adelphia County;; William ©. Ferguson,
Judge. :

Action by Max Pottash and Harry Pottash,
trading as Pottash Bros., against Carl I.
Victor, trading as Rockhill & Vietor, defend-
ant, und the Corn Exchange National Bank,
rkarnishee. Judgment for defendant, and
Plaintiffs appeal. Affirmed. :

Argued before MOSCHZISKER, C. J., and
WALLING, SIMPSON, SADLER, and
RCHAFIFER, JJ.

B.D. Oliensis, of Philadelphia, for appel-
lants,

James MeMullan, and Dickson, Beitler &
McCouch, all of Philadelphia, for garnishee.

PER CURIAM.’ We adopt the following
opinion of the court below:

“The rule to dissolve attachment must be
made absolute. Plaintiffs cannot ask to have
the attachment preserved unless they show a
cause of action which, if proved, would sustain
® verdict; the affidavit filed in this ease does
not meet this test. The contract with West-
phal (the principal) was made July 16, 1918;
it had been made verbally and was confirmed
in writing. Deliveries were to be made of bur-
lap from Calcutta, shipped in June or July, and

"cIt need be ‘added only that, since we agree
the ‘case ‘was properly disposed of by the
court below.:on the pleadings, it make3 no
material difference, for. present purposes,
whether defendant was a Surety or an origi
‘The order appealed from is aflirmed,: :) -

>
a ‘

r hyper: Wee Riya

to?

' COMMONWEALTH v. DREHER. ..-.

o (Supreme Court of Pennsylvania. May 15,
' +» 1922.) :

{. Homicide €—286(3) — Instruction defining
- premoditation held not erroneous.
In prosecution for first degree murder, in-

struction defining premeditation held not erro>
neous, '

2. Homicide @=>14(2).—'“Premeditation” de-
fined. ' “ety
: An act is premeditated if there was a pre-
vious deliberation or previous intent to kill,
however sudden and however quickly put into
execution; an instant of time being sufficient,
[Ed. Note——For other definitions, see Words
and Phrases, First and Second Series, Premed-
itate—Premeditation.]

3. Homicide @=7253(3)—In prosecution for first
degree murder, evidence held to prove pre-
meditation.

In prosecution for first degree murder, evi-
dence held sufficient to sustain conviction as
against contention that there was no premedita-
tion. ,

Appeal from Court of Oyer and Terminer,
Philadelphia County; Howard A, Davis,
Judge.

Joseph Dreher was convicted of murder
in the first degree, and he appeals. Judg-
ment and sentence aflirmed, and record re-
mitted for purpose of execution.

Argued before MOSCHZISKER, ©. J., and
FRAZER, WALLING, SIMPSON, and SAD-
LER, JJ.

W. A. S. Lapetina and Hugh McAnany, Jr.,
both of Philadelphia, for appellant.

Charles F, Kelley, Asst. Dist. Atty., and
Samuel P. Rotan, Dist. Atty., both of Phila-
delphia, for the Commonwealth.

FRAZER, J. Defendant ,was convicted of

were to be delivered on the Pacific Coast; de-| murder of the first degree by inflicting in-

davit avers that ‘early’ in December a consign-

ment of burlap arrived at Scattle, and princi-
bal ahd surety refused to accept it. There is
no averment that the burlap enme from Calcut-
fa, or that it was shipped in June or July.

here was, théerefore, no averment of perform-
enee of the contract by plaintiffs in these very
important particulars. The affidavit is insuff- ,

fendant was surety on this contract. The affi- | juries with a razor upon Ethel Warren, to

whom he was engaged to be married;\ as a

result of the injuries she died within a few

minutes. Defendant did not deny having
committed the act, but claimed it was done
at a time when he was “crazy in his mind,”
as a result of her having “shoved hii in the
face with her hand” during a quarrel, in

tient to sustain the attachment.”

(@umeees

which she called him a liar, and ‘accused him

>For otber cases see same topic and KEY-NUMBER in all Key-Numbered Digests and Indexes

*Z26T-LI-L (etudTepettud) eTueatAsuueg peynoouyzosts ‘SyoeTq Sydesor *YaHaHC

fate pes

Nace sat

inl el naling fete

iain


216 3 118 ATLANTIO

of being unfaithful to her. The questions
presented for review are: First, whether the
trial judge erred in his charge as to the ele-
ments necessary to constitute first degree
murder; and, second, whether there was suf-
ficient evidence to sustain the verdict.

{1,2] In defining premeditation as apply-
ing to first degree murder, the trial judge
charged:

“Tf there was a previous deliberation or pre-
vious intent to kill, however sudden and how-
ever quickly put into execution, the act is pre-
meditated. An instant of time may be all the
time necessary for one to form a determination
to do a certain thing, so swift is the operation
of the human mind.”

The foregoing is the langiinge to which ex-

ception is taken, the contention being it min-
imized the element of premeditation so as

practically to eliminate it from consideration | dict of first degree murder.

by the jury. In applying the definition to
the present case, the court said further:

“In this ease the commonwealth contends
that there was a previously formed and an ex-
press intention to kill. In the absence of an ex-
press declaration of intention, it is not possible
for one person to tell the thoughts, the opera-
tion of the mind, of another. ‘The intent to
kill may be inferred from the words and the ac-
tions of the defendant and from the nature of
the weapon used. The commonwealth produces,
so far as within its power, evidence of the sur-
rounding [existing] circumstances, and from
thut evidenee the jury must determine the in-
tention of the defendant at the time of the com-
mission of the act, if such an intention is to
be found at all. In reaching your conclusion
on that point you must take into consideration
the position of the parties, their relation, the
weapon used, how it came into the possession
of the defendant, and all of the facts surround-
ing the commission of the act, the part of the
body upon which the wound was inflicted, the
conduct of the defendant immediately preceding
the cutting, and all the circumstances which the
evidence reveals to you_as existing at the time
of the offense. All of the circumstances are
important, as an intelligent being he is suppos-
ed to understand what he is doing, and what
will be the natural consequences of his act.”

The foregoing instructions were fully in
accord with numerous decisions of this court,
gmong them Commonwealth y, Drum, 58 Pa.
9; Commonwealth v. Bueceler!, 153 Pa. 535,
°6 Atl. 228; Commonwealth v. West, 204 v4.
G8, 53 Atl 542; Commonwealth v. Reed, 234
Pa. 573, 88 Atl 601. Appellant's contention
is based mainly on the language of the court
in Commonwealth v. Drum, supra, where,
after quoting from an earlier case, in which

REPORTER (Pa.

of human thought, that no:time is so short in
which a wicked man may not form a design to
kill, and frame the means of executing his pur:
pose; yet this suddenness is opposed to pre-
meditation, and a jury must be well convinced
upon the evidence that there was time to delib-
erate and premeditate.”

The same argument was made by defend-
ant in Commonwealth v. Buccieri, supra,
where the language in Drum’s Case was ex-
plained as applicable to the particular facts
before the court, and it was there held not
to have changed the law as laid down in
earlier decisions, and also followed in the
later cases cited above, and which fully sus-
tain the correctness of the charge now be-
fore us.
[3] There is no merit in the contention
that the evidence failed to sustain the ver-
On the contrary,
defendant’s own statement is sufficient for
that purpose. Earlier in the evening on
which the crime was committed there had
been a quarrel between defendant and de-
ceased at the home where he had rooms, she
having at that time charged him with atten-
tions to other women. Later, while several
visitors were present in the parlor, deceased
following defendant into the dining room
urging him to accompany her to a nearby
block party. He declined to do so, giving as
an excuse that he was not feeling well. As
a result of his refusal a second dispute arose
between them, during which he took from
his coat pocket a razor, and cut her twice
on the throat, and immediately left the
house, going to’ the home of a friend some
distance away, where he was arrested early
the following morning. The facts above set
forth are uncontradicted, and contain the
elements necessary to sustain a verdict of
first degree murder. They show the use of
a deadly weapon on a vital part of the body,
not only once, but twice, the testimony be-
ing that either wound alone would have
caused death. The fact that the razor had
not been procured or placed by defendant in
his pocket with a preconceived intent to use
it on decensed is immaterial, inasmuch as
the jury had ample evidence to support a
finding that defendant formed an intent to
kill as a result of the dispute with deceased,
and deliberately proceeded to carry out the
intent by aid of the weapon at the time in
his possession. ‘
The deliberation and premeditation re-
quired is not upon the intent, but upon the
killing. An intent distinctly formed, even

it was stated that “no time is too short for|for a moment before being carried into ex-

a wicked man to frame in his mind his} ecution,

is suflicient. Commonwealth Vv.

scheme of murder, and to contrive the means | Reed, supra. ’

of accomplishing it,” it was said (58 Pa. 16):
“But this expression must be qualified, lest

The judgment and sentence of the court
below are aflirmed, and the record is remi

it mislead. It is true that such is the swiftness

ted for the purpose of execution. ‘

Pa) NORTHERN TRUST 60; ¥. HUBER |
(118 A.) ar

NORTHERN TRUST. CO. v. HUBER et al.

(Supreme Court of Pennsylvania. May 15,
1922.)

1. Trial ¢=>160—Refusal of compulso an
sult not reviewable. peittoaet Mans
The refusal of a compulsory nonsuit is not
reviewable on appeal.

2, Gifts €>15—Voluntary transfer to son and
daughter-in-law Indicated intent to make gift.
Where a father made a voluntary transfer
of bonds to a son and money to the son’s wife
without words showing an intention to limit
the rights of either in the ownership, the act
“a sufficient indication of an intent to make
a gi

8. Gifts €=47(1)—Proof of unqualified trans-
fer to donees shown casts burden on person
attacking to show conditional delivery.

Where an unqualified transfer to donees, of

Possession of a gift was shown, the burden was

on one seeking to set it aside to show a deliy-

ery upon some condition or trust.

4. Gifts €=47(3)—Invalidity for undue Influ-
ence not presumed from residence of old fa-
ther with his children, the donees,

, rhe invalidity of a gift from a father to his
children is not to be presumed from the fact
that the father was old and feeble and resided
with his children and facts establishing undue
influence must be affirmatively shown.

5. Gifts ¢€=-47(1)—Burden on donee to show
gift from stranger voluntary.
The burden is on the donee to show that a
gift from a stranger was the voluntary and
intelligent act of the donor.

6. Gifts €=>47(3)—Rule as to presumption of
Mtn of voluntary gift applies to daughter-
-law.
\ The rule as to the presumption of the va-
ity of a voluntary gift by a father residing
With his children applies to a daughter-in-law.

7. Appeal and error €=>1066—Trial €=>252(4)
—Instruction improperly imposing burden of
Proof on donee, prejudicial error,

In an action by an administrator to recov-
¢r the value of bonds and money claimed by
defendants as a gift from the deceased, an in-
struction that “the burden of proving that a
sift was made is upon the one who alleges it,
and if the relations between the donor and
donee are such that, because of weakness, de-
dre ini or trust, justifiably imposed unfair
- vantage {s rendered probable, the transac-
; on is presumed void, and the burden of proof
* upon the donee to show that all was fair,
ean voluntary, and understood,” was preju-
7 al error, where the proof showed no rela-
an such as to call for the instruction.

Pe and error @=525(2) — immaterial
ot party asks charge to be filed of rece
be 80 long as it Is certified,

Bee sa defendants excepted to affirmance
thet oy relating to a charge but did not ask

¢ charge be filed of record, but this was

cluding points answered w i
—— ere put fm Position for

Appeal from Court of Gom
mon Pleas,
Philadelphia County; Davis, Judge. :

Action by the Northern Trust Com
executors of the estate of Christian Huber,
deceased, against John Huber and another,
From judgment for plaintiff, defendants ap-
peal. Reversed, and venire facias de novo,

Argued before MOSCHZISKER, C. J
£3 “it, . « d

FRAZER, WALLING, KEPHART, § I EE
and SCHAFFER, JJ. tas a
; binge J. Roberts, George G, Chandler, and
4ewis J. Finestone, all of Philadel
appellants, ; q ieee!

Grover C. Ladner (of Ladner & La

; dner)

and William Henry Snyder, both :
delphia, for appellee, : arias

SADLER, J. Plaintiff, as executor of
Christian Huber, brought an action of as-
sumpsit and detinue against the decedent’s
son, John Huber, and his wife, to recover
the value of certain property alleged to be
a part of the assets of the father’s estate. It
may be noted preliminarily that all of the
claims were abandoned with the exception
of a demand for $600 in United States Lib-
erty Bonds, transferred to John on April
16, 1919, and $2,626.75, turned over in cash
to the daughter-in-law on July 16, 1919. The
statement filed averred the property in ques-
tion was in the possession of decedent on
the dates mentioned, and it was handed to
defendants for safe-keeping, becausé of his
age and feeble health, but no specific allega-
ee of soag gs conduct inducing this a

appears. By way
pee go! rei Sten, of defense, a volunta-
[1] On the trial, plaintiff rested after of-
fering portions of the pleadings, showing
title to the property at one time in the fa-
ther, and the present possession by defend-
ants, depending upon the presumption of a
continuance of the original admitted owner-
ship, An application for a compulsory non-
suit was refused, though such might have
been justified, the possession of the proper-
ty, negotiable as it was, showing, prima
facie, defendants to be holders in due course.
Maxler v. Hawk, 223 Pa. 316, 326, 82 Att.
251, Ann. Cas, 1913B, 559. The action of
the court overruling the motion is not, how-
ever, the subject of review. Keck v. Pitts:
burgh, ete, Ry. Co., 271 Pa. 479, 115 Atl
824. Evidence was then offered by defend-
ants to prove the transfers were voluntary
and the facts thus elicited are to be considered
in passing upon the questions here involved
whether favorable to the one furnishing
them or to his adversary. Husvar 5 eae 3 L.
& W. R. R. Co. 232 Pa. 278, 81 Atl. 298
It must therefore be determined whether

a ,
one by the plaintiff, the entire instruction in-

sufficient is disclosed by the record to jus-

@>For
other cases see same topic and KEY-NUMBER tn all Key-Numbered Digests and Indcxes

Teese neaewmwmoovemcamancrnpmeomnmere spon

ose en pro acaae

tere ses


22 HISTORY OF T eee

RABER. MURDER,

Raber was murdered by Drews and
Stichler the Saturday before. The
whisky was bought by Zechman on
Thursday or Friday at Gingrich’s hotel,
in Jonestown. and on Saturday evening
when Brandt and Trout called at Zech-
man’s house to inform him of Raber’s

death he gave them some of this whisky
to drink.. was to have been
au equal partner in the insurance money,
after all expenses were deducted, tor his
services.

Of the actual drowning of Joseph
Raber, in the manner in which it was
done, I knew absolutely nothing, as [
had altogether withdrawn from the plot
some time before, and was under the
impression that Drews would not do it,
as Thad told Zechman and Hummel on
Monday evening. This I declare as the
solemn truth. as [ must answer so SOON
to my God.

1

AS AN ACCESSORY APTER THE FACT

The next that T heard was on Saturday

e venins, between 9 and 10 o'clock, when
3randt and Prout came down and told
me that Raber had been found dead in
the creek. when I went up to Drews’
house, and he told me that Rabez’s death
vecurred in the manner which he sworn
to before the voroner’s
morning.

On Priday of the followine week
Schweinhard came to Brandt's
make ont the death proofs. Brandt. Huin-
mel, Stichler and myself were behind the
shed, when Stichler said. “that if any of
us would ever say anything about this
matter we could order our coftins.”? and
also told us ** that when we got our money
we should give Drews one one-half ot the
amount and keep the other half for him-
self, as he did not trust Drews."° then
said, ** Stichler, did you have aheand inthis
If that is so. then let us x8)

>

jury the next

house to

job. too?
away froin here, this is uo place to speak.”
We however, ade out the death proofs,
and then separated,

Some time after this, [ met Hummel
eu this side of the mountain. when he |
asked me how I felt about my Nsurance,

[ replied, that I wonld never allow
myself tu be coaxed into such an arrange-
mentagain.”” Hummel said, “you necd
not be afraid. as Brant says vou are too |

%

|
{
|
{

much of a coward, arr that he would
never have anything to do with you.’!
Then I asked him whether he would evcr
again have anything to do with such
matters, when he said, ‘yes, that he
and Brandt would insure Geo. Jennings
for $6,000 37,000 more, and that he
already had a man to put him out of the
way.” Then I asked him whether that
would end this business, when he said,
“no, [have an arrangement with another
man to ‘leave* an old German on the
mountain who expected to get an inheit-
ance from Germany. Then I will go
West, and the Indiantown Gap will never
see me again.”

A short time before our arrest Hum-
mel and myself were in Lebanon to see
about the collection of our insurance
money. On our way home we passed
through Jonestown, and there inet Mr.
E. Ditzler who told us that we should
tell Brandt that he had been in Phila-
delphia, in the oftice of the New Era
Insurance company, and that his pohtey
was allright and would be paid after the
death proofs were sent in. From heve
we went to Brandt's house and told linn.

From Brandt's house we went to ous
respective homes and seldom met. all of
course hoping that before lone we would
obtain the insurance money,

On the 14th of February. I was vetting
ready to go toa sale and was met by of-
fices Ringler, Gates, Zweitzig and Young,
who arrested me about one-half mile (rom
home. | could easily have escaped. as 1
knew them well and also knew for what
purpose they had called. but my heart
never thoneht thatl would be hung.as | felt
sure that no one outside knew anything
about me. Hummel met ine at this piace.
at the same time, and was afready ar-
We were taken to Ed. Ditzler’s
and soon the other four were cdse brought

rested,

there. when we were taken to Lebanon,
appeared beitore “Squire Murray. and
were all cominitted to jail. Here we
spent our time ino variotts Ways. some
playing cards, others reading or singing.
and relating ineidents of our past lives,

At the habeas corpus hearing’ soon af-
ter, whieh was held before Judge Hen-
derson, the principal witnesses were Jo-
seph and Lena Peters, where Lena testi-
lied that she had seen me only onee or

HISTORY: OF "PERE. RABER MURDER. _ 23

twice before Raber! s death, which was
correct, but at the trial she swore that
she seen me five or six times.

One day Zechman, Brandt and myself
were together in a cell, Zechman, laugh-
ing said, ‘‘Henry. I would not have
gone to Drews that Monday, when you
went, for 3500." [asked him ‘‘why not,
did you know that this might result in
death >” He replied. ** why certainly.”
1 then said to him, ‘George, did you
know this, and not let me know, whoam
just think of my poor wife

T have never been away
T can scarcely

your cousin ;
ind children,
‘rom home before; oh.
Dear it.’

At an other time Charles Drews and
[ were sitting together in the hall, and
the others were playing cards at the
talie, when we spoke about different
matters, and finally about the murder of
Raber, which was substantially
us follows : Tasked him, ** Charley why
didivt you obey me when I told you not
todo it?” He replied, > 1 determined
not to do it when you left me, but then
fellow, iiummel, and Brandt

wt yseph

the * big?
came tome on Wednesday and told me
that you wanted to sell your policy. as
you had told me yourself, and coaxed me
until T consented, when Brandt told me
that Teould get Elijah Stichler to help
him; then I went to see Elijah Stichler
und he promised me to vo along fisniny
the next day to Kitzmiller’s dam. The
next day (Thursday), I waited a long
time on Stichler and when he did not
come Lwent to his house. but he said he
was too lazy to go alone. IT then went
home again, and asked Penrose and
Peters to go along. We three got Raber
to yo along with us. and started for the
dam, but when we arrived there it was
very Windy and the flat was full of water,
~o T said, let the fishing go te —. and
«ain started for home. hen we
arrived home we met Brandt. who was
much displeased with us, and I told hin
yeu may do this job yourself ii

. you
want it done,

Then Peters and Brandt
wrecd % put him out of the way. So
on Wridas Renrose and Peters went to

he OW, Peter, bought a bottle
of ether giving. a fictitious shame, ul-
jhouglt he-worehis Uolform,

; On Friday
evening” Fa =Stlchter + ine to my

|
|

tome oil r then made an arrangement
with him to help me to kill Raber the
next dav (Saturday). As to the manner
of Raber’s killing, Peters lived in his
testimony when he said that Stichler
was first and I in the rear, because I was
first and walked across the plank ;
Raber followed me When he got on the
plank Stichler caught him and threw
him into the water and jumped upon
him, when a violent struggle ensued.
Stichler called upon me to help, and old
Raber also raised his head and cried out
“Charley, help me.”’ T turned around
and placed my foot on his head and
pressed it down, when he was soon
dead.”’ Tasked him then why did you do
this, when he replied, ‘‘I went for that
purpose, and was determined to do it.”

This I say as the solemn truth, which I
will soon have to answer before my Maker,
the righteous judge, one who will never
err. and is happiness indeed.

Hexry F. WIse.
a. < o—
DREWS CONFESSION.

Charles Drews sent for Messrs. C. P.
Miller, Grant Weidman andJ. G, Adams,
counsel for Commonwealth, on the even-
ing of the 31st of August, and, in a very
calm and collected manner. detailed to
them the part he took in the tragedy. as
follows:

T went to Brandt's last summer and we
sat on the porch: he treated me to beer:
we both felt the effects of it: he said we
could make money, aud how: hefore he
told me he asked me to drink again, and
then he said he and others would insure
Raber and work him out of the way: he
told me how to do it: [said | would con-
sider it: tinally Lasked if he was alone:
he replied that there were three others
with him: he mentioned Hummel, Wise
and Zeehman: I said [| did) not know
them: he then offered to bring th m up to
have me see them: T saw them but only
knew Wise: from boyhood up I knew
him: [ then agreed. and they insured
Raber: | said it*was a hard thing to kill
Raber: he said they could make money:
when they again met, Zechmau said there
were five interested: Hummel also spoke
about it: Wise came and asked whether
I was to kill Raber; [I told him I wasn’t
certain: he urged me to go ahead, and


said they would shoot me if I didn’t; I

promised, but never intended to do it;
they often urged me, as the insurance
had all been effected; Brandt afterward
said they had the plan ready, and if I
didn’t kill him they would shoot me; to
save my life [ promised: [ knew not what
to do; my life was in danger; a week or
two afterward Wise said I shouldn't do
it, so far as he was concemed; he saw I
didn’t like the job: think it was the same
day he said T had to kill Raber. as. testi-
fied: [then asked Frank Stichler to do it
because I could not: Stichler said he didn’t
care, he could kill anyone, but he bar-
gained that I should vo alone. which I
promised, but declared IT would not touch
Raber: then Raber came to my house.
and we went off together withsStichler: |
was first, Raber in the middle. with
Stichler following: I went over the plank
and when Raber got, on it Stichler vot
Raber by the legs with his hands. threw
him in and jumped in on top of him:
Raber feli below the plank: | then went
back to the fence; it was tirst intended
to drown Raber in the dam: Brandt had
planned that Raber was to eo fishing at
Kitzmiller’s to eatch fish for Zeehninn’s
wife. and then [was te drown him: we
went. and Peters went with us: when |
saw the dam I coujdn’t co it. and said we
would refurn, when Raber replied. **Yes.
it Was too cold anyhow: [ pitied him:
the drowning at the plank afterwards was
also the plan of Brandt; Brandt had
promised me $3800, and that the others
should do the same: he promised Stichler
nothing: Thad tried to coax LMjah Stich-
ler, but he would not go with me; J said
to Frank T would

give him 8300 after I
Was paid: when it was done they tried to
swindle me out of all and kill me: this
Was planned benind the shedat Brandt's.
as testified; this they told me in jail:
when they asked me to go to Zeehman
vin Rankstown [ thoneht they wanted to
kill me then: Brandt always urged me in
jail to keep quiet about this matter as
thes hoped to vet clear: [didn’t see the
vousplrators so very often about the mat-
ter: Lengaged Frank stichler to do the
job after the Kitzmiller plau failed: T
dlidia’t ovo into the water; after the drown-
ine Stichler walked up to my house. and
{went to Brandt: [ didn’t see the ofd

eee SAL 2d aca.

a ese

man’s struggles; the plank was made wet
by the splash when Raber fell; Brandt
had Raber insured in another company,
to kil] him, but the company failed, and
with it the plan: Brandt told me what to
say before the coroner's inquest; it was
part of the general plan; Brandt often
urged me while in jail not to confess; he
called at my cell to-day for that purpose:
Tam afraid of him, but not of the others:
if you hang me yon will hang an innocent

man.
oy 6S
STICHLER’S CONFESSION.

On the 2d of September. 1879, two days
after Drews had made his confession,
Frank Stichler also sent for his counsel.
C. R. Lantz and J. P. 8. Gobin, Esqrs..
and to them related his complicity in the
murder as follows:

The first Lever knew of this thing was
when Zechmanand Wise eame to Brandt's
one Sunday, and I met them on the road
near ny vrandmother’s house; I went
with them in their buggy to Brandt’s
where Wise and IT went upon the dance
floor, and the others remained at the ho..
tel: Wise then told me about insuring an
old man, and that he wanted *‘us fellow;
up there” to work him out of the way:
this was before Raber was insured: [then
asked him who the victim was to be.
when he told me it was Joe Raber: nothing
more Was said until December 5: then |
wasat Harrisburg, and on returning home
that day [ stopped at Drews’ house.
when he called me out and asked
whether [ would help to kill old Raber :-
Peters came to us while we were talking;
Leth of them said they had been to Kitz.
miller’s dam. where they wanted te
drown Raber, but couldn't. owning to the
Hat being filed with water: this was all
we taiked then, and ~ went home: this
was on December 5: on Friday. the 6th,
toward evening, | went up again; Peters
then had ehloroform or ether. which le
had purchased from a Jonestown drug-
gist: T went home again, and on Satur-
day evening. the 7th, went up again to
Drews: Drews then went for Raber, but
he was not at home. and Drews returned
Without him : at abort 3 o'elock Drews
went over to Raber’s house avain. and
asked him to go with him. as he woule

vive him tobaeco: Raber eaf supper

~

Drews’ house, Peters arrived with whis-
key ; then Peters, Drews, Penrose, Mrs.
Peters and I drank all of the whisky ;
Peters and wife then went up stairs to
bed: Penrose was carried up Stairs
drunk ; Drews, Raber and I remained in
the house awhile. and then went to the
ereek. Drews leading off and I in the
rear ; we persuaded Raber to go with us
under the pretext of getting meat at J.
Kreiser’s; when we were all on the plank
I took Raber by the legs and threw him
into the water, and I jumped in on top
of him and got him by the hair, and in
order to keep his head under water
Drews. who remained on the plank,
pressed upon me, our combined force
keeping him down; we held him down
from five to ten minutes; then I went to
Drews’ house and he went to Brandt’s:
when I got out of the water I jumped on
the plank; it got wet, however, when
Raber fell; there were a few stones near
by in the channel; before leaving the
creek I dragged Raber’s body down the
stream a few feet; when I got to Drews’
house I undressed and put on dry cloth-
ine, consisting of Drews’ pants and Pe-
ters’ shoes and coat; after I was dressed
Peters came down stairs, still intoxicated:
I went first from Drews’ house to Miller’s
and from there to a raffling match at
Isaae Stewart's; from there, after remain-
ing about two hours, I returned to Drews’
again. When the death proofs were made
out we went out behind the shed, and
there Hummel and Brandt asked whether
I couldn’t loan them some money; I
thought I might give them some on Mon-
day. and also remarked that if anyone
said the least thing about the murder of
Raber they might as well engage their
coffins; this I told to Wise, Humme] and
Brandt behind the shed. About two
months before Raber’s murder Wise
wanted Elijah Stichler and myself to mur-
der another fellow, but we wouldn’t do
it. I don’t pretend being innocent; I did
the deed, and Drews helped me; don't
know whether Wise, Hummel and Brandt
knew or know anything about my con-
nection with the murder, as Drews was
to pay me; I never asked where he was to
get the money to pay me, and therefore
knew nothing about his accomplices, if

HISTORY OF THE RABER MURDER. 29

$300. .
—

Israel Brandt and Josiah Hummel
made the following statements of their
knowledge of this terrible tragedy, to J.
P.S. Gobin, W. M. Derr and C. R. Lantz,
Esqs., on the 3d of September, 1879:

BRANDT’S STATEMENT.

The first of the insurance was when
Wise brought Dr. Capp to my house and
examined Raber for $11,000 for Wise;
Wise paid for the examination; Schwein-
hard had a policy and came to me with it;
Wise owned the policy that Hummel has:
Schweinhard said he would give me the
policy on the New Era; I preferred the
Reading company policy, but this he
couldn't give; Schweinhard and John
Heilman came and stayed with me over
night, and as Schweinhard owed me
money he offered me the New Era policy
as collateral security for a debt until he
could get the Reading policy; a few
months afterward Schweinhard and Ditz-
ler came and we settled; I then said he
might take the New Era policy with him
and I would settle, as the policy was
worthless; he wouldn’t take the policy
with him, sol had it when Raber was
drowned, a month afterward; I knew
nothing about any conspiracy to put Ra-
ber out of the way; Drews first told me
of the drowning; I went to the creek and
said we would have to send for neighbors;
my boy I sent to D. Nye and I went to J.
Kreiser’s; eight or ten men came and we
all let him lie; I then went to John Trout
to have him take me to Zechman’s to get
a jury: Zechman told us his wife was
sick. he couldn’t go, and that we should
go to Hummel; Hummel and I got the
coroner, returning at 10 o’clock on Sun-
day morning: we then took Raber out of
the water; about fifty persons were pres-
ent: a jury was empaneled and the body
examined; saw nothing wrong about the
body: Drews said he saw him fall into
the water: no others saw it; this he swore

~ before the coroner’s inquest; Drews went

for Polly Kreiser, Raber’s housekeeper; |
said this was useless, as the woman was
partly insane and weakminded: when
they asked her anything in English she
laughed, but in German she told a straight,
story: we wondered that she knew so


26 HISTORY OF THE

a

RABER MURDER.

much, and afterwards Drews said he had
prompted her to say what she did; at the
funeral Dr. Shirk and Schweinhard at-
tended, and wanted to hold a post mor-
tem examination, they wanted $25 for
this; we said we wouldn’t pay it, as the
coroner's verdict was sufticient; Wise
evanted it done, however, and offered $20
for the job; it was done then; Schwein-
hard came to my house late one evening
last summer; he often gave Drews $1 to
go and tell Wise he should be there early
next morning; he demanded proof of
faithful performance of this duty on the
part of Drews; Wise often forged my
name to letters to this effect; I knew not
why we were arrested and imprisoned;
after April court Drews told Stichler that
they should say Peters and I had chloro-
formed Raber and dragged him to the
creek, but that he caught us at it; this
he also said his wife would swear to it; I
know nothing more of this transaction; I
stake my eternal salvation upon the as-
sertion that I never employed any man;
@e corroborated Stichler throughout con-
cerning the testimony behind the shed; I
never bargained with Elijah Stichler to
drown Raber in Kitzmiller’s dam; I never
‘offered Drews one cent or anything to
drown Raber; I was‘in nO conspiracy of
uny kind: I spoke to Frank Stichler at 2

o’clock on Saturday, but he had been at
my house very early in the morning to xo
with him to hunt wild turkeys; I have
not talked to Drews for about two
months, since we have been in jail, and
never influenced him in any way not to
make a confession; this is all I know.

HUMMEL’S STATEMENT.

I know nothing more of this thing ex-
cept concerning the policy of insurance,
which I got from Henry Wise; am 31
years old; I know absolutely nothing:
didn’t have anything to do with this: I
bought the policy from Wise; I never told
Drews that he should leave that section
after he got paid out of the insurance
money; I did tell him, after he told me
that he expected about $1,200 pension
money, that it would be well for him to
go West then; concerning my being at
Kitzmiller’s dam with Brandt, he had
gone along to show me the road, as I had
never been that way before, and I wanted
to go for hoop poles at Shultz’s; he cor-
roborates Brandt and Stichler as to the
conversation behind the shed: as sure as
there is a God in Heaven I know nothing
about the entire thing.

he i eC“

The folowing excerpts are clipped from
the Lebanon Daily News, of November 13,
1879, which at that time gave a full de-
scription of the execution, and as at this
time it will be read with interest we re-
produce it:

To-day marked an epoch in the crimi-
nal history of Lebanon county that will
not soon be forgotten. The crime for
which Drews and Stichler made atone-
ment by expiation on the gallows was one
of the most henious. They both felt con-
trite for the deed they had committed,
but outraged law and a due respect and
protection of society, required the full
enforcement of the death sentence.

At an early hour, despite the threaten-
ing state of the weather, the people from
the county and towns along the line of
the railroads commenced to tlock into
town, and finally assembled around the
jail, where they patiently awaited the
final moment when the fatal trap would
be sprung that would send into eternity
two souls. The house tops in the vicinity
were crowded and all the places that af-
forded a sight of the gallows were occu-
pied, while the scene on South Eighth
street, where the crowd had congregated,
beggars description.

Prayer theeting was held in the differ-
ent cells last evening. Rev. Trabert was
with Drews and Revs. Lightand Schaeffer
with Stichler. The services were deep
and earnest and in accordance with the
solemnity of the occasion.

_The Sheriff for the past two weeks has
been constantly importuned for passes,
but as the jail yard is very small, neces-
sarily he was compelled to be very careful
with his favors. The pass issued was as
follows:

—Admit—

To Prison Yard.
Friday, Nov. 14, 1879.
—NOT TRANSFERABLE—
WILLIAM DEININGER, Sheriff.
Drews did not sleep during the night
and after all had retired in the prison,

| whiled away the hours of the night in

conversation with the watchman, to whom

_ he said that he could die easily, but that

he regretted the manner in which he must

| die. He stated that he carried the colors

of the 93rd for over two years and never
was wounded; that he had traveled much
and passed through many dangers on
land and water, and always escaped with-
out receiving the slightest injury.
Stichler slept well from 11 to 2 o'clock,
when he complained of the heat, but this
morning he was ina cheerful mood and

_ spoke freely to all who conversed with

» jiim.

At 7:30 o’clock Mr. George Hoffman
commenced the erection of the scaffoid,
the proportions of which are 12 feet in
height, 7 feet in width, and 8 feet in

‘length, The height of platform is 5 feet.

2 inches.

At 8:25 breafast was served the men.
Stichler ate heartily of ham and eggs,
sugar pie, cabbage slaw, bread and_ but-
ter and a little coffee. Drews said he
was very hungry, but ate sparingly, but
partook of the same bill of fare as Stich-
ler, minus the meat, for which he had no

_ relish, and this was the last breakfast
' taken on earth by them.

At 8:30 o’clock the clergy, consisting of

' Revs. Schaefter, Light, Johnston and Tra-

bert visited the prison, and held services,
previous to the men being taken to the

- scaffold.

At 9 o’clock Drews and Stichler passed
around to the different cells in which the
prisoners are confined and bid them good
bye with affecting remarks.

At 10:18 Stichler was taken to Drews’
cell where services were held in both
German and English languages—Revs.
Trabert, Light, Shaeffer, Johnston and

| Brownmiller, of the Lutheran church,

Union Deposit, being present. Among
the hymns sung were ‘Grace be with
You All’’ and *‘ Over There.’’

At 10:34 the Sherift’s family entered the


& Os

De

28 HISTORY OF THE RABER STUR DER,

cell and bid good bye to the condemned.
Stichler took the Sheriff’s little girl, to
whom he had become much attached, in
his arms and kissed her and then passed
her over to Drews. This concluded, the
Sheriff notified them at 10:45. to get
ready, when the hymn *O, Lamb of God,
I Come,”’ was sung.

At 10:53 the Sheriff and Deputy Bow-
man ascended to the cell when the pro-
cession was formed in the following order
and moved to the foot of the scaffold:
Sheriff Deininger and Deputy Bowman;
Revs. Trabert and Light; Stichler sud
Drews; Revs. J ohnston, Shaeffer and
Brownmiller: C. R. Lantz and A. S.
Light; Drs. Geo. P. LineaweaverandS. B.
Light, reaching the scaffold at 10:59.

Rey. Trabert commenced reading a
prayer when they left the cell and con-
tinued until they were upon the gallows,
Drews and Stichler repeating the same.

The prisoners ascended the scaffold
with a firm step, Revs. Trabert, Light,
Johnston and Shaeffer accompanying
them.

The services on the scaffold were read-
ing the rites of the church by Dr. John-
ston in the English language, prayer in
German by Rev. Trabert (all kneeling),
closing with the Lord’s prayer; singing,

“There j isa Fountain Filled with Blood;’’
prayer, in English, by Rev. Shaeffer, con-
cluding with the benediction, piscine his
hands on the condemned men’s heads.

Both the condemned joined in the sine-

Do

ing and were very earnest in their: prayers,
| <Atthe conclusion of the services the
| clergy bid the men good bye and de-
| scended from the scaffold, when a num-
| ber of acquaintances ascended and did
Ly likewise. ;
| The condemned then said ‘Good bye
| to all.”
! At 11:05 the Sheriff and deputies ad-
| justed the ropes, etc., and when the
| Sheriff stepped from the seatfold, Drews
| said in German, “Frank, now we are
| going to heaven; now we go.”
| At 11:08 the drop fell and the two men
| were swinging between heaven and earth,
/ At11:18 the pulse of Stichler ceased
| beating and a minute later that of Drews.
| The pulsations of their hearts ceased at
| 11:21 and they were pronounced dead by
Dr. Lineaweaver.
| The bodies were left hanging until 11:40
| when they were cut down and placed into
their coffins.
| The neck of Drews was broken while
| Stichler died of strangulation.
| Among the physicians present were G.
| P. Dikeimmennen S. B. Light, Frank
' Bower, Henry Bower, I. Reily Bucher, £,
| A. Enders, E. R. Umberger, Lessley,
| Shultz, Shirk and Williams.
| The following gentlemen composed the
| jury: F. B. Boeshore, James J. Newhard,
| Jerome Weber, ’Squire Speck, Simon
Crall, G. T. Capp, Oliver Henry, Samue}?
Nouck, William Reist, C. P. Steinmetz,

| A. L. Kreider and D, ©, Elliot.

HISTORY OF THE RABER MURDER. — 29

ey n a

+ 4

TP 4

b *

On Thursday morning, May 6,1880,about |
a quarter of 11 o'clock, the prison officials -
were thrown into a considerable state of |
excitement by the discovery that Brandt |
and Hummel, who occupied adjoining |
the wall and so quietly did they perform

cells, on the west side of the jail, second
tier, instead of seeking pardon for their
crimes, devoted their time and attention

in making an effort to force a passage |

through their cells. Brandt had worked

the plaster from a small space in the |
northwest corner of his cell, while Hum-
mel had made provress by attacking the |
southwest corner, both Working on a '

common line, the points of which would

have met, no useless work would have

been made, and together the main wall
would have been broken through with

their united efforts. Hummel made thrice |

the progress of Brandt, who the day pre-

vious, probably was prevented working ;

by the presence of his wife, who spent
the afternoon with him. In Hummel’s
room was found his blanket torn into
four strips, at the end of which was at-
tached a small rope, which he took from
the transom, and it.is believed was to be
used in lowering Brandt from his cel! into
the yard below.

Had this been accomplished. the plan
might have been so well matured that aid
from the outside would have been in
readiness to assist under the cover of the
night. Wednesday morning Brandt gave
notice that he desired his door to remain
closed and that no person, excepting his
closest friends, should be admitted, as
the few remaining days that he had he
desired to spend in communion with him-
self and to prepare himself for the other
world; but the revelation of this plan to
break jail, goes to prove that he wished
to have no interruption so that he could
more assiduously apply himself to the
task before him. Todo this work both

-of the prisoners had table knives, some
of which were knicked, so as to accomp-
lish that of small saws, and with these
primitive tools, had they not been dis-

covered they would have had all their
work finished ready to seale the walls
during the night. To prevent discovery
when their cells were entered, their bed
clothing and paper were shoved against

their task and so systematically was it
arranged that the watchman, who was
constantly in the corridor and repeatedly
looked into the cell, was completely
thrown off his guard, and had it not been
for one of the prisoners confined for a
small offense, there is no telling how near
to freedom they would have come. The
Sheriff was informed of what was going
on early in the morning, but the aged fa-
ther of Brandt having called, he did not
choose to make the examination until he
had left. Although, somewhat discom-
fitted at being detected, they took mat-
ters in a cool manner and in conversation
with several persons were quite talkative.
Besides the blanket-rope, there were
found a bottle containing a white liquid
which emitted an odor of ether, and a
small package of white powder which
was taken for arscnic, but Mr. Jacob
Redsecker being sent for pronounced the
powder nothing more than flour, and the
liquid golden tincture. The rope was
formed into loops, so that Brandt, who
had but one arm and was more or less
helpless in such an emergency, would
have used the loops by stepping into
them to alight, and if necessary might
have used them also in scaline the walls.
The rope was well conceived and just the
proper thing for such an effort as they
had in view. Brandt stated that if he
had had a good cold chisel, in one hour
and a half he might have worked through
the wall. He laughed heartily over the
affair, but behind it all one could see that
he, as well as Hummel, were much @is-
appointed. The plan of escape was a
bold and daring one, and had it been ex-
ecuted, just on the eve of their hanging,
the excitement throughout the county
would have been exceedingly great,


beog, perhbeps, about half tied, H
» The prisoners bad bern temoved from |
the celle on that side of the jal], aud did
A got sce the executiog,

Atl. $, eberUl Maacy came out of che
\,atupped upon the scaffold, to test

* aye moore, and sec ff all was right. !

went back {n and |

ance doubly eure
While she crowd’ walted, sounds of |
singing came from the fall. tbe clergy: ;
Sd liovn Kev. E. Kk Thomas. of the Baptist
Sieharch, aud Rev. A. 8, Benedict, of the
Methodist church, having spent most of
the forenoon with the condemned men
They hed also been with them on other
occasions, aud both Eagan and Sbew bad
pi Oe conversiov, and given every
evidence of it, itis sald, and stated em:
phatically they were ready for death,and
on the previous day the clergymen had
adminfstered the sacrament to Urem '
At 10.03 Bheriff William J. Maxey!
came through the jail door, followed by | —
Reve. Bencdirt and Thomas, who stepped | broughtia the casket, Shews body wae
to” one side, just as the gallows was; lowercd and at ouce put into It, and ova-
4} reacbed | veyed to the wagon, and started for Sut.
Immodiataly behind was Eagau ac-; quehanna, where it arrived after dark
eompanied by Deputy. P. [.. Leonard, and, Rev. Thomas wentover to Susquebanna,
Ghew, accompan <4 Deputy H Bj to conduct the funeral, whch occurred at
Jones, followed by utles Conklin, } Telford's
Taylor. hg and a 7 a ' privately.
he gallows consisted of four up right. 8. . :
Bi pieces, coueeraiat towards the top, with | Their Last Hours,
various cross pleces. About five fect! Sunday night they slept soundly, tt d
Me from ibe ground was a platform intwo/ o'clock next morning, and bad to be
em sections—like two dovrs left alde by side ‘called theo. .
These sections were fastened to the in-) On Monday the prisoners were visited
side of frame by hingcs and were support: ! hy a number of anqualntances aleo by the

wm net tages

|

|:

SHERIFF W. J. MAXEY.

roome = Wednestsy morning
Burial at susquebanna

ousle Dress a
we were looking toace how uear right te
was
up and dow: In:be toad

We)

While these a

Jackson Pepper, came oo. of the houke
and turned some horses
and then wenl intothe baron, We wert
to the dour and juke In and be was busk-
jog corn, Shew asked me if ies was
Pepper. 1 eaid 7 did net know but

(bought tt must be

Shew then said we moet jose iv cba: cs
but bad better goto and tle bim po avd
then gi to the howe { wanted to wati
until they bad gong to led Skew wopld
not. We ea'd be would got» sad We the
man up and I could warcts a) tell bos. if
anyone came. Shew had @ club Lit had
thrown itaway. He waa ty take the mau
by the shoulders aod throw tlw and tie
him. He went into the barnand I went
toward the road, 1 had just reached the
road when I heard a blow, J went to the
barn and wentin. I then saw Sbhew bit
the man teice, I told him to stop aud
assed lim if be wanted to «'ll the man,
He said ‘'no but ihad w hit tim.” |

fore we had(goue agile, He then took
the. ropes.onf of his cous sod [helped ta
He the man.| ‘Phen we took the lantero
and put it oud asthe man war tegtoning
to come tu. Fethen went cuiufthe bacn
and talked abiat who the man wat We
thought it wag Pepper test did pot know
for sure While we wscerc oatsile, we
heard the vo}! rman greap and Show s.ld,

It wascold and we were walbing |
man (whom we afterwards ivarned was |

mtof the tern, |

wanted to get out of there, but Shew sald |
we conld not !eave the man like that, for |
would havetthe whole town after us ie. |

{| be vould get me off pretty easy: that he
though) | was noe guilty of the crime Kc °
shat hie wond cuvloe sa watemeul and
saste folow lim asneeriy wa possible
, Ltold nia E would we a Javeeer fret. but
he salt if (uifd be sould ac: nelp me, and
} ras suie ty hang untees f did ag he
wistiarvt,
He totd tac to say Uvtiing about it be-

, fore the others ari ‘rust big, aud he

wouktl gave me laid sabe wephed and
| insteat of het; ’og me as Le aatd be would,

dilallin his p' aerto bacg me LL have
joo ill will toward him Dut] whey peaple
¢ to ¥new these facts. e

iurg 14? '-—end similar remarks
It ls said that *he Sheriff's OM 2 bai
2000 upplicatiove for blekets.

Enwan's father itves lo Foreat City, oitt
he did not visit bis eon atany time, nor
ahow any Interest in Bim, apparently

Atwruey Dattes took fioal leave of the
men early Tuselay morntrg some time
before the execution.

Each man a8 “urrivbed with au entire
new sull of Qlack civthea, trom lies
fayere ta vearat the execution.

Govecaor Stove, on Feb. 24, 188, Axed

|

} wish to eaeiiat the Sherl& and bie) the dav of the eascaihigon Mey is, tein |
“ee |

family hate been very aimed
, Lage made ft 28 pleasant ag yoasible for
| me since} have been here. ,

T alec wish to thank Mr Dates for bie
untitog efforts to anve my Mle and bad
Mr. WD. B. Alsey been a man of bis
word I would have been gaved = Thip ts
a correct statemeot of-whickh I would tike
people to ino “While JY kave dose
wrong avi have conlessed ft Sut it fe
through imleplaced confidence t Mr.
Ainwy that | shail be bung, if it “ccnra
| May fdod bave mercg ¢% us all.

Maich 18) $899. Pome }, Eagan.

T wish to gtate gf tbis time shat the
above Biatament teirue aod te the only
stateme. t [ have mate sloce the one made
te Mr. A'ney {n tae sail on the twenty-

foarth 4ay of fennasr, 1898“

Sut ibe prieimere wire reprieve!
times,

The watchmec at the jail hace
nygets Frank Henics dave Fi

ee

After the Murder.

When the murder became known,
thers was much exctement and vali
searches for the perpetrators of the crime,
ang inaby beariogs held st Rush, hut no
direct clues were fouad yotfi dxa Jays,
shen apon infermatian furnished by
’Sueia Grauaio to Bistrict Ainey, and after
ewerselic work and Joug ridas througo
rouga country cu the jart of Mr Ainey,
Chlef McMahon, aud otbers, tbev were
taken into custody Sbew at Hane-« i,
N.Y. and Kagan at Conoveotry. NY.
Fenuar¢ 7, 1008 A week istore his arrest, Eiguo was

JAMES J EAGAN, . |Warried to Sims Ewa Stratisr, tie 1%

year-ol) daughter of farmer at Conven

- Witnceecs 40% MARR SGT. try. Biore he has been ia fat co bas sald
EK. tb. Wu YE, B © BPRRRMS® {feat perbeps the Lordcoulu feigtve Min
; :- jfor mariying that young girl, Dut ve
eould not forgie Sinself She is now

We me and;

od? the

White

a vay to boardipg ees!

. ;
The prscoets were Indie g ti Metra

1808,

Theatr cimt Ses eapected to come of
in Atase hut Att reey Davies macau
for the pelle.

a "Ne i?

| trough soo ting to the +
yore and te sce sented set

;eumeata tharte »
ASO Bowe? OTe: 4

of the array ot fr ts

aad eS frreyuret's ta drawiag

+s

eirOng ar-

» Wie poati, erat the
Tern,

Tsiet La Yovsre2

fee trial tau Bagun (ats os
fa See unt AJ Benper, in Ke
Waa sd on Nav US 1
{ Tee meweeutins A yee '
{trlet Ateyeney Avs vee &
Mum. Feo, white TT. J ha
wooke. cae the Interest of the def o-fant

ey ay wa

.

Over-Work Weakens
Your Kidneys.

’

10
| Ati the pisod o. your bady passes through
your kidnays once wer three minutes.

ee Co ho kidneys are your
| Party SA

nhealthy Kidneys Make Impure Blood,

blood purijiara, they Bike

hn weeny Yemen ete Sere

yttom of many |

SAB Be Vries te ty yg

whom be married in Delaware Ga, N. Yi!
a short tne defors hija arvcet and sever
wb after Lisirip to Hush, sat by- bi
xlde ‘

Mo. Davtes did oot makea forme) open
hing but beyean calling his witnesses: at
‘anee, Many of then testifying to the
| previous good characte; af the detendent
at Win igor, Einybamtos. susynehenne,
ete They Included C.D. Lyon, Noe
tyes, Porter jiates, Jerry Wayman,
Harry Morse, Chae Entcbklsa, Jesse

Wall, Geo, Sherer, J. He Doolitue, John
{Stonchnek, Nathactel Beoson, and others.

The Jury Hetires,

At4p.m. the jury retired to thetr
room. sfter the charge by Judge Seazte.

Albert Hillborn. of Oaklaud, was fore-
man Ths! evening they took a ballot,
imply as to > guilty” or ‘not gutity,”
aot all voted guilty, No attempt was
“ade that night to decide an thea degree.
Next mopvlpg. afier breakfast, they bai.
jotad ay ta degre, vesultiog —For firs!
degree murder, §, fur second degree,” 4

After some gencral talk, it was propos
et by a Great Hend aad that they pray
over {be matter, which was done. Af-
terwards anotber ballot was taken show-
tu@ thle lia favor of first degree; -but ie
the one juror explained be had yotedie
that way through error in making hisie
hallot and another waa taken, reswtiug
in murdei in the first degree at 10 o'clock.

Shew’s Trial,

The t1fal of Shew took place the follow
ing week, and being without ccungul
j Judge Searle asstgned G. P, Little anc
iH « Camp to look after bis fat
Phe j irors were’ See
Wa H Kerk, Springville.

}» M Tiopiey, Harford,
Ziba N Smith, Borfog vithe,
Asa Wilmatip, Lathrop, © 2
Chas Rondstaver, Jacksos,:
} Daniel saesden. Auburn, =
{ 6's Culeur, New Milford, 4
liewsy Decker, Lathrop, ©
Gee, +) Carpenter. Upnlondate
Ais A Jones, Bridgwater.)
Claren< sthworth Libere¥,
Mark ‘iitesne, “ridge watec..
j Yue c Medea wae sumgapliaiee tin
Jraine asin the Baran cease, att thea |
brougbtto sn verdlot of the Rest cer ae-.
shew wae enid to be a meaive of Gite
yu ig county. but speay mest of bis HO |
rane nedr Sneatesetos tle had hilg)y
t hi tect. ee ai Mtarrudeay” 2 *
colt fare new ttjal were mye’
and reSascd, avd on Satarsay wigs No §
QO TSUN Fy tge S alle aeueneed Rat
Pio stew ors be hauaed,” Atala ae
tire’ Gumi ranm heiegsy

i

ia

‘

Avge

Rete UGE,
filled xed
serene

2 hen —

ame :

Gety our shoes repateert pt Frank(?«
vela's, real bo pod efter, whe sou *
Fiae work ehty analy oS ge

ot
ae §


ss ‘ oe WDE Orr
Poe eae

f! In wae by hingte.and were

ee wet eee neey i 5 ie

hb. tettatensied co

RMON

oa mene + aetna yan smutty ateeeeceee ~ ae

+ije Frame at toe sides, and Npon the pul-
Hog Gf the pop attached, the vals of
these holta woyld be withdrawn from
J their socsets fu the framea, and the two
sectlons of the platform being no longer
supported, Would drop (or fold) quickly
down and snything on them would fall.

Tl’ At the top of the toil frame of the
* | gallows wero cross bare, and from these,
two ropes were to be seen suspended with
-|Mooges at thulr cods, each one hangin
‘fdirectiy above a sectigg of the platform.

The condemned men stepped quickly
and firmly, onto the scaffold platform,
each having thelr wrists‘ hand-cuffed be.
hind) them. They gave no particular
sign or appearance of emotioa and
seemed to fuce the ordeal without a quiver.
Sheri? Maxey stepped fn front of them
aand asked thon if they had any thlog to

= : aw

?
support-!),

‘led fo the centre by long bolts that ran fate; Psstors, and by

ou wt "2A pe... ae

Shew's Mr.

Epps of Susqnehauna
Monday eveutug trlendn were prerent,
Pand they dhl not retire Wi} 2am, when
they goon fell usicep und slept sweetly
appareatly, UN aly o'clock, when thay
were called. Ties dressed them se] eet
with care, and ate a substantiai breal. fast
of beefateak, buckwheat cikes, coffe’,
cookles., Oranges puts, candy &e,

cousin,

Al 8 o'clock the wiprgyincy came 2 {
remained, as. they bad promised the ai
they would,

Hi it way all over and the
bodies taken down. .

Epgan’s Confession,

On the twenty-second day of June 1307
lL. with SusieGraham. went from Hush to
Snuequehanna, where we ilved uotl] Noy.
1SY7, While living there wl worked at
whateyer I could Bet to do TF was taken

Atay, and they said, ‘Nothing.’
Hi. Bo Jones quickly stepped up be

sle’ with a fever to Septeniber and was

bind Envan. and began adjusting the
poor, and FL. Leonard did‘ the game to

sick for several wecky While I was gtex

On Monday the’ pitsoners were visi'ed
yA Dumber of arqnaintancer. algo by the

go.
fence, and J
of the gate.
A
7

maa won't bother

a ne por © LoTd Goma sorglve iw
for marrying. that youor girl, but he
could not forgive himself She fs now
& vay to boarding grhool,

The prisoners were Ind'ete in Marcu
1898

« id

Tei Ol em capt

H
- . ‘pole wd
in Aueust,

but Attersey Davies moved
forthe quashln of the ayray of juris,
oathe ground of lereyulanity du drawing
‘hough secording to the custon of many
Je4rs) and be presented such strong ar-
euments that he won his potnt, atid the
eee Went over wll Noy. Tern,

Tried in Yovambar,

The trial of 4. Jas Eagan (slits Smit).
forthe murderof A J Pepper, in Rueh,
’ Was caled on Monday, Nov. 34 Join.
; The prowcution wis repreeestey by bia
j "ret Attomey Aloey, aod A. Hf. MeCule
i lum, Esq, while T. J. Davies Exg ,

looked after the Interest of tbe def otant

area

wage raric Assigned dt. 2. Lalo end
B. O. Camp to ook afer his {alereets.
Che jorors were:

Wis H Kerr, Epringvile,

Ye Tingley, Uarford,

Zibe N Smith, Spring ville,

Ata NS ipacin, Lathn m,

Cias Roosae'sver, Jackson,

Daniel Sheldon, Auburn,

Ctas Culver, New Milford,

He:.ty Decker, Lathrop,

Gee, HW Carpenter. | niondale,

Alfred B Jones, Bridgwater,

Clarence Southwarth Liberty,

Mork Wililame, Uritgew ater

The evidence was Substantially the
faine asin the Bayay fase, and the jary
brought in w verdict GF the first Geyree.

Skew was aald to be A ustive of Gibson,
tl tg county, but spent most of bis ile in
and near Susqnebauna, Tle pad highly
T spectcd relatives at Starrucca .
Alguments fsa now trial were mare
and refuacd, and on Satnrday night Nov.

| Over-Work Weakens
Your Kidneys,
j Unhealthy Kidneys Make Impure Blooa,

- All the Livod in your body passeg through

46.1393. Judge S-urly feutenced Eayan
fod Shew to he hanged, amidst great
solemnity, the Cure room: hedog well
filled :

a is Seat se 4
Getyour shoes repaired at Frank Jser-
vela’s, nex
Fine workm ship only,

| Your kidneys once every three minutes,
The kidneys are your

ter out the waste or
IML eg in tha tived,

8 ROLs APS SICK OF vLt
of order, they fail to do
their work.

Pains, achesand rhey-
mMatism come from ex-
Cess of urie acid in the

biood, due to ‘neglected
kidney trouble.

Kidney trouble causes

quick or unsteady

ay heart beats, and makes one feel as \hough

| they had heart trouble, because the heart is

Hide Screen ond nae Cian: Gig ae i ovar-working in pumping thick, kidney-
JUDGE SEARLE WHO PRRrIVED 4 THE TRIAL, poisoned blood through veins and arteries.

gud we went Into Shew's Confession.

I did not go bat the once. 1 Montrose, Pa., Moaday Jan. 8tb, 1900.

Shew away but he Would ret: tT) whom it may concern:

Wo went up and leaned against the At the time of my trial J said on the i ze , egret
set the lantern on the inalde : witness stand thatthe District Attorney | <d tee poreities fat gg oe
Show went back to the barn ' made me promises and threats, and I say) Swamp-ent a sie “en , ae :

alo and then afterawbile Went in again j}pow that Fitch Leonard took me from the; soon realizec. ‘ft stands the highest Po

he last time he came Out he said, “That _ Jat! down to Alney's office. . Jt waaon the wonderfalc ae of the most distressing case3

any more fur awhile.” 23rd day of January, 1898, he(Fitch) took » Wonder lee - it “ a one '
to go foto the house. I me iutoa front room facing the street and fd is sold on its merits

J. It used to be considered that only urinary

troubles were to be traced to the kid ia,

but now modern science Proves that nestiy

all constitutiona! diseases have their begins
in kidney trouble,

nin
= iPyou are sick you ean make no mistake |

“that will never do,”
phe barn,
trled to get

He then wauted

Susle talked a great Jeal about the Pep.

Rhew. Eagan temarned “you are putting
Biwi icennnmmlelte wn naling Orn bliin

pers and thetr money, and that
€li their money Inghetrhanen & Sha we ee L

they had) d

be wondering where I am or there is lots

free, also pamphlet telling you how to find
Of work fp the office that I Ought tw be

fd not thiok be had done ao until he saw out if you have kidney or bladder troubie.

\

SE. H TRUES

t to post cfMice, while you wait, |.

«

Ce Or eg CIPO HOg Dip Wy Oz CHIEN 5
blood puriuers. they fil- I@ 7

~~

JEWELER
AND
OPTICIAN

Ok my Or Pom, Q- Oe ANE

e 6
HONTROSE, PA.
tt ee
iyes examined by the
latest scientitic | methods

without change,

Ne PRIVY SUT CCE Pewee SESE
would not go and while we Were talking there was Ainey all alone. We had a by mp kprtrs np TP LOOK FoR
& team came along and we left and went little talk about my arrest and the jour. cent Yo ens ep enley me: wie 2 o,
to Sxfoner's Eddy and to Savre and from ! bey from Kerryyilie to Montrose. About ¢S. eg a 5 ave it a J eemets
there to Suaqnebanny via the Eric R. BR. this time Fitch sald © Well the Sheriff will sample bottle by mail | nome of Swamp Rov t.
| Shew did not Intend to kill the man and «

Dining | Roos,

ere oh eee)

Te

Ne Lx

wan (4M

wh.

CAE l:


-

4b © ws
ae Sant

Deen eict tone

"2g A na

On Monday the pitsoncrs were visited

olin 3 ae
4 tide gt frame by hingts,and were support: | by a pumber of acquaintances. also by the

Cee eee rem

ne ee ee

een -

ee ee ee

. he 4,
a A < 2
oe S ona
Py a te
&% ¥”

age 0 ah Apes

~ae eo

ae

+ ee

sign ‘or appearance

MONTROSE COURT AOU3E

ed in the centre by long bolts that ran foto
4iie ferme at toe sides. aod upon tae pul-
Hng Gf the pope attached, the eads of.
these bolts woyld be withdrawn from
their socaets lu tue fraupea, and the two
sections of the platform being no longer
supported, would drop (or fold) quickly
down and snything on them would fall.

At the top of the tgil frame of the
gallows were cross bare, and from these,
two ropes were to be sven suspended with
nooses at thulr cods, each one hanging
directiy above a sectigg of the platform.

The condemned men stepped quickly
aod firmly, onto the scaffold platform,

jeach having thelr wrists band-cuffed be-

bind) them. They gave no particular
of emotioa and
seetded to face the ordeal without a quiver.
Sherif? Maxey stepped in front of them
and asked them if they had anv thiog to

gay, and they said; “Nothing.”

li. B Jones quickly stepped up be
Lind Engan, and began udjusting the
poose, and FP. L. Leonard did the same to
Sbew. Eagan remarked ‘'you are putting

the enna aotaida mn aallag Canbkiin

| pastors, and by Shew's
| tpps of Susquehanna

Monday eveulug trlends were present,
j and they Ghd net retire Wi! 2am, when
they foon fell ysicep and slept sweetly
appareatly, Ull gly o'clock, wheu thay
were called, Tey dressed themse) eet
with care, and ate a aubstantiai break fast
of beefsteak, buckwheat cikes, coffed,
cookles, oranges puts, candy &e. |

At & o'clock the giprgymou came spy
remained, as they bad promised thems
they would, till it way all over and the
bodies taken down. .

Eagn'’s Confession.

On the twenty-second day of June 1307
1, with Susie Grabam, went from Hush to
Snequebanna, where ee ilved yutt] Novy.
1Syv. While living there =I worked at
whateyer T could get todo J was taken
ale’ with afeverin Septenber and was
sick for several wecky While I was sick
Susle talked a great Jeal about the Pep.

cousin, = Me.

pers and thetr money, and that they had

Sale. Wc
WHO PRRtIED

Pe Ce Serer ~

- at
cen 9. are begs

.C THE TRIAL

= ween ee Mee

‘JUDGE SEARLE

6-0 wane — mee + eee

Siew’s Confession.
Montrose, Pa., Mooday Jan, 8th, 1900.

“that will never do,” gud we went Inte
phe barn. I did not go but the once. 1
trled to get Bhew away but he would ret: To) whom {t may concern:
go. Wowent up and leaned against the At the time of my trial J said on the
fence, and | set the Janotern on the inside ; witness standthatthe District Attorney
ofthe gate. Shew went back to the barn! made me promises and threats, and I say
agaio and then afterawbile went In again jnow that Fitch Leonard took me from the
The last time he came out be said, ‘That | jat! down to Atvey’s office. . Jt wason the
mao Won't bother any more for awhile.” : 23rd day of January, 1898, he (fitch) took
He then wauted to go into the house. I me jute a front room facing the street and
would not go and while we were. talking there was Ainey al! alone. We had a
a team came along and we Ieft and went | little talk about my arrest and the jour-
to Sxfnner’s Eddy and to Sayre and from: ney from Kerryyille to Montrose. About
there to Susqnebanni via the Eric R, BR. . this time Fitch said ‘ Well the Sheriff will
Shew did not intend to kill the man and, be wondering where I am az there is lots

alithoir money Inphalg hares. dha o-a4 (did not thiok be had dove ao until hesaw of work fo the office that I ought to be

" orga p LOé Lord Gumi jorgive Ula
for marrying that yonog girl, but he
could not foruive himself Sue ts bow
:a vay to boarding school,

The prisoners were indict} in March
| 1898

Tex x Ss: aed
ip Aueust, but Attersey Davies moved
for the Qiusbing of the ajyray af jurcis,
oa the ground of frregutaty du crawiog
{though secording to the custom of many
years) and be presentei such strong ar-
vumenta that he won his pojnt, and the
exve Went over UH Noy. Tera,

Tried in Fovamber,

The trialof 4. Jas Eagun (slixs Sinith)
forthe murcerof A J) Pepper, in Rueh,
was cxlied on Monday, Nov. 4 Jaty.
The prowecution was represegtea by Dia
*rict Attarney Aloey, and A. MM. McGol-
tum, Exy, while T. J. Davies Esq,
looked after the Interest of the def ndant

Over-Work Weakens
Your Kidneys.

Unhealthy Kidneys Make Impyre Blood,

Wee CAPcs

Ail the tiood in your body passes through
| your kidneys once every three minutes.

The kidneys are your
blood puriners. they fil-
ter out ihe waste or
imousties in the blood,

hts 21S SICK OF CLs
of order, they fail to do
their work.

Pains, achesandrhey-
matism come fram ex-
cess of uric acid in the
biood, due to neglected

kidney trouble.
| Kidney trouble causes quick or unsteady

heart beats, and makes one feel as {hough
, they had heart trouble, because the heart is
| gvar-working in pumping thick, kidney-
| poisoned blood through veins and arteries.

|: It used to be considered that only urinary
troubles were tu be traced to the kidn ‘a,
| but now modern science proves that a
all constitutional! diseases have their begins
ning in kidnoy trouble,
‘Frou are sick you can make no mistake
j by first dactoring your kidneys. The mild
; and the extraordinary effect of Dr. Kilmer's
' Swamp-Root, the great kidney remedy is

soon realized. It stands the highest for its

wonderful cures of ine most distressing cases
“Kr

and is sols on its merits
by all druggisis in fifty-
cent and one-dollar siz- i
es. You may have a
sample bottle by mall | gome of §wamp-Rot.
free, also pamphlet telling you how to find
out if you have kidney or _bladder troubie,

one Le

‘
revue of

a dearke assig
B. O. Camp to look after his interests.
The jarors were’

Wis H Wert, Rpringvil'e,

EM Tingley, Harford,

Zibs N Smith, Spring vie,

Ava NS cinecii, Lathren,

Cias Roosainver, Jackson,

Daniel Sheldon, Auburn,

Cras Culver, New Milford,

He:ry Decker, Lathrop,

Gee, tH Carpenter. Untondale,

Alfred BH Jones, Uridgwater,

Clarence Southwarth, Liberty,

Mork Willflame, Bridgewater

The evitence was sulstaotiaily the
faine asin the Bayan case, aul tbe dary
brought iow verdict of the first oeyree.

Shew was aqld to be a ustive of Gibson,
tlig county, but spent most of bis life in
and near Susquehanna. Te had highly
t spectcd relatives at Starrucca ;

Atguments fora now trial were made
and refaacd, and on Satnruay night Nov.
26.1898. Judge S-urlo sentenced Eayan
epl Shew to he hanged, amidst great
soleinnity, the Cuonr, evoonm ledag well
filled ;

ea a en ciallen. area

Getyour shoes repair at Frank Iser-

Flac workmirsh:p anly.

4

vela’s, next to post fice, while you wait. |

ed 44. 2’, Léstto end ER

—

OO ATS Dr DOP.

oo. H. TRUES
JEWELER
AND
OPTICIAN,

q

HONTROSE, PA. ;
é
+ ee @ FE 4
Kyes examiped by the
latest scientitic methods
{9} without change. .
e

iy

t
“ages eee

POSVVIVV VS
LOOK FOR

Beemer's
Dining | Rooms,

FV EY ATLES

ian “

*

hk Sait ol

we Ne
at

er a ak ee ek A, he Rt

Pa Dita eaten hes

LIL


: loa ks se a Te :

OTIVE

SYNOPS!S

wf y (> otthen, 6 rte durgeksth fh dasa C( Mevessea,
(iy) Nes ocannt fe ele PLT Ss ah hots

ty Sorrel. poll ginko. salah as!

TRIAL

APPEALS

LAST WORDS

EXECUTION

FRANK NEWPON OFFICE BUPPLY-OOlmHA

fue hits Triode, kL, Laurer, Vl Vv }) G1ID-G/®&

“Look, you had a thirty-two just last
month. A thirty-two is the gun that did
the job. I don’t believe you just lost
it. What happened? Did you throw it
away?”

“I—I lost it,” Saul repeated dully.

Commissioner Doyle asked him then.

for his story for Saturday night. Saul
seemed to sink lower in his chair. He
thought. Then he struggled up. The
alibi he gave was almost the same one
the officers had heard from Norm Wil-
mig. Saul had been out with a couple
fellows until the early hours and then
had gone home. The officials were just
about to question him further on his
alibi when Detectives Muller and Beech
entered Doyle's office.
Doyle and Murphy aside and told them
what he and Beech had learned about
Lippy.

Was it possible, the officers wondered
as they looked back at Leroy Saul, that
he was Lippy?

Only one way to find out.

Commissioner Doyle put through a
call to the sporting-goods store owner
and asked if he would be good enough
to come to Headquarters.

The officials awaited the man’s ar-
rival tensely. Would he identify Saul
as the man who had purchased the
cartridges?

The man arrived at Headquarters
less than a half hour later. As he en--
tered the office, the officials told Saul
to stand against the window. The store
owner was asked if he’d ever seen this
man before. He studied Saul.

As the officers waited for some word
from him, the silence in the room was a
throbbing thing. Had Saul lied about
losing the thirty-two?

The store owner turned back to the
officials.

He shook his head.

Commissioner Doyle felt everything
within him sag. He sat down and ran
fingers through his hair. What else
could they do? It seemed that walls
blocked every avenue they tried. He
sighed, looked up and asked the store
owner if he would search through
Rogues’ Gallery pictures for them.

As the others left his office, Doyle sat
alone. He didn’t have much faith in
the man’s being able to come up with
a picture—the right picture. The Gal-
lery held thousands of mug shots—
some of them too old to be of any value
in identification—and too often all that
resulted was confusion and false leads.

And, as it turned out, Doyle was right
in not basing all his hopes on a picture.
A couple hours later came word that the
man had not been able to pick out the
guilty one. Was it because, the officers
asked themselves, that the killer actual-
ly did not have a record? Or was this
just another case of a witness being
blinded by the thousands of photo-
graphs that confronted him?

EARLY that evening, while the of-
ficials were questioning several
men who had been brought in for rou-
tine interrogation, an alarm came
through that sent them scurrying to an
apartment about a block from where the
slain man had lived.

The apartment belonged to a Paul
Gruenfelder. Gruenfelder, who had
been away for the Labor Day week-end,
had just noticed that a camera and
pistol had been stolen from his apart-
ment. —

And the pistol was a .32.

From Gruenfelder the officers learned
that his apartment door had been closed
and locked on his return. And nowhere
could the investigators find any sign of
forcible entry.

“He’s an expert,” Detective Dugan
told Doyle later. “Just like you said be-
fore. He picks a beautiful lock.”

“But I still can’t see a professional °

housebreaker behind a vicious crime
like this,” Detective Beech complained.
“Of course, it could be, but it just isn’t
the pattern.”

“And don’t forget the woman,” Ser-
geant Schwartz added. “Let’s not for-
get there could be a woman mixed up
in all this.”

The investigators were thrashing
things back and forth like this when
Lieutenant O’Donnell, who had been at
the Fifth Division, came in. With him

52

Muller took °

was a patrolman. Patrolman -Orseno.

O'Donnell explained that Orseno had
come to see him at the Division; and
then he had Orseno tell the others what
he’d learned about the unknown man
firing shots in the playground.

“I went over to the playground and
looked around,” Orseno said. “I ‘was
trying to find one of the bullets. I didn’t
see anything that night because it was
too dark and I went back today. It was
only a little while ago that I found this
in one of the walls.”

He took from his pocket a bullet.

“It probably won’t mean anything,”
Orseno said, “but I thought you’d want
to have a look at it.”

Doyle fingered the slug. It was

crinkled and flattened, which made it:

hard for Doyle to say offhand what
caliber it was.

He gave it to one of the officers to
take to Del Torre for a ballistics ex-
amination.

The officials didn’t let themselves get
excited. After all, this was the longest
of long shots. A man in South Phila-

months before. ektostes oveiiine: was”
the first time this person had! seen Ede «
wards in all that time.

Schwartz said to Orseno,..“Do you °
know anyone by the name Edwards ~
who lives down here?” me

The patrolman thought, then .
shrugged his shoulders. “I probably, «
have seen him but the name doesn’t
click with anything.”

What could they do? And then, too,
what about Lippy, the man who had
purchased the bullets? zs

It was Schwartz’ idea that they pick =

p Patrolman O’Hara, the officer who °
had brought Saul into the case and -
whose beat this section was. Perhaps —
he-would be able to give ‘Edwards a full
name. :

Fifteen minutes later and they were
speaking with O’Hara. He thought a
long time. He said he felt that the
name did mean something, but he
couldn’t quite attach a face to it. Per-
haps, he said, if he went through
Rogues’ Gallery pictures— u

Pack at Headquarters, O'Hara m=;

title, "Then Came Three in One Night”.

e
Up to the Minute
Darang the continent from each other, two different courts of law have handed
down two greatly varying sentences involving the same crime—arson,

In Delaware County, Pennsylvania, just south of Philadelphia, three volunteer
firemen who had set fires and then helped put them out, were given long prison
sentences on September 18, 1952: Carl Heffron, 30 to 60 years; Thomas Shavney,
20 to 40-years; Robert Wegmann, ten to 30. The story of this investigation
appeared in the July, 1952, issue of OFFICIAL DETECTIVE STORIES, under the

These three men destroyed property ‘and killed some livestock but no human
lives were lost. In San Francisco, however, When Kenneth Skinner started a fire in
the hallway of an apartment building, eight persons perished. As a result, Skinner
was sentenced to one to ten years in prison. Actually he received eight such
sentences, but they are-to be served concurrently.

This story, under the title, "Eight Deaths—At the Arson Hour”, appeared in
the November, 1951, OFFICIAL DETECTIVE STORIES.

This department appears from time to time to keep readers advised of latest
developments in cases that have been published previously in these pages.

delphia firing a gun: What could he
have to do with a gun stolen miles
away, a gun that was used probably a
few hours later to kill a man? Most
likely nothing. Nothing at all.

By Wednesday the bullet was just
about forgotten as Doyle and the others
turned their attention to questioning
another man brought in from the
Record Room list. The mah was pro-
testing that he’d gone straight since his
last “jam”. He said he’d been home all
night, Saturday, with his wife. You
could ask her, she’d tell you. But re-
membering that a woman might be in
the case, the officers were not certain
just how good an alibi his wife would
be. They kept after him; and it was
during their questioning that the phone
rang.

The call was from Del Torre.

The ballistics expert had matched
Orseno’s bullet against one of the slugs
found in the dead man’s room—the one
slug that was in good enough condi-
tion to be tested

‘And both bullets had come from the
same gun!

The reaction in the office was like
that of a bomb going off. Sergeant
Schwartz and Detective Dugan left im-

mediately with Patrolman Orseno for’

the home of Orseno’s informant. There
the young man repeated that he’d never
seen the gunman before that evening.
But he said that three other fellows had
been around at the time and maybe one
of them knew his name.

HE officers went to the homes of the
three youths their informant men-
tioned. Only one of them ever had seen
the man with the gun before and he
said he only knew him as “Eddie” or
Edwards. He said Edwards used to live
around the neighborhood but he didn’t
know where; he did know, however, that
he’d moved to Florida about eight

Ny

down at a table. In front of him were
the pictures filed under “E”. Edwards
now—quite a few. O’Hara would pick
one up, look at it, then set it down. The
other officials watched anxiously.
Would the picture be in the Gallery?

One picture, and then another and
still another.

Could it be that the expert house-
breaker had no record?

And then—

“Here’s a guy I know!” O’Hara ex-
claimed. He was on his feet now.

The picture was that of Grover Cleve-
land Edwards, 33, who had a record of
eleven arrests. O’Hara said that Ed-
wards, who was married, used to live in .
South Philadelphia. He was a drifter,

never staying in one place more than

a month or so.

Schwartz said, “Did you ever hear
him called Lippy?”

O’Hara shook his head. “That nick-
name doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Were Edwards and Lippy two differ-
ent men?

Sergeant Schwartz temporarily de-
tailed Patrolmen Orseno and O’Hara to .
the Homicide Squad; and then, with
Detective Beech, the two patrolmen
were assigned to "track down Edwards.

All that night, Orseno, O’Hara and
Beech canvassed the South Philadel-
phia area for their man, hitting all his
former haunts. But no trace of him,
Could it be he had fled the city?
morning they were still at it.

And Thursday morning, September 4,
while the hunt was still on, Detective .

Dugan took Edwards’ picture to the c

sporting-goods store customer who had
given them the name Lippy. .
ere customer needed only. a quick °

Lippy and Edwards were the same!
The scattered pieces of the case dove-

- tailed perfectly.

Meanwhile, Orseno, ‘O'Hara ‘and

+

qt

ad 7
* Beech had vickea dg D a cade ey had
,Jearned that Edwards had Felatives at
an address on American Street in South
* Philadelphia. Not wanting: to tip their
hand in the event Edwards was not in
there, they staked out the: place.
A half hour slid by, then an hour.
' Then the door to. the house opened
ane & woman stepped out. «.
_O’Hara w , “That’s his wife!”
They watched her walk:down the
“street and enter a food store. She came
‘out in about five minutes, carrying a.
‘package. She reentered the house.
*, “What do you think we ought to do?”
-Orseno questioned.
‘“Let’s jump the house,” Beech an-
swered crisply. °
. The officers slid out of the’ car. Guns”
came out. They had heard during their -
hunt for Edwards that he could be a
fast man with a gun, Would he give
up peacefully?.- Orseno ‘covered the

i >

rear of the house while Beech and’.

‘O’Hara went to the front door. Beech. |
rang the bell, The door opened and.
Mrs. Edwards stood there.. She smiled
. Pleasantly at them and ‘asked what
_ they wanted. But they saw, over her
shoulder, what they wanted and they
brushed ‘past her. Edwards, sitting in
gone living-room, stood u UP. Se,

- He raised both hands,
At Headquarters, . Edwards broke
down quickly when confronted with the’

» evidence against him. To. the officers’
surprise, they learned that Edwards
lived in West Philadelphia, a block
» from the Teitelbaums, The man said
» that he had moved there upon return-.
ing to the city from Florida. short:
time ago. He was unemployed. On
Saturday evening, police claim he said,
; he left his apartment with six dollars
' to buy groceries. He stopped at a tap-

1 Pesce ani, by the time he left, he had

only a dollar. Then, they said, he de-
cided to rob someone, He picked the
‘lock of the Gruenfelder apartment and
stole from him the gun and camera.
Going to South Philadelphia, he’d sold
the camera, but when he tried to dis-
“pose of the gun, everyone said it
wouldn’t fire, He then went to the
sporting-goods store and~bought bul-
lets, returning to the store-‘when’ he
found he’d purchased the wrong cali-
ber. After this had followed the shoot-
ing episode at the playground. But
still no one wanted the gun. Return-
ing to West Philadelphia, police
claimed, he recalled that Teitelbaum—
whom he’d known from the bakery-shop
neighborhood—lived there, and . he
picked the lock and entered the house.
After searching the house for money,
he said he fell asleep in the front bed-
room of the second floor—even as Tei-
telbaum was asleep in the middle'room.
Waking, Edwards then said he went up
to the third floor, where Teitelbaum
called him.’ He said, Police stated later,
that he began shooting when Teitel-
baum reached for the gun. Following
the shooting, Edwards ran back to his .
apartment. Later that morning, he
took a trolley to Market Street, crossed’
the Schuylkill River bridge on foot and
threw away the gun.
. Soon after Edwards’ confession, the
‘Police Department’s mobile laboratory,
using a self-controlled magnet, dragged
the Schuylkill near its east shore and
brought up the .32,
‘ The mystery of the woman’s voice—
although not the footsteps, which un-
doubtedly was imagination—was solved
by the police when Radio Dispatcher .
“Steinberg, who had taken the victim’s
call, said that Teitelbaum had cried out
to him in a high-pitched voice. Teitel-
baum’s shrill plea for mercy was what
probably had been taken for a woman.
;, On September 8, 1952, Edwards was
held without bail for the grand jury by
Magistrate E, David Keiser. He is now -
. awaiting further disposition of his case
as this issue of OFFICIAL DETECTIVE
STORIES goes to press.-’-
At a ceremony inthe office of Police
ommissioner Thomas J, Gibbons, cita- -
‘ tions were given to all the officers who
had worked on the case.

FT" The names Norm Witmig and Leroy
“ saul in this story are fictitious to pro-
tect persons tnnocentiy tnvolved in the
inpestigation.


A father who couldn't know his son's fate,
Grover Edwards; at right, a mother who has
only fear for her boy's, Madeleine Daniels

“Then you're going to have to be real
brave. I know your father would want
you to be.”

The boy looked around, dried his eyes
with his knuckles.

“How did it happen?” Johnston
asked. He didn’t rise.

Well, the boy said, he and-Daddy had
been sitting out on the front step. His
father’s arm had been around his
shoulder. They’d been out there about
ten minutes when this car went by the
house and drew up at the corner. One
man had been in the front seat, another
in back. The one in the back poked a
rifle through the window and fired.
Then the car sped away.

“Daddy jumped up. He said some-
thing like, ‘I’ve been shot. Who shot
me?’ He went off the steps to the curb.
Then he fell down.”

“Billy,” Detective Hammes said, “did
you know the men in the car?”

“Did you ever see them before?”

“No, I never did.”

Johnston said, “What about the car,
Billy? Did you get the license?”

He didn’t, Billy replied, but he knew
what the car looked like. It was a green
and white Pontiac sedan.

Johnston frowned. He and Hammes
were thinking the same thing.

He said, “Billy, are you sure it wasn’t
a Chevy?”

“Pretty sure.”

Johnston rose, rubbed his jaw. Only
about 20 minutes before Martin Daniels
had been slain, another shooting had
been reported. A man walking along a
street in West Philadelphia, had been
gunned down by two men, witnesses
said, riding in ‘a green and white Chev-
rolet sedan. At this moment the victim,
alive though unconscious, was still
unidentified.

18

From West Philly to South Philly in
20 minutes? It would be easy.

Hammes said, “Mrs. Daniels, can we
see you alone?”

Though the children wanted to fol-
low, Mrs. Daniels made them stay in
the living room while she and the offi-
cers went into the kitchen.

Hammes said, “I didn’t want to ask
you this in front of the kids. But was
your husband mixed up with any kind
of gang?”

Mrs. Daniels, with a trace of a wince,
said, “I—don’t think so.”

Hammes told her about the other

shooting and said that the two, if con-
nected, had a gangland pattern.
“I'm—almost positive it couldn’t be.”
Johnston spoke up. “Did he ever have
any trouble with the police?”
After a moment, gazing down, “Yes.”

‘In 1949, her husband had been sen-

tenced to nine to eighteen months in
prison on a burglary charge.

Hammes said, “What kind of work
did your husband do?”

“He was a stevedore. Only he was
out of work lately.”

“Why are you so sure this wasn’t a
gangland shooting?”

Near this cemetery tree the killer stood,
his target where the two men are talking

Mrs. Daniels fingered the tablecloth
nervously. Then, “Because I think I
know who did it.”

Both detectives were surprised.
“Who?” asked Hammes.
“I don’t know his name.” She was

still playing with the tablecloth, staring
at it, her voice a monotone. “All I know
is he’s called Scotty.”

“Why do you think it was him?”

Tears were forming again in Mrs.
Daniels’ eyes. It was taking all her
strength, all her courage to say this.
“You see, my husband he—well, he ran
around.” She covered her face with one
hand. “It was—another woman.”

“And Scotty? Who's he?”

“Her boy friend, I guess.”

Regaining her composure, Mrs. Dan-
iels said that this very evening her
husband had told her of having a vio-
lent quarrel with a man named Scotty
earlier in the day. Scotty, it seemed,
had said he would kill Daniels if Dan-
iels ever saw the woman, Connie, again.

Johnston said in amazement, “You
mean your husband didn’t care if you
knew about this?”

“He didn’t care. When he drank, he
let me know things. I even met Connie,
just last night.”

“Can you tell us about it?”

Well, yesterday afternoon her hus-
band had borrowed Martin's car. Mar-
tin was her sixteen-year-old son—her
eldest. He hadn’t even been told about
the killing yet.

Yesterday evening she and Martin
had been sitting: outside when they'd
seen her husband drive by in the car,
with a woman.

“Martin was terribly upset. He de-
cided he should get his car back; he
went around to taprooms and after
awhile he came back and said he'd
found them and his dad wanted to see
me. And I went.”

“What happened then, Mrs. Dan-
iels?” Hammes asked gently.

“Well, there they were, the two of
them. This, he said, is Connie. And


edy said. “The old Wildcat Lair
‘building is right next to the post office.
We'll put a man at every window so
they can look right down on the alley
and have it covered. Other men will
be in the Health Department building
and the post office.” ;
. “The problem is to freeze them,” an
FBI agent declared. “If they get rat-
tled and start shooting, no matter how
many men you have around them,
somebody is likely to get killed.”

» Detective Lieutenant B. J. Handlon,
who had been called in on the confer-
“ence, suggested: “We could use an
armored truck to follow Schomer into
@ . the alley and bottle it up from that
>. end.”

je “It still wouldn’t freeze them.”

> “What would?”
S& The agent suggested that a loud-

‘speaker system. be installed in the
ildcat Lair building. At the moment
“the bandits stepped out, when the
police car was stopped, the loudspeaker
could order them to stand where they
were or be killed.
“That would give the men in the
a chance,” he said. “They can slide
down to the floor and use the car for
protection.” ¥
-“We could use portable floodlights,
too,” Kennedy said. “Those and the
dspeakers should hold them.”
The police plans called for detectives
to intercept Robert. Anderson as he
drove around the post-office building.
Other officers would pick up Joyce An-

the animal shelter.
, And a cordon of police cars would be
placed entirely around the area, re-
‘ing instructions from. the police
aa. room. The _ sheriff's officers
cover all of the roads out of the

the event of any slipup.
“ve thought of everything ex-
4d," Newcomb said as the final
46 were discussed. “It looks to me
yp uke he’s the sitting duck in a shooting
gallery.”

‘bead an FBI agent told Meagher:
»! “As soon as the lights go.on and
‘the loudspeaker starts, fall flat. Dive
under the car if you can. In that way,
‘if there’s any shooting, we won't stand
the risk of hitting you.”

* “No good,” Newcomb said flatly.
“No? Why not?”

“Mayhe our men won't shoot him,
‘but how about Ludwig or Anderson?
‘When they see they’ve been framed,
one of them might swing: and let Ed
have it. With a shotgun at that close
range, he’d be finished.” .

. “What do you think?” Meagher was
asked. .

* “I don’t know.”

--“Could you swap places with Bob
‘Anderson or Schomer?”

“Not. a. chance...Anderson insisted on
putting Bob in the safest spot because
he’s his kid brother. Bob’s only nine-
teen. Schomer is in the car because he
‘could get away with looking like a
‘woman. Besides, it’s Anderson’s idea
sbecause he, Ludwig and I have been
lice officers, we know how to handle
a@ gun.”

“You're going to be in a tough spot.
,1.guess you know that. Our men will
“be instructed to watch out for you.”
Si “With all of them wearing full

’masks?” Newcomb asked. “How are .

they going to tell Ed from Anderson or
Ludwig?”
4. “He'll have to drop.”
‘ “Suppose they all drop and start
shooting? And that’s only half of it.
e’s got Anderson and Ludwig to worry
ut at the same time.”
* An FBI agent told Meagher: “You
n’t have to go through with it, but I
bt if you pulled out now whether
ey’d go on. We could pick them up
tt we'd have trouble getting a con-
tion. All they’d have to do is deny
r story.”
~~ not pulling out,” Meagher said.
* a minute!” Newcomb cried.
e you feeling, Ed?”
} do you mean?”
se you got sick late Tuesday
nm and had to be rushed to
spital. Would they go through,
---«g iti without you?” -:" °° ¢ 4

derson where she would be waiting, at ;

“I don’t know.* Anderson figures' I’m. ‘

yellow now. He might think I chick-
ened out.”

‘ “Well, that’s the way it’s going to
be,” Newcomb said. “Ed’s done more
than his share on this deal. I won't
let him get killed. Tuesday afternoon,
he’s going to the hospital with a rup-
tured appendix.”

\

W ITH the utmost secrecy, the
Police plans were carried out to
foil the million-dollar robbery. FBI
agents dressed as workmen went into
the Wildcat Lair building. -They care-
fully selected the site where the police
officers could cover best what would

take place below.
The loudspeaker and lights were in-

bal

tend -the party because of an emer-
gency operation. The message was
telephoned by a hospital employe so
that Anderson would be unable to
question Meagher Also, if Anderson
should call back he would find that
.Meagher actually was in the hospital.

Would he believe Meagher was sick?
Would he think Meagher had chick-
ened out?

Or, would he suspect a trap? .

Only time would tell, And as the
minutes ticked by, the anxiety and
tenseness grew among the officers in on
the counter-plot. ‘ a

The deal almost blew up when a
police officer who had not been informed
of what was taking place, chose that

Emmett Perkins, Besides helping

Also executed recently were:

OFFICIAL) ; :

Baldwin
California, :

lothing

November, 1952).

In New York, William F;

of his capture, “Greenwich V

Up to the Minute

THE once lovely Barbara Graham, mother of three, former shop-
lifter, dope peddler, prostitute and gun girl, has gone to her
death peacefully in California’s gas chamber.

Wearing a cocktail dress, Mrs. Graham entered the gas cham- .
ber calmly and eight minutes later was Pronounced dead, executed
for her part in.the pistol-whipping slaying of an elderly widow,
Mrs. Mabel Monohan who, her killers falsely believed, had $100,000
hidden in her Burbank, California, home.

Following Mrs. Graham in death by 20 minutes were one of
California’s most vicious badmen, Jack Santo, and his sidekick, d

Perkins had killed Grocer Guard Young and three little children
in another attempted robbery, and gold miner Edmund Hansen—a
total of six that police knew about. ‘

The story of the detective investigation into Mrs. Monohan’s
murder, “The Mystery of Mabel Monohan”, appeared in the August,
1953, issue of OFFICIAL DETECTIVE STORIES Magazine, and
that of the Guard Young case, “Massacre on the Chester Logging
Road”, in the December, 1953, issue. ,

Anthony Zilbauer, who answered an advertisement for an auto
for sale in Los Angeles and killed the man who wanted to sell it,
Andrew Kmiec (‘He Said He Was Hired to Kill”, February, 1954,

. hitch-hike slayer of Jack Arnold

”, June, 1953, OFFICIAL);
Grover Edwards, robber-slayer of a former neighbor, Isaac
Teitelbaum, in Philadelphia (“Why Must You Kill Me?”, OFFICIAL,

vey? accused of slaying co-ed An:
O : 5 oy LO

age’s
in the May, 1955, OFFICIAL DETECTIVE STORIES.

And in Wilson, North Carolina, Mrs. John Cockrell was
sentenced to a twelve-to-fifteen-year term for poisoning her hus-
band. A daughter of the couple, Mrs. Lucille Barnes, wrote the dra-
matic story of her suspicions when her father died and of her own .
investigation which eventually led to the arrest of her mother, under
the title, “Help Me Find My Father's Killer”, for the March, 1955,
OFFICIAL DETECTIVE STORIES

- This department, “Up to the Minute”, is published regularly
on these pages to give readers the last word on cases which have
been published prior to the long-drawn-out legal maneuvers that -
frequently delay final disposition of those cases.

to slay Mrs. Monohan, Santo and

sulory
ase of Ann Yarrow”, appeared

stalled. Walkie-talkie connections
were. made with Headquarters so that
instructions could be relayed to the
waiting police cars.

Complete descriptions of all the
persons involved, as well as the descrip-
tions and license numbers of the cars
that would be used were prepared.

To avoid any possible leak, only the
key officers in the sheriff’s office and
on the police force were informed of
what was taking place. The men in the
cruiser cars would not know of their
assignments until the last moment.

This. would be the biggest robbery
since the Brink’s job in Boston. There
couldn’t be any mistakes. \

Postal inspectors and FBI agents
took up key positions to help command’
and execute the capture of the bandits.

The one big question was whether
the gang would go through with the
plan without Meagher.

A rendezvous of the gang had been
set for Anderson’s Paradise Valley
home at six o’clock. It was to arrange
the alibi—that Anderson was giving a
party for his wife. : ,

The robbery was planned for eight
o'clock, ..°.,; . ' P . ‘

‘Word ' wad ‘sent 'from the ' hospital
that' Meagher would be unable to at- -

the post office, 22 selected men from, ,
the police department, sheriff's office,
postal inspectors and FBI were’ sta-

Z

particular afternoon to pay ‘a friendly

visit to Anderson’s home. But he left

after a few minutes without incident.
At six o’clock, Chief Kennedy made

& final inspecticn of the men and equip-.

ment that would be used.
Detective Lieutenant Handlon and

Detective Frank Jergovic were assigned

the job of stopping Bob Anderson after
he had given the signal that would set
the holdup in action. Sergeant John
Skelton was to drive the armored car
that had been hidden in a garage where

it could move out quickly and follow
Schomer when he went in to block the
-police car with the mail.

Several
officers would be inside ready ‘to shoot
through the port holes of the armored
vehicle. .

Chief Kennedy and Lieutenant Allen

would follow the armored car in a

police cruiser. Several men had tried

to dissuade the Chief from coming ‘in
behind the armored car for he would
be in the thick of any shooting, but the
Chief was adamant on this point. .

|X THE Wildcat Lair building, the
Health Department building and

tioned. Guns were loaded with live
shells under the firing-pins. The loud-
speaker and floodlights were ready.

More officers were hidden at the
animal shelter where they would pick
up Joyce Anderson.

Then word flashed through to Head-
quarters from a walkie-talkie unit
planted near the Anderson home.

“George Anderson and his wife just
got into their car.”

A few minutes later, another message
came in: |

“Robert Schomer is leaving. He’s in
his. car,” '

The plan was on.

This was it.

An alert was flashed to all police
units,

Chief Kennedy was at the station as
‘Carlisle and Devlin prepared to leave
for what, until tonight, had been a

~~} ~routine assignment to take the regis-

tered. mail to the train.

Tonight it could be a death run.

' The patrolmen inspected their guns
and Chief Kennedy shook their hands.

“Watch yourselves and keep down,”
he said. “No matter what happens, you
fellows keep down and stay inside the
car until the shooting is over. If they
make a fight for it, a lot of lead will be
flying and you fellows will be right in
the middle of it.” ‘

As the patrolmen walked out to their
waiting car, Chief Kennedy called:
“Good luck, and God bless you.”

Turning to Bell, Chief Kennedy said

-in a choked voice: “You get a couple

of rotten apples ona Force and some-
times you almost lose faith.

“Then something like this comes up
and you see men like Carlisle and Dev-
lin. Those boys could get killed tonight,
and they know it. But you watched
them go out of here.” Both of them were
smiling. They’re real police officers—
and most of the boys are just like them.
They more than make up for the bad
ones.” ‘ .

. Bell looked at his watch. “It’s time
0.” ,

on schedule, at eight o’clock,
e@ post-office messenger came out
the platform with the registered
mail sack. He climbed into the car with
Carlisle and Devlin.

An auto parked on Mesquite flashed
its lights on and moved slowly around
the post office.

It was the signal, °

As the car rounded the corner,’
Handlon jammed the throttle of his
police cruiser to the floorboard. He
swung wide and then pulled in sharp,
cutting off the auto that had given the
signal and forcing it into the curb.

Jergovic was out in a flash. He
pressed his service revolver against the
head of the driver.

~--—“Don't.-move a muscle. or I'll drill
you.” .

George Anderson was at the wheel.
Beside him was his wife. Meagher had
said that Anderson’s brother, Bob,
would be driving the car and Mrs.
Anderson at the animal shelter. Some-

* thing was wrong. :

“Get out with your hands up,” Jergo-
vic ordered. “You, too, Mrs. Ander-
son.” ,

Handlon relieved Anderson of the
police pistol he carried.

“What’s the idea?” Anderson asked.
“Me and my wife were on the way to
the show.” :

“You'll see a show when you meet
the Chief,” Jergovic told him. “And
don’t give me any trouble.”

In the meantime, the officers who
had been waiting on the west side of
the post office saw the patrol car with
the mail truck drive off to the station,
no attempt being made to stop it. How-
ever, Chief Kennedy and Allen spotted
Schomer as he drove away after observ-
ing the patrol car. ‘They placed him
under arrest. ;

Officers sped out to Anderson’s home .
where they located Robert Anderson
and Walter Ludwig. , The police claim
they also found the sawed-off shot-
guns and. masks and make-up to dis-
guise Schomer as a woman at the Para-
dise Valley house. ;

'’ Later in the evening, Chief Kennéay :! |

announced that Schomer ‘had given the '

45


No proper fatherly
guidance for these
two, Curt Edwards,
“Marty Daniels, Jr.

The Sins of Two Fathers

against her, Mrs. Madeleine
Daniels rocked back and forth
with him on the sofa, stroking his head.
t “It’s all right, Billy,” she said, her
voice low. “It’s all right.’’ Yet her eyes

4 were filled, too.
Detectives Willard Johnston and

Samuel Hammes, of Philadelphia’s
. i Squad, took off their hats as

rd : | e thirteen-year-old son sobbing

By Al Richards Special Investigator for OFFICIAL DETECTIVE STORIES

they stood inside the doorway of this
home in the 400 block on South Fourth
Street. Hammes gently pushed the door
shut behind him, closing it on the stares
of the crowd gathered in the hall. It was
a little after 11:30 on the night of Sat-
urday, June 22, 1957.

Four other children were in the room,
ranging in age from two to ten. And,
except for the youngest who was asleep,

signs of fear and grief were apparent in
all the others.

Only a few minutes before, their
father, Martin Daniels, Sr., had been
pronounced dead at the hospital of a
bullet wound.

Mrs. Daniels spoke to the officers. ““He
was with his father.” She indicated the
boy next to her: “He was sitting right
with him.”

The Philadelphia Story of Today—Two Generations and Two Killings

“He had his arm around me,” Billy
said. “He was holding me.”

Detective Johnston knelt by the sofa
and put his hand on the boy’s back.

“Billy?” :

He could feel. the small body shivering
against his palm.

“You want to help us find the person
who did it, don’t you, Billy?”

There was a hesitant nod.

17


Doom Is My Destiny

[Continued from page 19]

penitentiary. Sometimes, now, I wonder
how much of an impression that visit
made on my boy—whether his short stay
in a death cell influenced what he later
did. But at the time, in the jail, Curtis
showed little emotion except when he
whispered to me, “I want to go away.
Don't let’s stay here. I don’t like him!”

Yet, I joined my tears to those of my
husband, not through any devotion but
because of all we might have had, all that
was lost, and because of fear of what the
future held for me and my children. Even
then, I could picture my family remind-
ing me that my husband had been a
murderer; my boy was old enough to
comprehend what the kids he played with
would say.

Curtis and Iwere back in my mother’s
house on the night that Grover was elec-
trocuted in Rockview Penitentiary. I sat
beside my boy’s bed, listening to his steady
breathing as he slept on, unaware that
around 1 o’clock that morning his father
would die. I sat there and something died
inside me, too.

I did my best to protect Curtis in the
days and weeks that followed. I came back

to live with my mother and I was ill for a |

long time with nervous shock; my re-
covery was slow because Curtis was con-
stantly on my mind. I was always afraid
that he would get in with bad company. I
kept him in the house in the evenings,
even during the summer. His best friend
was a boy named Martin Daniels, who
lived near us, and the two never roamed
far away. “I’ll protect him,” Martin said
to me once. “I know about his dad, but
I won’t let the other kids hear about it.”
It made me sick. Curtis thought that
Martin was wonderful. He spent every
possible moment with his friend. Once my
boy told me, ‘Marty hates his father, too.
His father beats him and his mother,
Marty says.” o

“Never mind—” I replied, trying to steer
him away from the subject.

“Sure, I mind,” Curtis interrupted. “My
father used to beat me, too. I’m glad he’s
dead!”

" What bitter thoughts for an 11-year-old
oy!

Qn the night of June 22, 1957, Martin
Daniels Sr., was sitting on the steps of his
house at 422 South 4th Street, not far from
our home. He had his arm around the
shoulders of another of his sons, William,
11.

Marty and my boy, Curtis, crept up
through the old abandoned cemetery just
beyond the Daniels’ house.

What followed was testified to by my son
during his trial.

“There he is!” Marty Daniels whispered.
“Now be sure to hit him, not my brother.”
He put a rifle in Curtis’ hands. “Can you
see all right?”

Curtis aimed the gun. He had learned a
little about shooting from practicing at
a carnival that had once come to our
neighborhood.

“You sure are doing me a favor,” Marty
whispered. Curtis nodded and pulled the
trigger.

I know that if my son gave any thought
at all to what he was doing beyond show-
ing off for his friend, he was thinking
about those unhappy days he had spent
at his father’s hands. It could not have
been a plan of murder.

Curtis’ shot killed Martin Daniels, and
for the second time I entered a courtroom
surrounded by death. And like his father,
my boy was convicted of first-degree mur-
der. The court spared his life and kindly
people interceded for him—but he was
sentenced to life imprisonment at White
Hill Reformatory.

Marty Daniels was acquitted and cleared
of any connection with the death of his
father.

I go to see Curtis as often as I can,
although it is a long trip from Philadelphia;
it costs $9.72 just for train fare. Curtis al-
ways looks so sad and lost. I cannot bear
to leave him and I know that his face will
haunt me even after I’ve left. There must
be some way to help him. If I had money
to hire attorneys... .

Now there was no one left for me but
my daughter, Nancy. I got a part-time job
and put her in a kindergarten school. And
it was right after that that I met a young
fellow from one of the Philadelphia
suburbs. I have seen him only a few times
but I like him a lot. I told him almost at
once about my past. I thought he might as
well know. I i he was a little
shocked, yet it hasn’t changed his feel-
ings toward me. But I’m afraid. Every

time I turn to love, it ends in disaster.

I got a reminder of my dark destiny
early in September, 1958, When the latest
of my bad-luck episodes occurred.

A young fellow whom I know rather
well and who lives on my block invited
me to dinner at a small cafe in our neigh-
borhood. I'd been so despondent that I
figured an evening away from my cares
might cheer me up. I know now that I
never should have gone. Three of my
escort’s friends were at the bar when we
entered and he invited them to join us
at our table. My friend and I danced a
few times, and then what happened is still
hazy in my mind. It seems that somebody
pushed my escort and a drink was spilled
across the bar. Two men who, I afterward

‘learned, were from up-state Pennsylvania

and who had stopped into the cafe for a
drink before continuing their drive home-
ward, got into an argument with my date
and his friends over that spilled drink.

All I can remember is that my com-
panion hurried me out to his car and sud-
denly there was shooting as we drove off.
The police later charged that it was my
escort who had fired the shots. As for me,
I don’t know who did the shooting. I
understand, however, that no one was
hurt seriously.

Although death had been averted, this
incident served once more to depress me
beyond words. Is there nothing in life
for me but tragedy?

The police arrested my friend and his
associates in the shooting scrape. The
story of the escapade, together with my
photograph, got into the newspapers
across the country. Reporters again
dragged out the tragedy of my husband,
who'd been executed for murder, and of
my son, serving a life sentence for a
similar crime. I dare not speculate on
what the world thinks of me. And what
about the man who wants to marry me?
Will he still want to share his life with
someone whose destiny seems forever
marred by doom?

While I ponder what my answer to his

proposal of marriage will be, I have only
one person who understands me. I read his
message through the bitterest tears of my
life:
. “Don’t you be scared, mother,” wrote
my boy, Curtis. “I’ll take care of you. I
love you more than anything in the
world.”

Gunpoint Showdown

[Continued from page 24]

Bowers, into a bathroom with a snarled
warning to remain quiet for five minutes.
Then, after shoving Harold Gaskins in
with the other members of his family, the
gunmen fled.

The motel proprietor waited only until
he heard tires spinning on the gravel road
outside before he broke open the bath-
room door and rushed to the office en-
trance. Faintly, in the distance, he could
hear the motor of a speeding car and
guessed that the bandits were headed
south on U. S. Highway 301.

Gaskins lost no time in racing across the
roadway to the Byrd’s Service Station;
there he entered a telephone booth and
was soon telling Sheriff George”"L. Reed
of Orangeburg County about the stick-up.

“Y’ll be at the motel as quickly as I can
get there,” the lawman stated. “Mean-
while, get in touch with Highway Patrol-

48 ra

2) OW LE RATE

man Harry Ray; he’s assigned to a speed-
check point a little more than a mile south
of your place.”

Within ‘five minutes after leaving the
phone booth, Gaskins had located Patrol-
man Ray—and wished to heaven he
hadn’t. The young officer’s body was
draped across the right front fender of his
squad car, while his life’s blood drained
ang bullet holes in his chest and shoul-

ers.

It was obvious that the patrolman was

' beyond human aid.

Within an incredibly short while, in
response to Gaskins’ alarm, officers from
Clarendon and Orangeburg counties and
from the State Law Enforcement Division
(SLED) at Columbia, South Carolina,
were at the scene. Chief J. P. Strom of
SLED assumed command, and minutes
later dozens of officers were scattered over
the widely traveled highway in an effort
to locate someone who might have wit-
nessed the murder.

Meanwhile, Chief Strom and the sheriffs
studied their slain colleague’s body. They
had already noted that the red lights on

the officer’s patrol car were blinking, indi-
cating that Ray had undoubtedly stopped
a speed violator just a short while before
he was shot.

Strom gently disengaged the summons
book which was still ‘clutched in Ray’s
left hand. The pencil in his right hand was
clear proof that the patrolman had been
in the act of writing a ticket when he was
gunned down. The date, September 7,
1958, had been entered on the top ticket—
also the time, 12:25 a.m. The remainder
of the summons was blank.

Turning back a page in the book, the
chief noted that five minutes earlier—at
12:20—Patrolman Ray had issued a
ticket for speeding to a man residing in
Orangeburg. Officers of that city were
contacted and asked to check with this
driver for any information he might have
on the murder. Perhaps, Strom reasoned,
the killer had passed the Orangeburg
motorist after shooting down the patrol-
man. If so, the motorist might be able to
identify the murderer’s car.

Next, Chief Strom and the sheriffs
talked with motel owner Harold Gaskins,

who told then
tention to the
entered his pla
kins could giv
of the bull-ne
gun on him.
“They were
owner stated,
30 years old, c
that they wore
but I didn’t not
As nearly as
the robbery ha
15 minutes had
the murder sce
that Patrolman
about that lon;
There was nc
the robber tri
officer, except
element jibed,
fact that Gask
dits’ getaway
rection of the :
chief noted, w:
all excited, anc
suppose that h:
his informatior
At this poi
deputy who ha
der area return
in his hand.
around out tt
pointing towar:
land on his lef:
that direction,
blown from th:
“In that ca
aloud, “the
dropped by the
were being que
I'd say that the
suspects.”
Despite the !
now almost 2 a
residing in the
as luck would }
most at the sta)
“Ordinarily,
about this,” a
to the lawmen,
my name out
Without hesi:
gators that she
been parked in
distance from
patrolman had
attended a dri\
burg, and had
romance befor:
“My boy frie:
thing about th
the girl contin
coming at hig}
blinking lights
realized it, the
them. Then a
either an Olds
“My boy frie
we'd better get
fore we could
Pontiac, returr
seconds where
then turned ar
had come.
“We left the:
away from whe
shot, we didn’:
until I heard
there just now
Chief Strom
puzzled. If the «
and there was :
be—the killers
der scene at ai
haps a mile or s
had remained ‘
where they'd
turned around
south.


fferent from now on.
-time job when he took
hospital, but it wasn’t

He blamed the loss of
kept him awake nights

nother blow fell on my
obbery. I learned from
na restaurant and that
I suffered was twofold:
d the baby, and he had
entenced to serve two-
enitentiary, I decided I

ime job and a neighbor
when Grover was re-
lace on Osage Avenue
swore he would change

hat he had done to me,
orutality, and above all
might do in shadowing
ht of that, too, he said.

o protect
But when
n, I know
inking of
cys he had
‘r’s hands.

eye i

On top of all the grief I had suffered when my husband was arrested for murder, I found
that I was pregnant again. In photo above, I stand behind Jules Teitelbaum, son of man
my husband, far left, had murdered in robbery. Between us is Lieut. Bernard O’Donnell.

“We'll go to Florida and start all over,” he promised, “and
never come back. And Curtis will never hear about my
past.”

But of course we never went, and the years passed with
my life again a hell on earth. Grover was in and out of jobs,
drunk and sober. But he never alternated his bad tempers.
He struck me once across the face, and as a result I have
a twitching nerve under my left eye that probably will never
go away. }

Worse than this was his attitude toward Curtis. At times
he seemed to hate the boy, cuffing him across the head,
shouting at him, threatening to “take his hide off.”

One day—August 12, 1952—our whole neighborhood was
roused by squads of police brought there by a crime com-
mitted at around 3 o’clock in the morning. A 64-year-old
retired baker, Isaac S. Teitelbaum, had been shot to death in
the bedroom of his home, only a couple of doors from
where we were living.

Even before Grover came creeping in, just about dawn,
I had put two and two together. I’d arrived at a ghastly bit
of suspicion: My husband had been drunk when he’d gone
out that night; he had boasted, “Who else do you know that
can drink a bottle of whisky without coming up for air?”

And I was aware that he was out of work and short of cash;
that he knew Mr. Teitelbaum, had even worked for him for
a short time, and believed him to be rich. He had pointed the

. old gentleman out to me one night. “He’s loaded with money.

Lives there all alone, except for his cash.”

“Grover,” I said, as the police continued to search the
streets, hunting for some clue to the slaying, “Mr. Teitelbaum
has been murdered.” And before I could say more, someone
banged on the door. It was a couple of detectives and they
took Grover into custody. Grover did not deny the crime.

On top of all this grief, I knew, a short time later, that
I was pregnant again.

The murder trial was short. Grover was identified as the
man seen running from the baker’s house. The district at-
torney established the fact, too, that my husband had a police
record of 11 arrests. A jury lost no time in convicting Grover
of first-degree murder.

Several months later—in September, 1952—my little girl,
Nancy, was born.

After Grover had been sentenced to death, I went to see
him in prison. He cried and begged forgiveness and pleaded
to see the children. Foolishly, on the next visiting day, I
took Curtis with me to the [Continued on page 48]

Dp


a where Hauptmann had been placed

"| among the twenty-three witnesses

» grand jury which will meet tomor-
-: row in Flemington, N. J., to con-|

. dictments .
Colonel Schwarzkopf announced.

eA? T. Wilentz of New Jersey said on
-. Friday . that: Colone} . ‘Charles A.:

nad changed their minds and thet

fore the grand jury.

i he E

ony

‘) ‘Hauptmann,
*# . uniess the troopers would agree to
. group of men.

- office of District Attorney Samuel

-  gistants.

-. “gchool student living at Princeton,
ee .,. Yighted newspaper article as saying
', that he was certain that Haupt-

. Mann was the man he had seen in

"-- @riving a Dodge automobile (Haupt-
ce bling the ladder left at the acene of

~ the kidnapping, but all the official
‘ fnvestigators have asserted that

 gerprint expert would testify, al-

EDWARDS, Robert Allen, white, elec. Pa, (Luzurne) May 6, 1935,
¥Y Of

Gay morning Captain

de Lamb and New. Jersey troopers
took Whited to the Bronx County
jail and asked Sheriff John J.
Hanley to let the witness see

The Sheriff refused

ove

.-@- Mne-up to see whether Whited
“could pick Hauptmann out of a

Whited then was taken to the

* J. Foley of the Bronx, where he
‘was questioned by Mr. Foley's as-
During the afternoon, he
- wag taken back to the county jail,

in a line-up of eleven men.

He “positively” identified Haupt-.
‘mann as the man he had seen twice
on the Lindbergh estate, according
to statements made by Sheriff Han-
ley, by Charles F.. Brodie. . chief
elerk in -District Attorney Foley’s
office, and by Colonel H. Norman |

. Schwarzkopf, Superintendent of the
New Jcrsey State Police.

Colonel Scnowarzkopf announced

‘that Whited's identification im-
::Mensely strengthened New Jersey's '
case against Hauptmann on the
charges of kidnapping and murder,
- as hitherto there had been no direct ,
and unquestioned evidence that |

' Hauptmann .had been anywhere |

-near the Lindbergh estate at or
near the time of the kidnapping.
_ Benjamin Lupica, a preparatory

N. J.. has been quoted in a copy-

* Hopewell the day of the kidnapping

* Mann's car is a Dodge) with several
lengths of ladder in the car resem-

-.Lupica was unable to adentity

Hauptmann.

. Te Ge Before Grand aur”
Both Whited and Lupica will be

called before the Hunterdon County
sider kidnapping and: murder in-
against Hauptmann.

Although Attorney General David
‘Lindbergh would not. be called to
testify about his infant son’s kidnap-
ping and death, Colonel Schwarz-
kopf asserted that the authorities
Colonel Lindbergh would appear be-

It was also announced that a fin-
though hitherto the New Jersey of:

ficials have consistently asserted
that they have obtained no finger-

By F. RAYMOND DANIELL,. ~
Apectal to Taw New Yoar Toss.

WILKES-BARRE, Pa., Oct. 6.—
A Luzerne County jury decreed this
morning that young Robert Allan.
Edwards must die for the ‘murder
of Freda McKechnie. a

After seven hours and fifty-three
minutes of deliberation, the twelve
men from. the mining community
decided that the man who had
killed one girl in order to marry an-
other deserved the maximum pen-
alty of the law. .

They rendered thelr verdict sat
8:10 o’clock, while a drizzling rain
pelted the windows of the court
house and hid the surrounding
mountains from view. Edwards
heard the words of doom virtually
alone and friendless, but as stoical
as ever,

Judge W. A, Valentine, presiding
over the trial. which opened on
Monday, thanked the jurors and
sent them home with commends:
tion for their collective judgment. .

_ District Attorney Thomas M.
Lewis, who knew the families of
both the dead girl and the con-
demned youth of 21, said that jus
tice had been. done and let it so at
that...
‘Ola Neighbors in Sorrow.

Across the Susquehanna River | in

| the little mining town of Edwards-

ville the verdict was a bitter vice
tory for Mr. and Mrs. George Mc-
Kechnie, the parents of the girl
whom Edwards killed with a black-
jack in Harvey’s Lake on July 30
after she had told him. that she
was about to become the mother of
his child.

After years of neighborliness ‘and
friendship, the tragedy had caused
a rift between the Scottish Me-
| Kechnies and the Edwards family,
whose forebears came from Wales.
But today the parents of the girl
had only pity for: the mother
er and father of the youth. who
the law decreed should be taken
from them as mercilessly as their
daughter wastaken.

Mr. McKechnie, his grim features
set as though cast in a “concrete.
mold under his thick thatch of
gray hair, was sitting on the porch

-{of his home when word of the

verdict was brought to him. _.
‘TAll 1 have to say ie that I am
mighty sorry for Dan Edwards and
his wife and that other boy oi
theirs, too,”’ he sald. “Know him,
do you? Stuart, 15, at the high
school here, & good lad.
“Of course Robert Edwards took

been done—as far as it can be done
I shook Dan’s hand yesterday and
told him 1 was sorry for him and
I am-—sincerely. But i think. Dis-
trict Attorney Lewis and the jury

did their duty. What pine can be

prints at the ecene of the kidnap
ping or on the ransom notes.
Mr. Wilentz indicated that im-

|

‘| Continued on Page Twenty eight

said?"

Mr. " MeKechale’ eyes ‘strayed

across the lawn toward the Ea.

Continued on Page Twenty-seven.
NEW YORK TIMFS, 0

“| tion.

my Httle girl’s life and justice has’

 f@pectal to Tam New Torx Tas.
MEMPHIS, Tenn., Oct. 6.~—Price-
fixing is not authorized by the Na-
tional Industrial Recovery Act,
Judge Harry B. Anderson of the
Federal court ruled today. He
| granted a plea of 600 manufac-
turers of hardwoods for an injunc-
tion against prosecution by the
United States District . Attorney
here for disregarding minimum
prices fixed by. the Hardwood
Manufacturers Institute, enforcing
agency for the Pamper Code Au-
thority.

NRA officials had - announced
that sixty-two manufacturers, who
had sold 40,000,000 feet of hard-
woods to the Fisher Body Corpo
ration, subsidiary of Genera] Mo-
tors, at prices that ranged from
5. to 15 per cent below ‘‘cost pro-
tection’’ prices fixed by the. insti-
tute, would be prosecuted ¢rimi-
j nally. :

The hardwood men “contended
{that the ‘cost protection” prices |
which had been fixed to. prevent
ruinous competition between pro-
ducers were basically wrong and
that each individual operator alone
|eould determine his cost of protec-
, Other phases of the NRA
regulations were not attacked.

- Counsel Interprets Decision. .

“Lowell Taylor of. counsel for the
hardwood men, said tonight: |
“Judge Anderson held that, in ef-
fect, the lumbermen can sell at any
price they want to without fear of
criminal prosecution.” ..

Mr. Taylor in hie arcuciene had
| contended that while the Recovery
Act prescribed penalties, it defined
no crime and that this was a Con-
gressional function that could inal
be. delegated. A

“The petition named the “United
States District Attorney and the}
Hardwood Macutactiy are ‘Tnatitute
as defendants.

‘The Hardwood aanvtacturara In-
atitute has been the regulatory body
for 5,800 manufacturers of hard-
woods (the term “hardwoods” is a
commercial one and bears no Tela-
tion to the character of the woods.
It includes. all trees indigenous to
the South which shed their leaves).

Judge Anderson's. ‘decision was as
follows: ©.

“In this case comiplainants ask
for injunctive relief against the Dis-
| trict eoenlatd to prevent arrest and
Prosecution for violating the so-
called ‘price fixing’ or ‘price protec-
tion’ clause ofthe Hardwood Lum-
ber Code, organised under the Na.
tional Recovery Act..
“There ts no mention in the act
itself of price fizing or price pro-
tection. The act itgelf authorizes
pe various industries to compile
des of ‘fair competition,’ which

© law on the approval of the
sidaaat Recovery Director, |.

business men, to contribute to the
campaign fund. The Republicans
are therefore without sufficient
means to finance the party’s polite
cal battle,
With few exceptions, according to
reports here, Republican candidates
are soft-pedaling on the effect of
the Roosevelt policies. This is not
true in Pennsylvania and Michigan,

berg are vehemently opposing the
NRA and the distribution of AAA
funds. .

Some of New York's candidates
for the House are protesting against
the administration’s measures, but

cans seeking re-election are said to1
find it expedient to avoid attacking
the administration.

that, unless there is a most radical
change in sentiment in the next
thirty-one days, the Democrats will
win a sweeping victory in the strug-
: gle over Senate and House seats,’

Fietcher Keeps On Firing.  -
Chairman Fletcher, however, in-
sisted today that there was a strong
“private opinion’’ forming in the
country against the administra-
tion’s economic policies. This, he

| said, would be registered in the|p

ballot boxes, causing notable sur-
prises. He said that in Pennsyl-:
vania, Ohio and West Virginia this

victories were expected by him in
several Western States, and perhaps

- Continued on Page Twenty-five.

Los agcles Tells of

where Senators Reed and Vanden-|.

generally speaking the Republi-| ‘

As a result, the observers think! F

opposition was very strong, while |

Communist Bid for Na

-
D3

LOS ANGELES, Oct. 6.—As part.
of an organized campaign in South-
ern California, Communist workers

of the navy. during the next sixty
days, according to The ‘Los Angeles
Times.

Before the fleet left New York,
the ships were flooded with prope-
ganda, it is said, and they are to
be met on the West Coast by a staff
{of agitators.

Other centres of. the campaign’
here are said to be the high schools.
of Los Angeles and the University
of California at Los Angeles. At

Uck. A. special efforts are being

made to contact young women who
{have failed of election to sororities.

A Communist paper, The High
School Outpost, is distributed to

students every week. Articies in it | po

appeal particularly to Negro stu-
dents, urging them to rise and de
mand Negro teachers in the high
schools,
A special section directs efforts in

__ “Fale Competition’ Defined, :
eteber 7, 19316

, " pocciaite Pan sie

will concentrate on the ‘personnel |.

the
atat

Hollywood, some Communist writ-


» away for
depressed
id like to

like. that, :

wouldn’t.
e she was

phatically
by every-

: that the

aed belief
st-mortem
not possi-
emendous

poured in

ver-supply
seeking a
the body.
cal supply
bel on the
1e vicinity
Ud give us
man enter

1—Gang vengeance
claimed three re-
cently on deserted
New Jersey road.
Body of one victim
may be seen at left
center

2—Bruno Salek and
Stanley Pludzrak
(hatless) shown
heavily guarded fol-
lowing their con.
viction at Buffalo,
N. Y., of the mur-
der of a policeman

3—Surprised while
Los

was shot and killed
by police

4—Camera_ study
of Harry Pierpont,
“brains” of the Dil-
linger mob,. who
died in Ohio Peni-
tentiary’s electric
chair last. October

Griffis

* .
(right) = manacled
ose 388 of a Seattle

policeman is ques-
Roaed by Captain
Ernest Yoris

6—"Bobby” _Ed-

wards, - (center)
‘

deputy

handcuff him fol-

lowing conviction of

murder. Edwards

is. sentenced to die
in chair


eds of -New Orleans citizens
d the approaching marriage. It
ned an “outrage to society.”
-elenka’s sweetheart loved the
youth. She wanted to marry
cher mother went ahead with
ling plans.

cell, just above the one occupied
ka, Phelix Birbiglia’s voice was
th contempt:

coward enough to do it,” he
“IT wouldn’t doa thing like that
‘hind a woman’s skirt—even if
) save my neck.”

‘y of the marriage came and
got ready. He put on his tan
’ and the blue serge suit which
ut on the rough side for good
> put on his silk shirt and tied
t carefully. Then, accompanied
s, he went down the Stairway
cell nearest the scaffold,

de was waiting. She had on a
andy dress with a big sash and

:yes looked out from under a”

ie-brimmed hat. In her hands
ed a lace handkerchief, She
e a little girl who had come to
ce cream and cake party.
ere married in the shadow of
vs. Their honeymoon was an
uversation. The bride sat in
ay; Charles in his cell. Iron
them,
the day of the hanging—
Birbiglia and Zelenka
‘ast together, surrounded by
soners and guards. Birbiglia
‘ully and laughed and chatted,
vers were still working. Even
were hurrying to the home of
‘or with a last prepared appeal,
a newcomer came into the
room, the two youths looked
aces lighting with hope.
s face soon became dull and
is hands moved his knife and
anically, but the food dropped
his plate untasted.
ne the hour—high noon,
went first. Firmly he walked
¢ gallows—toward the hang-
s purple mask. He mounted
ind stood calmly as the noose
ted. The trap was sprung.
nutes passed before he was
deflected knot, caused when
erked his head as he went
delayed his death. The
id he died of strangulation,
Zelenka followed his com-
the gallows. Over and over
1a prayer. The trap clanged
irtled downward. His neck
d death. was instantaneous.
: against Robert Burns was

TEESE RCN CRORES
A4SWeNr4
questions on page 62

Hamilton and Jack Law-

‘ Story on page 8.

22nd,
e Chief’s Chair, page 6.

1 Boyer.
Crrey on page 18,

Ilse.
‘ee page 28.

Bobby Edwards-Freda
echnie tragedy.
Story on page 42.

psy
Se

The youth mentioned a popular make
of tires. As he spoke, Clark glanced
again at the slip of paper in his hand,
and once more passed it to Powell.

“Bobby,” Powell snapped, “you were
at Harvey’s Lake last night. We have
prints that your tires made when you
were in Bear Hollow road hiding Freda’s
clothes! We have compared the prints
with the tires on the car in your garage,
You were at the lake, weren't you?” .

“Yes,” came the reply, “we did go to
the lake and went in swimming, I took
Freda home and went on home. That
is the last I saw her.” The boy’s eyes
clouded for the first time, and his cheeks
flushed.

Tells New Story

ro questioning went on. Over and
over the story was repeated. Again
and again questions flashed at the stone-
faced youth who sat so nonchalantly
smoking cigarettes.

The hands of the clock turned to mid-
night, raced on to one o’clock, and ap-
proached two. But Bobby Edwards
parried question after question.

And then, near two o'clock, Bobby
made a slip.

“T'll tell you,” he said. “I dived off
the float. When I came up my hand
struck Freda’s chin. I saw her bathing
cap disappear and I could not find her.

“I rushed out of the water and back
to where I had parked the car. We had
changed our clothes there. I dressed

‘quickly and started home.

“As I drove away I. realized I had
Freda’s clothes in the car. I drove back
and put them under a tree.”

“Are you telling the truth, Robert?”
Powell asked.

“I am telling the God’s truth,” Bobby
replied, raising his right hand above his
head,

Powell stood up, signifying the inter-
view was ended. Bobby arose, too, and
started for the door as though to go
home. Then he glanced at the detective
chief and saw in his eyes the cold stare
of a trained manhunter, not the friendly
glance of a neighbor.

Captain Clark touched a button and a
trooper appeared, clicked his heels and
saluted.

“Take him away,” Clark ordered. And
Bobby Edwards was taken to a cell.

Next morning the same group of grim-
faced inquisitors gathered in Clark’s
office. They had the report of Dr. T. ie
Wenner who performed the post mor-
tem. And that report, couched in pro-
fessional terms, threw an entirely new
light on the tragic death of little Freda
McKechnie.

For it revealed that Freda faced
motherhood! It revealed further that
the girl had a severe laceration, some
two and one-half inches long, on her
head, that her skull was not fractured
and that there was little if any water in
her lungs. Dr. Wenner indicated that
the “cause of death was apparently
shock due to intense lacerations and
contusion of skull produced by some
blunt instrument.”

As he was brought into the room

where the officers took their places,
Bobby Edwards, fresh and smiling,
greeted the men.

“Now, Robert,” began Powell, “we
want you to tell us the truth, We want
to know all about it.”

“All right, Mr. Powell, I will tell you
the true story.” And Bobby once more
told the tale of his plunge into the lake,
how his hand struck Freda and how she
disappeared, :

And then the investigators, realizing
that the youth would stick to his ac-
count, determined to take him to
Harvey’s Lake.

Guarded by troopers, the boy, with
Powell and Detective John Dempsey of
Powell’s staff, set out. At the lake they
met Chief Stevenson who reported that
a few hours before he had found a
blackjack, embedded in the mud of the
lake bottom, about fifty feet from where
the body was found.

Powell and Stevenson remained on -

shore with Edwards as the troopers in-
spected the death spot from a boat. And,
sitting in a car with Bobby, Stevenson
kept up a running fire of conversation
about the mystery of Freda’s tragic

death.
Bobby Talks

INALLY, the chief learned from

Bobby that he was in love. The girl,
an educated, cultured young woman, had
been a student at Mansfield State
Teachers college when he was there.
And he admitted that, even while loving
the other girl, he had been in love with
Freda, the home town sweetheart, and
had been intimate with her. He ad-
mitted, too, that he had known of her
approaching motherhood.

Talking further with the boy, Steven-
son learned that when Freda had re-
vealed her condition, Bobby had made
two suggestions, first that they see a
doctor and have something done about
it, or that they could elope to West Vir-
ginia, be married and start life in a new
community.

Stevenson, quick to see the importance
of the information he was getting, asked
more questions, gradually leading Bobby
to the night of Freda’s death. The
youth made a few brief answers, then
suddenly slumped in the seat.

“T’ll tell you, Chief,” he said. “I'll tell
you—” And there tumbled from his lips
one of the most amazing confessions of
passion, illicit love and murder that has
ever been written on the criminal
records of this country!

Stevenson listened, carefully, thought-
fully. Then he called Powell. “Here’s
your story, Dick. The boy is ready to
confess.” °

“That's fine,” said Powell as Steven-
son outlined the story to him. “Is this
true, Robert?”

“Well, I guess it is.”

“Just one ‘more thing before we go
back to the barracks, I want you to
show us_where you placed Freda’s
clothes,” Powell said,

Edwards stepped out of the car and
led Dempsey and Trooper Bader to a
spot in the woods, pointing to where
he had left the clothing, Returning to
the car, the party sped to troop head-

1 DON'T war
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‘i re ny

-“]

The flash Of a vivid Orange bathing suit beneath the

waters of Harvey’s Lake, near Wilkes-Barre, Pa.,

marked the Opening of one of the most Sensational
mysteries of illicit love and murder on record.

Here is the Story of .the shocking case that became
known as the “‘Second American Tragedy,”

colored welt close to the crown of her
head! She didn’t get that by drown-
ing!”

Just then a woman rushed up to the
chief,

“I am from Edwardsville,” she said,
“Where is ithe drowned girl? Maybe

Stevenson led her to the spot where
the body lay covered with a blanket,
He lifted the covering,

“I know her,” the woman sobbed.
“It’s Freda McKechnie, George Mc.
Kechnie’s daughter from Edwardsville,
She went to my Sunday School. She
sang in the church choir. I saw her
at Christian Endeayor last week,”

Chief Stevenson rushed to a telephone
and called Wyoming Barracks of the
State Police,

“Hello, Troop B., Chief Stevenson
calling,” he said.

“Hello, Ira,” came the voice of Ser.
geant. Jim Seery. “What’s on your
mind ?”

Freda McKechn
boy who lived j

office, and the bump he had noticed on when she discovered that she faced
the girl’s head, motherhood.
“Oy'K, Ira, we’re on our way,” Ser.
geant Seery Snapped. “Get the fellow
who gave you the clothes to show you
where he found them. And keep every-

one id & from the Spot. . Dapper Robert Allan Edwards, surveyor for
And § erty, veteran trooper who since 2 coal mining company, maintained his usual
was killed in a Police rodeo when he Poise when he was brought into the investi.

>>

tried to jump a horse Over an automo- ation of his home town sweetheart’s death, |
ADVENTURES 43


Ae ns Rit

Se

A4

John Dempsey, county detective,
Kechnie worked during the week
her wedding gown.

displays the dress on which Freda Mc-
prior to her death. It was to have been

“Send him to the chair,” District Attorney
Thomas Lewis pleaded at the trial of Freda’s
slayer, “He’s not fit to associate with criminals
in prison!”

bile, stepped on it. He ordered men
to-report to Stevenson at Mayer’s dock
and he notified Dick Powell, chief of

county detectives, at the Wilkes-Barre.

courthouse.

In the meantime, Dr. H. A. Brown,
of Lehman, had arrived and examined
the body. He indicated that he believed
death was caused by a blow on the head,
that there appeared to be no water in
the lungs. And he advised an immedi-
ate post mortem.

“This girl did not get that bump in
a fall,” he said. “She was struck by
a blunt instrument, perhaps an oar.
From the condition of her body she
must have been in the water almost 24
hours,” :

Chief Stevenson rushed to locate Dan
McHugh, who had found the little
bundle of clothing. Together they went
to the spot where, under a tree, the
clothes had been discovered.

A woman in the neighborhood called
to the chief. “I saw a car parked here
last night,” she said. “It was crossways
of the road,”

Finds Tire Prints

‘THE chief looked carefully for tracks

and discovered heavy tire prints in
the drying mud. They indicated that
the car had been driven up the road and
turned around where it had stood for
some time before it once more was
turned and driven away.

Leaving McHugh to guard the prints,
Stevenson returned to the dock to find
Chief Powell in charge with troopers
and members of his own staff on the
job. They were just examining the
body.

“I’ve .known Freda since she was a
baby,” Powell said quietly, his eyes
moist. “This is no drowning.”

Private Worden Bader, in the mean-
time, was telephoning a report to Ser-
geant Seery. He asked that the troop
photographer and print expert be sent
down to examine the tire prints found
by Stevenson.

“Let’s see, Freda McKechnie, you
say?” Seery pondered as Bader gave

STARTLING DETECTIVE


him the victim’s name. “Hold it a mo-
ment.”

A second later Seery’s voice came
over the wire. “We have a missing
person ticket on a girl named Freda
McKechnie. It came in this morning.
Reads: ‘Freda McKechnie, 620 Cherry
street, Edwardsville; age 26; missing
since last night; despondent; suicide
feared.’” Then he rattled off the de-
scription,

“That's the girl,” Bader snapped.
“T’ll tell Chief Powell,”

As Bader left the booth, Powell en-
tered and in a moment was breaking the
tragic news to the girl’s father, an old
friend and former companion in the
mines,

In the McKechnie home in Edwards-
ville as that dread news was received,
a handsome, black haired youth was
talking with members of Freda’s family,
He left abruptly as he heard the sad
message.

And, back at the lake, the body of
Freda McKechnie was lifted tenderly
into a hearse and taken to a Kingston
hospital for the post mortem, And,
shortly, the carefree atmosphere of the
resort returned and little hint was left
of the heartrending thing that had hap-
pened there,

Make Plaster Casts

[IX BEAR HOLLOW road a silent

group of State Troopers painstak-
ingly photographed tire prints and made
plaster casts,

And in a house just back of the Mc-
Kechnie home in Edwardsville, mem-
bers of the family of Daniel Edwards,
whose respected ancestors had given
their name to the little colliery town,
were sitting down to dinner. There
was a knock at the screen door. It
was Dick Powell, an old friend, who
answered Edwards’ hail.

“Hello, Dick, come in and have some-
thing to eat.”

Powell stepped inside and greeted the
family,

“Thanks, no,” he said, “T just want
to talk with Bobby. Step out here a
minute, Bobby. I want to ask you a
few questions.” The two retired to the
back porch,

“Bobby, I just came from Harvey’s
Lake and I ‘saw Freda McKechnie’s
body on Mayer’s dock,” Powell went
right to the point. “She was dead,
Bobby. She was killed. Someone hit
her over the head with something. Now
over at Freda’s house they tell me you
were with her last night. That's true,
isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mr, Powell,” the handsome,
dark-eyed youth admitted. “I was with
Freda. We were over to Wilkes-Barre
to visit a girl friend of Freda’s and I
drove her to Plymouth avenue. Then
she got out of the car and told me she
would walk home. She said her mother
didn’t want her to 0 around with me
any more.”

“Where did you go afterward,
Bobby ?”

“T came home about eleven o'clock.

ADVENTURES

Bobby Edwards, the last person who saw Freda alive, was questioned early
in the investigation ag detectives sought to solve the riddle of her death.

I bought mother two chocolate bars on
the way and when I got home she was
still awake and I gave them to her, [
was over at McKechnie’s three times
since I came from work today and told
them I didn’t know where Freda was.
I told them the same thing I told you,”

Briefly Powell outlined to the youth’s
father what had happened, Bobby, he
said, must accompany him to Wyoming
Barracks, so they could get all the de.
tails of the case,

Without a word the young man, just
turned twenty-one, accompanied the
county detective chief. As the car drove
north on Wyoming avenue, they saw a
hearse pulling out of a driveway,
Powell knew that it had just delivered
the body of Freda McKechnie to the
autopsy room. But Bobby Edwards,
junior surveyor in the mining company
of which his father was paymaster, did
not know that.

Inside the barracks Powell guided
Bobby toa brightly lighted room where
sat Captain William A. Clark, keen-
eyed six-footer who nodded in friendly
fashion to the youth. Presently Harold
Flannery of the district attorney's office
came in, followed by troopers who had
worked on the Harvey’s Lake tragedy.

At Powell’s request, Bobby repeated
the story he had told at home—that he
had been with Freda the night before,
that she had left him about nine o’clock
and that he hadn’t seen her since,

There was no hint of a third degree,
simply a group of men talking. Over
and over, young Edwards repeated the
same story,

And then a trooper entered, saluted
and placed a slip of paper before Cap-
tain Clark,

“Hmmm,” the officer murmured as
he passed it to Powell and Flannery.
The other men, with the exception of
Edwards, leaned over Flannery’s shoul-
der and read the message.

“You say, Bobby, that you were not
at the lake last night?” Powell resumed,

“I was not at the lake, Mr. Powell.
It was just as I told you.”

“Where was your car last night ?”

“In the garage,”

“What time did you put it there?”

“At eleven o'clock,”

“Was it raining when you put your
car away?”

“Yes—no—I don’t remember,”

“What kind of tires do you have on
your car?”

[Continued on page 67]

45


-e any difference
mstantly in the
ne and went in
though it were
nto a handsome
ing of a “lady
rried Freda. It
o mistrust him.
iere was no room

be married some
d job and made
She could afford
obert would, like
or the Kingston
ey would settle
ever. Freda was
ought.

ention of follow-
footsteps. He
n.

encountered no
was more than
the State Teach-
d, Pennsylvania.
, objection. She
nt with a tight-
vecause she loved
» have his way.
> get ready.
lling him of the
eir home town.
1ome-made cakes
1e day he would

mn of 1932 and
> was a gap in
» which was like
{ Freda’s heart.
r regularly and
hrough the long
out occasionally
town. And his
red George Mc-
could not recon-
going away. In
sentment against
thought he was
lle. And so he
seable youth like

have George call.
»» It made her
ired for Bobby!
in the late fall
s left college in
and came home.
and Freda asked
that was all that
she saw him, the
irms, Freda Mc-
id die for joy.
as he made it
s that Freda was
protest when he
he must have no
Indeed, while
. she was glad in
s SO possessive.
with his father’s
owledge of engi-
vork in the sur-
. waited breath-
ould propose to
r the hours she
{nd so when, on
ril, they started
1e woods beyond
zed her down on
um, the girl was
She sat there
uch, listening to
ce as he poured
longing of his

leepened, Freda

McKechnie lost all count of time. Be-
neath the ardor of his words she was
swept away. When his arms went about
her she melted in that embrace, and when
his lips sought hers, she surrendered with-
out protest. Above her the stars went
whirling madly in the velvet sky. Her
hands reached up and clung to Bobby.

Once, from far off in the back of her
mind, the voice of her conscience whis-
pered that this was wrong. But she was
unable to heed it.

It was early in the summer that Freda
began to feel unwell. She grew nervous,
and tired and depressed. She was jealous,
too, for the first time in her hfe; tor a
conversation her mother had overheard,
and repeated to her, worried her.

Mrs. McKechnie was in the backyard
one hot morning when she heard a girl’s
voice in the Edwards’ yard laugh gaily and
say, “Oh, honey, it’s too hot.” And she
saw a strange girl with her arm around
Bobby Edwards’ neck. Bobby saw Mrs.
McKechnie, but, for the first time, he
ignored her. It was that which gave
significance to the incident. Why should
he fail to speak to her? That evening
she asked him about it, but he laughed
it aside.

i. HY, that’s only a family friend come
to visit my mother from up in New
York State,” he said.

Freda heard of all this with a twinge
of her heart, but, defending Bobby, she
told her mother to forget it, that there
could be nothing wrong.

So the days passed. Freda grew quiet
and moody, quit her job. She couldn’t
eat—sleep was almost impossible. Unac-
customed to illness, she went to White
Haven Sanitarium for an examination
convinced that she was developing tuber-
culosis.

She must find out what was the matter
with her health. It never dawned on her
what the trouble was then. But though
she did not mention illness to her mother,
she felt the watchful, kind eyes on her
constantly.

“You're not well, Freda,” Mrs. Mc-
Kechnie said gently.

But the girl brushed it aside.

“Tt’s the heat. I guess,” she said. “Don’t
worry, please, Mother, I’ll be all right.”

But she worried about it herself and
finally on the afternoon of July 28rd, she
went to a physician in Wilkes-Barre.

And it was then she learned the truth;
she was pregnant. For a moment, sheer
panic seized her. How could she tell Rob-
ert? What would he say?

ro

True Detective Mysteries

“The best thing you can do,” the doc-
tor said kindly, “is get in touch with the
boy responsible for your condition, and see
what he will do about it.”

So Freda, sitting there at the doctor’s
desk, frightened, worried, , telephoned
Robert at the plant and asked him to
meet her that night because she had seen
a doctor and must discuss things with
him right away. :

That night they met and walked over
to Kirby Park, a suburb of Edwardsville;
on the way Freda told him she was going
to have a baby. She said it in faltering
tones. She was not sure how he would
receive the news. And she was relieved
and overjoyed, when he said, “Well, that’s
all right, Freda. What do you want me
to do about it? Either I will take you
to some doctor and. try to have him
perform some operation, or if you don’t
want to do that we can be married.”

Freda’s face beamed.

¥ H, I’d like to get married,” she said

breathlessly, “I want the baby. I’ve
always wanted a baby. I couldn’t give
it up.”

So they planned to be married the first
week in August and they decided to go
to West Virginia, where Robert knew some
- operators who would give him a
job.

“And we'll start off right,” he said.

Freda clung to his arm, speechless with
happiness.

“When will I see you again?” she beg-
ged, as they turned toward home.

“Why, Wednesday night, I think,” he
said and tucked her fingers in the crook
of his arm. “Is everything all right, now
—you won’t worry any more?” .

.“Oh, no, I’ll never fuss again,” the girl
cried.

And from that night on, Freda McKech-
nie was a changed person. Her family,
quick to note it, commented on her radi-
ant face.

“Why, you look as though you’d been
on a vacation,” her mother said. And
although it was a secret, Freda could not
keep the news from her.

“Oh, Mother,” she whispered, “Bobby
and I are going to be married—early in
August!”

Two days later, true to his promise,
young Edwards met his fiancée; he
brought a friend along for Rosetta and
the four of them went for a ride. It was
during that evening that Freda said, a
bit wistfully, that she’d like to go swim-
ming at Harvey’s Lake.

gg

An excellent view of Harvey’s Lake, the well-known resort near Wilkes-Barre,
Pennsylvania, where a ‘“‘devoted”’ lover turned to a fiend, wearing the mask of Red
Death

79

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80

“We haven’t been there together this
year,” she said, “but I’d like to go.”

“Well, why not?” Robert asked.

“Do you know, Bobby, mother is afraid
of the lake; she thinks it’s so deep and
cold. And then she’s been worrying about
me.” She snuggled closer to him. “She
doesn’t know,’ she whispered, her lips
yee to his ear so the others wouldn’t
rear.

“If you'd like to go swimming,” Bobby
suggested, “why not stop at your house
now and get your suit and I’ll take it over
to my place and keep it there in my car.
Then, when we decide to go, your mother
needn’t know and won't worry.”

And Freda did as he requested.

f acey following night she called him on
the phone “just to make sure he was all
right,” and, later in the evening, she saw
him in Edwardsville. She was with her
sister, and he was going to mail a letter.
He slid it in his pocket as the two girls
approached, but Freda did not even notice
the swift movement. She loitered in the
town after her sister got on the trolley to
go home; presently Bobby Edwards came
back and greeted Freda and he walked
to the McKechnie house with her.

The next day, Rosetta telephoned him
and said Freda wanted to see him, but
he said he couldn’t make it because he
had to go to Buffalo over the week-end.

“T’l] see her as soon as I get back,” he
promised. ‘

He returned at 4 a.m. Monday after
driving all night. And at 8 o'clock Freda
called him and he arranged to meet her
that evening.

Facing me across the table in that
little room at the barracks, his dark brows
bent together, his eyes staring straight
ahead, at me, and not seeing me, young
Edwards continued:

“I met her that evening between eight
and eight-thirty at the corner of Sharpe
and Main Streets, Edwardsville. She and
Rosetta were walking along, and I picked
them up and took Rosetta home. Rosetta
invited us in, but I was tired and intended
to go home to bed, so we didn’t stay.

“Tt was after we left her house that
Freda said she wanted to go swimming
that night, so we started for Harvey’s
Lake. It rained hard on the way out but
had practically stopped when we got
there.

“On the way to the lake she wanted to
stop at Warden’s place to see her niece’s
grandparents. She got out and went up
to the cottage and I waited for her; when
she came back we drove to the lake. She
said she wanted to swim at Sandy Beach,
so we drove there and tried to get a
locker; but the bath-house was closed so
we decided we would change our clothes
in the car. We did that, and then we
went into the water and swam out to the
ropes; over to the left of the float we
stopped and rested before going on to
the Mayer’s Dock at Sandy Bottom. We
got over there and climbed into a boat
and on to the dock and sat and rested a
few minutes. Freda got chilly and
wanted to go back into the water and
swim out a ways, and then, she said, we
would go home.

“We started back into the water—Freda
first. She stepped into the boat the way
we did when we came up there, and was
stepping from the boat into the water
when she apparently fainted. I got down
alongside of the boat and chaffed her arms
and felt for her pulse and couldn’t find
any. At first I thought her condition
prompted the faint and then, when I
couldn’t find any pulse, I became afraid
she had dropped dead.

“I wanted to make it appear an acci-
dent and not become entangled myself, so

True Detective Mysteries

I ran back to my car for a blackjack that
I had taken to. Buffalo with me for pro-
tection on the way down home Sunday
night. I brought that back to the dock and
I lifted her out of the boat and hit her
with the blackjack and took her out in
deeper water and left her body there.”

There was a deathly silence in the room
as he finished. For a moment no one
spoke, and, in the stillness, those last few
words dropped like live things into the
room—‘I hit her with the blackjack, and
left her body there.”

The girl he was to have married! The
girl who was to bear his child! The girl
who had been his childhood sweetheart!
Why—why had he done such a thing?

But I questioned him no more on his
statement. I simply asked him if he
would go with me to the scene of the
tragedy and point out where he had left
the car. And he did, very willingly. Chief
Stevenson went along with us, and County
Detective Dempsey and State Policemen
Green and Bader.

Without a sign of hesitancy, young
Edwards showed us where he had parked,
described how he and Freda had undressed
and donned their bathing suits; how they
had waded out into the lake. He pointed
out one of the boats drawn up to the

Plagiarism

Stories have been submitted to Macfadden
Publications which are copies of stories that
have appeared in other magazines.

Any one submitting a plagiarized story
through the mail and receiving and accept-
ing remuneration therefor is guilty of a
Federal offense in using the mails to defraud.

The publishers of Truz Detective Mys-
TERIES are anxious—as are all reputable
publishers—to stamp out this form of theft
and piracy, and are advising all magazines
from which such stories have been copied of
such plagiarism, and are offering to co-
operate with the publishers thereof to punish
the guilty persons.

Notice is hereby given to all who have sub-
mitted stories that the same must be ORIG-
INAL and TRUE.

dock and said, that, while he was not cer-
tain it was the exact boat, it was like
one of those he and Freda used. He ex-
plained that the blackjack belonged to his
father, and gave a minute description of
it, although he said he had been unable
to locate it afterward and supposed he
must have dropped it in the lake.

He admitted that he had placed Freda’s
clothing at the spot where we found it.

That night, back in the barracks, he
signed a long, complete statement of the
facts he had recited to us earlier in the
day. He was warned that anything he
said would be used against him, and as-
sured that no promises would be made
him for that statement.

After listening to it a second time and
questioning him, at the end, I realized that
his story was full of flaws. I think he
did, too, for he kept glancing at me as
though trying to decide whether I was
accepting the yarn or not.

He was cool, almost unconcerned. I
think he had rehearsed it all in his mind
and had convinced himself that he had
told a pretty smart story.

When he concluded it, he settled back
with the air of a man who says, “Well,
that’s that!”

And he went to bed that night and

slept. .

But the following day, when his father
and their clergyman came to see him,
they found him uneasy, restless. And he
explained that he had wakened in the
night and prayed, and read his Testament.

And Dan Edwards, his head bowed with
grief, looked his son in the face and said:

“T don’t know what you’ve done, Son,
but no matter how bad it is, I want you
to tell the truth, It never pays to lie.
Don’t do it.”

And yet, despite that advice, he stuck to
that first story throughout Thursday.
While ugly rumors spread through Ed-
wardsville, while the town seethed with
horror and with amazement and _ with
doubt, Edwards still insisted that Freda
had fainted and that he struck her only
because he was panicky and wanted to
make it seem as though she had hit her
head on the boat.

He didn’t seem to realize how hollow
it sounded.

“But, Robert,” I protested, “this was
the girl you loved. How could you strike
her?”

“I know it sounds bad,” he agreed, “but
I didn’t want to be blamed for it.”

“For what?”

“Well, in case she had died of a heart
attack—I wanted it to seem as if she hit
herself.”

And it was not until Friday morning
that, in his desperation, he clutched at
the truth as the one way out.

“Is it too late to tell what really hap-
pened?” he asked.

“Tt is never too late for that, Robert,”
I said.

And he answered,

“Well, the first part of the story’s right.
But it’s mostly a lie from the point where
I said she stopped to visit at Warden’s
place.”

A then at last we got the real story
from him, and we learned why Freda
had had to die. Straight from his own lips
we got the true picture, in all its detail,
of what had happened. It here follows:

When Freda McKechnie sent her sweet-
heart off to Teachers College, she, un-
wittingly, paved the way for all the
tragedy of the future. For it was at that
school that Robert Edwards met and fell
in love with another young woman.

Her name was Margaret Crain and she
was twenty-three. She possessed culture,
learning and a certain sophistication that
swept the youth headlong into an infatu-
ation. She was a musician, and she knew
considerable about painting and the other
arts. Robert Edwards was drawn to her
like steel to a magnet. This was what he
was seeking. There was no small-town
atmosphere about Margaret Crain. She
was a refined, quiet, gentle-spoken young
woman of dignified manner and restrained
voice. Before her, Edwards lost all the
arrogance that had marked his behavior
at home. In her presence he. was hum-
ee eager to please her, a little afraid of

er.

When he suddenly left college and re-
turned home he never dreamed of sever-
ing that relationship. He had proposed
to Margaret Crain—and been accepted!

He wrote her as often as Freda had
written to him. He made up his mind when
he left Mansfield that he was through with
Freda. It was Margaret whom he wanted
—no one else.

Yet he hesitated to thrust his first love
aside. There were so many angles to
think of—the friendship of the families,
the knowledge that Freda considered her-
self as good as engaged. It was going to
be hard to break away—without a fuss.

He didn’t worry too much about Freda’s
attitude, however. He knew her pretty
well, after all, these years. He was rea-
sonably certain she would not make it
too hard for him. If he wanted his free-
eng he was pretty sure Freda would help

im.

Yet when he came home and took up

the old ti
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Se

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oe

82

brief interlude and all his difficulties
would be ended.

It was still raining when the girl joined
him again. For an instant he was afraid
she might change her mind and decide
to go home. But when he headed for
the lake she made no comment, so he
stepped on the accelerator and went a lit-
tle faster. He was eager now to get done
with it.

“T wonder if the bath-houses are open,”
he said. “TI’ll go take a look.” So as soon
as they reached the beach and he had
parked the car, he leaped out and ran
over and tried the doors of several of the
little wooden structures, but they were
locked.

“I tell you what,” he said, leaning in
the car, his head bare, oblivious to the
rain, “we can change in the car. You
don’t mind, do you?” and he grinned at
her.

N the darkness Freda felt the blood

rush in a hot wave to her cheeks, but,
without questioning, she began to remove
her clothing. The dark close intimacy of
the car hid her movements. She carefully
folded up her clothes and got into the
orange bathing suit that Bobby had been
carrying around with him. Then she put
on the white rubber bathing cap and
tucked her hair up beneath it and stepped
out into the drizzling rain.

Robert, too, had stripped his ¢lothes
and hurriedly donned swimming trunks.

Freda wanted to swim from Sandy
Beach, but he objected.

“It’s better down here,” he said.

The lights were too bright-around that
section of the beach.

Freda, light-hearted, skipping along
ahead, did not notice that he had_re-
turned for a moment to the car, swiftly
taken the blackjack which he carried as
a protection at night along the roads,
and concealed it in the top of his trunks.

She spread out her hands to the driving
rain and caught eagerly at Robert’s
hand as he ran up beside her. There
was something so elemental in their be-
ing out here tonight. She thought how
wonderful it would be when they would
tuke up their lives together. If her mother
heard of this swimming party, she would
be angry, probably. :

“When we're married, Bobby,” she said,
“I shan’t have to care for anyone. I’ll just
have you to please.”

She clung to his hand. She would have
walked anywhere with him. When he en-
tered the water and started to walk to-
ward the darkness of Mayer’s Landing,
although she could not see where she was
going, she followed after him. Few peo-
ple ever went to that lonely spot at night.
And on this stormy evening the place
was deserted, yet it never occurred to
Freda to be afraid. ;

“Bobby,” she cried, as the wind cut
across her face, “I was never so happy.”

But he did not answer. The darkness
was about his evil plans like a cloak.
Above them the sky was as black as his
heart. ;

Once they were in deep water, she let
go his fingers and struck off to demonstrate
her skill. She wanted to show him how
well she could swim. Her slim arms cut
the water with swift, sure strokes. She
was a little cold, gradually aware, too, of
this impromptu party as a silly thing to
do on a stormy night. But she was not
afraid. Why should she be?

Back and forth across the water she
went. In the darkness she could not see
Bobby. But he never lost sight of her.
The white cap showed even in the inky
blackness around them.

Slowly, stealthily, he took the blackjack

from his suit; he paddled around, tread--

True Detective Mysteries

ing water, waiting. Now she was coming
toward him. He could see her face as
white as her cap against the stormy night.
But he could not face her and do this
thing. It was the only streak of con-
science left to him. Yet he poised him-
self, ready, and as she passed him and
turned to retrace her course, he suddenly
lifted the deadly instrument in his hand
and crashed it down on the back of her
head.

Beneath that terrible blow, Freda Mc-
Kechnie wavered. Her arms flung out like
a grotesque, broken wooden doll. A stifled
cry died on her lips, then as she straight-
ened out, Edwards seized her at the hips
and with all his strength he heaved her
bodily out into the deep waters of the
lake. And at the moment there was no
remorse in his soul. He was conscious
only that he must get away quickly, leave
the spot before some chance passer-by
discovered him.

The rain had begun to ease off as he
raced out of the water and over to his

car. He clambered in it and hurriedly .

tearing his suit from his body he dragged
on his clothing. He fumbled for the key

Do You Have a Story?

If you have in mind any fact
case, with actual photographs,
deemed suitable for publica-
tion in the magazine, please
address the Editor, TRUE DE-
TECTIVE MYSTERIES, 1926
Broadway, New York City,
and ask for our “Letter of
Suggestions,” covering full in-
formation relative to writing
the accounts of fact crime
cases for this magazine.

to the ignition, switched on the lights,
stepped on the gas, and headed for Ed-
wardsville. When he-was half way there,
he suddenly remembered that Freda’s
clothes were there on the seat beside him.
It made him gasp for a moment. How
many times had Freda herself sat there,
trustingly, patiently, at his side. Now only
a little heap of her personal belongings
remained to offer a grim reminder of
what he had done.

He must do something about this. It
would never do to have the clothes found
in his automobile. He turned around and
sped back toward the lake and got out
at a tree a few yards from where they
had last parked. In the back of the car
he found an old piece of newspaper and
he placed that on the wet ground and
laid the clothing upon it. The rain had
ceased now. Only the steady drip from
the overhead branches still fell.

A thin, watery moon showed at the edge
of the black clouds. It’s faint light played
along the edge of the lake, groping, like
a silver pencil over the surface. As though
by some miracle, the water, which had
been turbulent and surging, was now
strangely still, and all the night was filled
with a great silence.

And out of that stillness a sudden fear
struck to the heart of Robert Edwards,
and he fled like a man pursued by Death
itself.

Yet, once free of the atmosphere of
Harvey’s Lake,. he regained his composure
quickly enough. When he reached Ed-
wardsville he stopped in a store and
bought two chocolate bars, and when he
reached home he found his parents just

preparing to go up to bed. He greeted
his mother affectionately and gave her
one of the bars of candy.

“Bobby, your clothes are damp,” she
said, patting his shoulder. “Were you
caught in the rain? You must be care-
ful not to catch cold.”

“T guess the dampness ts on them a
little,” he said. “They’re not wet.”

He went, munching the candy, up the
stairs to his room. He undressed and
laid down in bed. Presently, he slept.
And, out in the dark waters of Harvey’s
Lake, Freda McKechnie also slept. Only
hers was the everlasting sleep of death.

Sometime in the night, Robert Ed-
wards wakened; the moon was shining
upon the window sill. A faint odor of
flowers, newly washed with rain, drifted
into his room.

He thought of Margaret Crain, waiting
for him up in New York State. He re-
membered Freda, dead in Harvey’s Lake;
an icy hand descended upon his heart, and
he slept no more that night.

To his home town, the news of Robert
Edwards’ crime came as a shock that left
the neighbors of both families gasping in
horror.

And to the girl, Margaret Crain, it was
the end of her hopes and dreams for a
future. She came hurrying from her home
to see this boy who had committed mur-
der for her. When she reached Edwards-
ville she protested his innocence and de-
clared her belief in him.

“TJE couldn’t have done such a thing!”

she cried. “Bobby would never have
hurt a fly. There’s something wrong in all
this—it can’t be true. I knew about Freda;
she was just a girl he had known as a
boy—there was nothing serious between
them. He is in love with me and I
am proud of his love. We were to have
been married. I’ll stick to him—I’ll stay
here and see him—I must see him—no one
can stop me.”

No one, indeed. tried to stop her. True,
the town received her coldly. After all,
another girl had first received Bobby Ed-
wards’ promise of marriage. That other
girl was Freda McKechnie and she was
dead now—murdered; consequently, Mar-
garet Crain’s defense of her killer-sweet-
heart did not win sympathy or friendliness
from the town.

But we allowed her to see this boy
who had killed for love of her.

They met in the barracks where he was
still being held. When he saw her, Ed-
wards burst into tears and flung himself
into her arms; they clung together, and
their tears mingled.

In the meantime, we had searched the
lake and found the blackjack which dealt
death to Freda McKechnie. In the hands
of the police was that complete and dam-
aging confession of guilt. It remained only
for the formality of the law to run its
course.

Although Margaret Crain promised to
remain in the town to be near Edwards
and give him what moral support and com-
fort she. could, the following day, after
her arrival, she suddenly left to return to
her home.

Undoubtedly a girl of retiring disposi-
tion, the knowledge that Edwards had
actually committed that crime and ad-
mitted it, was too much for her to bear.
She left, crushed and broken, and instead
of “sticking to him” as she had declared
she would do, she now cried out that “I
can do nothing for him.”

A further questioning of Edwards drew
the information that he had written many,
many letters to the New York girl. These,
of course, were necessary to show, in the
preparation of our case, how he had
courted Margaret while he was engaged

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11

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not make it
inted his free-
da would help

> and took up

the old ties, he knew it wasn’t wise. After
that night up in the starlit woods he re-
alized he had made a mistake. He should
never have got on such an intimate foot-
ing with Freda.

Eventually, he reached point where
he was always comparing the two girls.
Yet he never allowed a word to escape
him which might rouse Freda’s suspicions.

He courted them both with the same
ardor. He wrote letters to Margaret
Crain; he whispered burning words into
the ears of Freda McKechnie. And he
never got his lines mixed up—not for a
long time, at least.

At Christmas, he gave Freda a present
of some lingerie, but he sent books to
Margaret Crain. At Easter he gave the
New York State girl a bouquet of flowers,
sent by wire, and he presented Freda with
a little red pocketbook.

LE was in that fateful spring, when he
had become so entangled with Freda,
that he arranged to buy an automobile.
Margaret Crain made the down payment
on that car. But Freda never even
dreamed of such a thing. :

Even when, in early July, Margaret
came to visit the Edwards, Freda didn’t
suspect that Robert was interested in her.
When he said the girl was visiting his
mother, she believed it.

That visit of Margaret’s only served
to increase his eagerness to marry her. He
was convinced it was Margaret he really
loved. He was tired of Freda anyhow. It
would be wonderful to be married to Mar-
garet. She had graduated from college
now and was supervisor of music in the
public schools in her home town of East
Aurora, New York.

He longed to be a part of her world.
He would never bring her to Edwardsville.
She was too good for that little one-horse,
hick town.

But all the time the thought of Freda
ran through his mind like a dark thread
in a bright bit of tapestry. How should he
tell her? Now that he turned it over in
contemplation he was not so sure she
would take the news calmly. Suppose she
refused to let him go? The next mo-
ment, however, he laughed that away. He
couldn’t imagine Freda opposing him in
anything. Even that night up in the
woods he had won her without a struggle.
He remembered it with a slow smile.

Yet, curiously enough, it was the echo of
that Spring night which came back to
him when on Monday, July 23rd, Freda
phoned him from the doctor’s office.

For while she had never suspected her
condition, Robert Edwards was not really
surprised. And because it did not take
him unaware, he received the news calmly
enough. He was even able to offer mar-
riage with a gesture of sincerity that
melted Freda to tears of joy.

But in his heart there was panic.

He walked along the road to Kirby
Park beside her that night and scarcely
heard her voice. What should he say to
Margaret? He had told her about Freda,
but he had made it sound like an out-
grown boy-and-girl affair.

Now, all his plans were awry. Freda ex-
pected him to do something about her
condition. At that moment, as she kept
step trustingly at his side, he hated her.
How dared she spoil his life !

But he was solicitous, even affectionate,
as he soothed her and assured her that
he would do the honorable thing.

But he spent that night planning some
way out.

When, the following Wednesday eve-
ning, Freda mentioned her desire to go
swimming, in some vague way it occur-
red to him that it might be well to keep
her bathing suit. There was no real idea

True Detective Mysteries

formulated and he could not have told
just why he suggested that she turn it
over to him. Yet he was conscious al-
ways that he must do something about
this whole situation. And, in spite of
that, he kept on planning the future with
Margaret. ,

He had not intended to go to see Mar-
garet Crain so soon. But when the
next night, Thursday, he saw Freda with
her sister as he was on his way to post 3
letter to the other girl, he was suddenly
seized with the determination to find
solace in the presence of the comely music
teacher of East Aurora.

And so he drove up there in the car,
which she was helping to purchase, and
he spent the week-end with her. And
slowly the net of his own deceit drew a
little tighter. For Margaret indicated that
she wanted to marry him. Her friends
had met him. They knew she had visited
his home. They were aware of his atten-
tion. As a matter of fact her friends had
come to regard her as practically engaged.
And she wanted to announce it. Edwards
told her that nothing would please him
more. And he promised to return the
next week-end, and told her to get the
announcements ready.

The idea gave him, real pleasure. If
only Freda didn’t object. All the way
home that Sunday night he tried to de-
cide what to do.

Still he greeted the girl warmly when
he met her that Monday night of July
30th. They took Rosetta home and sat
at the curb for a few minutes after they
were alone, chatting.

“Do you know what T’d like to do?”
Freda suddenly said. “Y’d like to go
swimming. It’s been so warm today.”

For a moment Edwards was on the point
of objecting. It was going to rain at any
moment now. The heavy clouds were
piled up on the horizon and the air was
close and filled with the coming storm.
He started to speak.

Freda paused, then checked herself ab-

ruptly.

“What did you say?” she asked.

But Robert shook his head. “Nothing,”
he answered.

“Let's go to the lake,” the girl begged.
“Just this once.”

And still Edwards sat there, silent.

’ “Bobby! Don’t you want to go?”

Gat twisted around to look at him, and,
in a sudden flash of lightning, his eyes
were upon her with an expression she
had never seen before. He was regarding
her as though he hardly knew her and yet
there was interest and something almost
akin to cunning in his face.

“Sure,” he said, slowly, “Sure I want
to go.”

On the way Freda asked him to stop at
Warden’s place for a moment while she
ran in to pay a visit to her niece’s grand-
parents.

“Why don’t you come in, too,’ she
asked.

But he shook his head. “Tl wait for
you,” he replied, and he turned off the
lights of the car and sat there silent, in
the darkness.

And it was then, as the storm broke
above him and _ the rain drove against
the car, that Robert Edwards planned to
murder his sweetheart!

It was the only solution to his problem.
And it appeared so easy. The lake! Why
hadn’t he thought of that before! It
would be the perfect end. He wouldn’t
even have to mention the other girl. Now
he knew what it was he had been groping
for in his mind. It was this way out!

He felt unhurried, unruffled. He could
take his time. He would just sit there
and wait until Freda came out. Then, a

81

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hour before vanished like magic. Her
face and voice were radiant as they re-
turned to the other two and gathered
the things together to drive home. She
leaned close to him, once, to say softly:

“We're really engaged, now, aren’t
we?”

“Of course we are.” He smiled back.

On the way home, she said to herself
that she must ask him who the other
girl was—the one she had seen him
walking with—but she dreaded to bring
up a subject that might cause un-
pleasantness. She decided to say noth-
ing about it. After all, her dream had
come true, and she was going to be his
wife. What did it matter what other
girls he knew, just so long as he loved
her.

Rosetta was struck by the sudden
change in her friend, but she did not
comment on it. She half-guessed that
perhaps Bob had proposed that evening,
but decided to let Freda tell her when
she got ready to do so. She was more
convinced than ever when her friend
asked if she would help her make two
new dresses while she was visiting her.
They went downtown and bought the
materials and two patterns. All that
day while they sewed, Freda hummed
and sang.

Bob telephoned next morning that he
had to go to Buffalo on business over
the week-end, but would see her on
Monday evening. Freda spent the in-
tervening days with Rosetta, and the
latter went home with her on Monday,
staying for dinner at the McKechnies’.
The mother was delighted when she
saw the change that had come over
Freda.

@ “THAT MEDICINE the doctor gave
you was certainly what you needed,”
she observed.

After dinner, Freda put on her most
becoming dress and walked to the
trolley line with Rosetta. Bob was to
come over to see her later in the eve-
ning. As the two girls strolled down the
street, he came up behind them in his
car and blew the horn.

“Get in,” he invited. “I’ll drive
Rosetta home.”

He and Freda seemed very happy
during the eighteen-mile drive. They

48

Bob Edwards declared that “something m
he left her near her home (1) on the fata

!

left Rosetta at her home and started
back to Edwardsville.

“TI just can’t believe I’m going to be
married to you in two days,” Freda told
him. “It’s all so unreal.”

“I know,” he said. “I feel the same
way.”

It had been cloudy all evening and it
now started to rain. “Let’s drive out to
the lake,” he proposed. “We won’t be
seeing it much more for a while.”

“Yes, let’s. It’s romantic out there on
a stormy night,” she agreed.

It began to pour as they neared the
place, but the little car seemed cozy
and secure. Freda snuggled closer to
Bob. He pulled up at the edge of ‘the
lake. It stopped raining. Opening the
window beside her, Freda gazed out
across the blackness of the deserted
landscape. Sitting there, in the little
coupé, beside the man she loved and
was about to marry, Freda again felt
the sudden fear she had had on the
previous visit.

* * *

It was at eight o’clock next morning
that Freda’s mother hurried into the
dining-room where George McKechnie
was having breakfast, her expression
puzzled and a little frightened.

“T don’t understand it,” she told her
husband. ‘Freda didn’t'come home last
night.”

“Well, I don’t see anything in that to
disturb you. She undoubtedly went
home with Rosetta, and wherr it rained
she stayed there overnight.”

“She’s never stayed away from home
before without telling us where she was
going,” Mrs. McKechnie reminded him.
“Y’m worried about her.”

“Oh, she’ll be coming home or tele-
phoning you in a short time,” said the
father. |

But the morning passed with no word
from their daughter, and Mrs. McKech-
nie grew more and more nervous. When
she called Rosetta, she was informed
that the girl was not at home, nor did
the speaker know whether Freda had
spent the night there, as Rosetta had
gone out early in the morning. The
anxious woman telephoned several of
her daughter’s friends, but none of them
had heard from the girl.

She began wondering if, perhaps,

sterious" must have happened to Freda after
night, and returned to his own residence (2)

Freda and Bob had eloped. They had
said nothing about getting married, but
after all, he had been at the house a
great deal since he returned to Edwards-
ville, and she knew how Freda felt
about the young man. For a moment
she was irritated at the idea, for she felt
it was unfair of the girl to cause them
so much worry. After all, she and
George wouldn’t have opposed the mar-
riage. She hesitated for a time, then
finally decided to call up Bob.

@ THE TELEPHONE operator at. the

office connected her with Bob’s ex-
tension, and presently he answered. In
a nervous tone, the mother told him
what had happened. His voice sounded
incredulous, as he asked:

“Look here, are you sure Freda didn’t
sleep home and go out early this morn-
ing, before you were up?”

“Her bed hadn’t been slept in,” Mrs.
McKechnie replied.

“She might have made.it up before
going out,” he suggested.

“T’m sure her father or I would have
heard her,” said the mother;

“Tl be right over,” Bob told her.

He arrived within a few minutes, his
face pale and concerned. He listened
attentively to the details of the girl’s’
disappearance, then said in a puzzled
tone:

“I. simply don’t understand it. I
brought her to within half a block of
your house last evening, and watched
her go toward the front door, before I
drove on into our garage. That was
around ten.”

“She didn’t come into the house at
that time,” Mrs. McKechnie insisted.
“Her father and I had not yet gone to
bed at ten o’clock.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Bob kept
repeating. He went on to tell her how
he had met the two girls walking toward
the trolley, and how he and Freda had
driven Rosetta over to her home in
Wilkes-Barre. He added, “Something
mysterious must have happened to
Freda during that short walk from my
car to your home.”

“It looks like it,” agreed the mother.

“Are you sure she didn’t go back to
Rosetta’s for the night?” he asked.

“No, she (Continued on page 64)

MASTER DETECTIV}:

ONE.

By R

T WAS quite
I white envelop

breakfast tab
mann, mill exec.
Auburn, Maine, i
sinister contents.
vious day, July 19
Maine, the messag

Sir—This is to inf
quarters in Washing
our Government is i
on our War. You
thousand dollars anc
collect the same fro»
to inform you that
ness and that this m«

We hope you kno
know you would not
home and some of
fore put an ad in th:
paper reading: Lost
white paws, answer
Finder please return
Auburn. Reward

This ad must be in
three days after rec:
will then receive furt
livery. Those who
Severely. So it is ul

Gutmann stared :
turning crimson. A
pulse was to crum}
toss it aside. Reasc
his hand. Suppose
really be made on th
ily? Then he would
self for having negl«
the source of the th
before the hour was
the demand to the
setts, Field Division
eral Bureau of Inve

“Handle the lette
little as possible,” ca
Agent-in-Charge.
men at your place

When the FBI Ag
burn, they scrutiniz
for telltale finger in
finding any they imr
ted it to the FBI’s C
Washington where |
treated the paper
Nothing but smude
efforts, however.

“Nothing much on
of the G-men after ¢
concluded. “The o;
to place the ad in
what develops from }
make sure that no h
family.”

In line with the ad\
phoned the newsp<
just across the rive
lived, and on July 2:
vertisement concernj
lost bulidog appeared

FEBRUARY, 1942


s trying to figure’
y anyone would
McKechnie.

the last seen of
erday. She may
someone she met
e swimming last

the trooper re-

They had now
> Chief was fixing

All at once he
ire-marks he had

said. “They may
e, but they were
evening when the
e rain. They have
vt sun. Notice the

better look at the
.d. “The car must
» after it stopped
the tracks would
But the ground
We can probably
iate time through
1 casé it turns out
iachine.”
eir search and soon
wrapped in news-
under a tree. With
off the paper. In-
d silk dress, a pair .
‘loves, underthings,
The officers were
ad belonged to the
yped them. Powell
hnie home, where
ter identified the

‘r in a state of col-
sKechnie answered
st of his ability. He
e nor his wife knew
eda had gone swim-
ce. Because of her
ike, the girl seldom

ympathetic probing,
; daughter had been
‘s before, when she
i complete recovery.
her friend Rosetta,
i new girl. She was
irls who ever lived,
d not possibly have
query as to whether
he answered that he
Bob Edwards had
h other, and that the
h time at their home.

ereaved parents, the
wn the block to the
Edwards home. Bob
yale face and sad ex-
1 much upset by the
1 been telephoned to

out what happened?”

Powell. “We know
) Harvey’s Lake with
» last evening or early

thy, she and I drove
way home from Ro-
.” he said in a be-
ie wanted me to take
he thought it would
bathing in the storm.
arted. I wouldn’t let
ae bathhouses weren’t
3 no place to change.
id left her here at the
i her ge toward her

MASTER DETECTIVE

TE

front door before I turned into our
garage.”

“At what time was that?”

“Oh, around ten, I should think.”

The Chief asked the youth exactly
where he had parked at the lake, and
Bob’s description showed at once it was
where the officers had found the auto-
mobile tracks.

“And you did not see her or hear from
her after you left her within sight of her
home last night?” prodded the Chief.

“That is correct,” Bob told him.

“You two were fond of each other, I

understand,” said Powell.

“Yes. We've been fond of each other
for a long time. Her death is a terrible
blow to me. I can’t figure it out.”

“You think that somehow she must have
returned to the lake last night or early

this morning and gone swimming? While’

she was in the water, she was slain.”
“That’s the only way I can figure it,”
Bob admitted. “But it doesn’t sound like
Freda to have gone back to the lake with
anyone else at that time of night. She
wasn’t a girl who did wild things.”
Finally Powell left the young man and

sped over the Susquehanna River, to the ©

home of Rosetta Culver. The girl’s eyes
were swollen with weeping as she invited
him into the living-room and sat down
facing him.

@ “ROSETTA,” inquired Powell, “when
did you last see or hear from Freda?”
“Last evening when she and Bob Ed-

wards drove me home from Edwards-

ville,” the girl answered promptly. “They
left me here and drove off together.

Freda was radiantly happy. She has been

like a different person these past few

days.”

“IT understand she had seemed ill and
depressed until she came over to spend
a few days with you. Can you account
for the sudden change in her?” inquired
the Chief.

“Well, no; but it began after a picnic-
supper where she and Bob went off by
themselves for a little while. I wondered
if he had proposed to her and they were
planning to get married, for she asked
me to help her make two new dresses
and seemed in a hurry to finish them. She
sang and hummed the whole time. I
teased her, but she wouldn’t tell me what
caused her high spirits.”

“And you have no explanation to
offer for the murder?”

The pretty girl shook her head. “No,
I can’t understand it at all.”

Powell regarded her in silence for a
moment, then he asked, “Was Bob the
only young man paying attention to her?”

Rosetta looked startled, then told him
about Charles, who had taken Freda out
a good deal while Bob was away at col-
lege, but whom Freda had not been see-
ing since the other man’s return. Powell
took down the youth’s address, then left
the girl and went over to the morgue
to hear the medical examiner’s report.

When he emerged from the building a
few minutes later, the Chief’s shoulders
sagged. . How could he face his old
friends and tell them that the daughter,
to whom they had been devoted, had been
about to become a mother, and that he
feared that was the reason she had been
ruthlessly murdered?

On the drive back to Edwardsville, he
stared unseeingly through the windshield,
trying to figure some way of breaking
the news so it would not be too much of
a shock. The McKechnies, he knew, were
very religious people and Freda had been
strictly brought up. He, himself, had
found it difficult to believe the physician’s
statement. ~

Arriving at the house, he took the father
aside; for by this time a number of neigh-

FEBRUARY, 1942

bors and closé friends had come to
sympathize with the family of the slain
girl, When he finally told the father
what he had learned, kindly, gray-haired
George McKechnie refused to believe it.

“But. Freda was deeply religious,” he
objected. :

“T know,” the officer assured him, “but
nevertheless it is true. I hoped you and
her mother could supply the information
as to who the man might have been.”

A hard look came into the father’s
usually kindly eyes, but he said nothing.

The Chief then went to the Edwards’
home. Bob’s father, Dan Edwards, opened
the door. He looked puzzled when he
recognized his visitor. By that time it
was nearing midnight.

“T’d like to ask Bob a few more ques-
tions regarding Freda,” the officer an-
nounced.

“Certainly. I'll call him,” the father
said. “We're very upset over our friends’
tragedy,” he added.

When Bob came down from his bed-
room, the Chief suggested that they
walk outside. He didn’t want to question
him in front of his parents. The young
man accompanied the officer to the latter’s
car, and got in beside him. As Powell
started the machine, he turned to the
youth and asked in a fatherly tone:

“Bob, are you sure that you left Freda
at the corner last evening?”

“Yes,” answered Bob without hesita-
tion. “Positive.”

“Bob,” continued the Chief, “did you
know she was going to have a baby?”

The young man stared at him in dis-
belief, then said quietly, “I don’t be-
lieve it.” i

“Nevertheless, it is true,” Powell told
him.

He pulled up before the State Police
barracks, and the two climbed out and
went into the reception room. Green
and Chief Stevenson were already there,
waiting for them. The three officers
questioned the young man with whom
the slain girl had last been seen, and tried
to make him admit that he had taken
her swimming; but he stuck to his origi-
nal statement, insisting that he had not
known of her condition.

M™ THE AUTOPSY showed that the girl

had been killed the previous night,
shortly before midnight. Seeing that they
were getting nowhere Powell finally left
his colleagues to continue the probing for
information, and went out to telephone
to the physician to whom Mrs. McKechnie
had taken Freda the previous week. The
doctor told of his diagnosis, and of the
fact that he had informed Freda of her
condition, but not her mother. He told
of advising her to get in touch with the
young man immediately, and insist that
he marry her. She had refused to give
the man’s name.

When he had hung up, Powell sat gazing
at his desk, with a puzzled expression in
his narrowed eyes. Bob’s reputation as
a young man of outstanding character,
who had lived a faultless life in the com-
munity where he was an ardent church-
worker, made the officer hesitate to con-
clude that the youth was withholding
information. The Chief wanted more in-
formation, more vital evidence, with
which to confront him.

He had already questioned the only
other man who had been paying attention
to Freda in recent months, and learned
that Charles had an alibi for the previous
night. He stared thoughtfully at his desk
for some time, then put in a long distance
call to Mansfield. This call was followed
by others. When at last he returned to
the State Police barracks, he found his
associates still questioning Bob and still

' getting the same answers as when he had

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1 like talking.
call her next
ar from him
1en his casual
1er with keen
rness of a few
o have dis-
aced girl was
and a little

iarles’ invita-
no had become
ming her, Her
r, noticed that
d seemed un-
Freda, but the
nervous little

- or five eve-
usually at her
, out, and she
alk intimately
» been too shy,
p the matter
evening she

out at Har-

er didn’t like
re lake.”

ed because of
how deep and
.. “We're both

MASTER DETECTIVE

good swimmers. There’s no danger.”
“All right,” he agreed. “Suppose you

get your bathing suit and we'll keep it ,

in the car. When we find a good chance,
we'll go swimming and say nothing
about it to her until afterward. Then
she won’t be nervous.”

“A good idea!” the girl exclaimed.

———~—She was struggling to make herself

more attractive to him, reading books
that she hoped would improve her con-
versation. During July she began to
lose her appetite and her mother be-
came worried. She seemed depressed.

Although Bob was spending several
evenings a week at their home, the girl
felt that he grew more distant with
each passing day, and could not under-
stand it. He seemed content to stay in
the McKechnie living-room, talking
politics with her father, or joining a
general discussion, and seldom sug-
gested taking her out. ‘Perhaps he’s
trying to save money so that he will feel
in a position to ask me to be his wife,”
she told herself. After all, he had said
he loved her on that first evening at the
lake. She kept repeating his words over
to herself, hoping he would say them
again, but he seemed to be getting
further and further away from her,
even as he sat in the same room.

The girls teased her, asking when she
was going to announce her engagement,
and what kind of wedding she was plan-
ning. She felt acutely embarrassed and
longed to have him make their relation-
ship clear. She was as madly in love
with him as ever. "

Toward the end of July, she was so
pale and thin that her mother became
alarmed and insisted upon taking her
to their family physician. When he had
examined the girl, he reassured the
worried mother.

“She'll be all right,” he said. ‘‘I’ll give
her a prescription that will help her.
She needs a tonic.”

@ TO FREDA, in the small examining

room, he said gravely, ‘“‘I haven’t told
your mother, for it would break her
heart; but the trouble with you, Freda,
is that you’re going to have a baby.”

The girl stared at him, speechless,
then her body swayed, and she seemed
about to fall. The physician steadied
her, got her into a chair, and talked to
her in a fatherly tone. She refused to
tell him who the father of her baby
was, and he advised:

“There is only one thing for you to
do, Freda. You must get in touch with
the man at once, and he must marry
you,’’:

Freda moistened her lips. Her throat
was so dry she found it difficult to speak.
She had a sensation of falling, down,
down into a whirlpool of fear, from
which she would never be able to ex-
tricate. herself. She didn’t know what
to do or say. The Doctor saw that the
news had been a'complete shock to her
and suggested in a kindly tone:

“T think it would be better for you
to visit a friend for a few days, and get
away from home. Contact’ the man at
once, and get your arrangements made,
so that will be off your mind.”

Freda nodded, her expression. still

FEBRUARY, 1942

showing panic. She looked paler than
ever when she rejoined her mother, and
asked: | m
“Do you mind if I go over to Wilkes-
Barre and visit Rosetta for a few days?”
“Of course not, dear. I think it might
be good for you.”

She sought her own room, and locked’ :
herself-in,-staring-at-her-white-face-in——‘P’ve-got-to-tell -you- something; Bob;

the mirror. It couldn’t be true, she told
herself, but knew it was. And now she
had to tell Bob. What would he say?
Would he marry her? She knew that
he did not feel he was in a position to
marry right then. And these recent
weeks of less intimacy between them
had shaken her confidence. “I can’t tell
him,” she thought, and knew that she
must.

™@ SHE WANDERED over to the win-

dow, then her body stiffened. Bob
was coming from the direction of his
home. His arm was liriked in that of a
pretty girl, smartly dressed. Freda did
not recognize her as anyone she had
seen in Edwardsville. With a stab of
jealousy that increased her wild fears,
she turned abruptly away and began
. pacing back and forth across the small
room,

Throughout that night she lay wide-
eyed, overwhelmed with shame and
fright. The following day when she ar-
rived at Rosetta’s, eighteen miles across
the Susquehanna at Wilkes-Barre, she
was in a state of collapse.

“What on earth’s the matter with

you, Freda?” asked her friend in alarm.

“Nothing, absolutely nothing,” in-
sisted the distraught girl.

She waited for a moment when she
could call Bob at his office without being
overheard. When she asked him to
come over to Rosetta’s that evening, he
agreed at once, saying he would bring
another man and they would go for a
picnic-supper. .

The day .dragged slowly by with
Freda becoming increasingly nervous
as the time drew nearer when she must
tell Bob of her predicament. She re-
hearsed various ways of breaking it to
him, but could settle on none that
seemed satisfactory. When at last she
heard the two young men in the down-
stairs hall, she felt so heavy with fatigue
that she could hardly force herself to
go down. She grasped the railing
tighter, then shook herself. As she en-
tered the living-room, she tried to smile,
but her lips were stiff and unnatural.

Bob rose and came over to her, saying
solicitously, ‘““You look ill.”

“T’m all right,” Freda told him softly.

During the drive into the Pocono
Mountains, she sat quietly beside him,
but there was no opportunity for her to
talk to him without being overheard. As
supper ended, she became panicky lest
they should return and she would not
have spoken of the thing she must tell
him. In desperation she leaned “over
close, on the pretext of refilling his
coffee cup, and whispered to him that

From the window of her bed-

room Freda saw something
that added to her fears

she must see him alone. He got up after
a few minutes. Taking Freda’s arm, he
turned to Rosetta.

“We're going for a walk,” he said. “We
won’t be gone long.”

Freda did not speak until they were
out of earshot, then she said in a
whisper:

and I don’t know how to say it.”

' He halted, and looked down at her.
.Seeing the fear in her eyes, he asked
gently, “You surely aren’t afraid of me,
are you, Freda?”

“N—o,” she admitted hesitantly. Then
she caught her breath and, lowering her
eyes to avoid meeting his, she told him
of her predicament.

For a moment he was silent, then he
spoke tenderly.

“Darling, that isn’t so frightening. For
goodness sake, is that why you’ve been
looking so pale and ill?”

“Yes,” she told him, tears of relief
welling into her eyes.

“Now you listen to me, young lady.
You dry your eyes, and you depend on it
that everything will be all right. You
should have known that I would marry
you at once.”

M@ FREDA RAISED her face to his, and

asked incredulously, “You mean that
you aren’t upset, darling? That you
want to marry me?”

“Of course I want to marry you. But
we'll have to wait for pay day, on
August Ist. That’s only a week. We'll
elope and go to West Virginia where I
have a friend who will give me a job.
We'll stay there until after the baby is
born, so that you won’t have any em-
barrassment about it.”

It was as simple as that. She couldn’t
believe it; but her leaden feeling of an


Dead Girl and Lying Lothario

(Continued from page 48) didn’t go back
to Wilkes-Barre. I finally got Rosetta on
the telephone and she has neither seen nor
heard from Freda.”

“We'd better ask the police if there has
been an accident,” Bob suggested.

The distraught woman nodded. Bob
took her hands in his and spoke sooth-
ingly. “Don’t worry. We’ll find her,” he
said, and went out to his car. The mother
sent a grateful look after his retreating
figure.

By late afternoon, news of Freda’s dis-
appearance had spread through the town,
and a number of residents had joined the
hunt for the missing girl. Mr. McKechnie
had notified the police and they had
promised their aid. As the hours went by
with no word from Freda, Bob became

paler. He was driving about the neigh-.

borhood, asking acquaintances if they had
seen her. No one had.

MIT WAS toward dusk that Chief of

County Detectives Richard Powell
learned of the disappearance. Shortly
afterward he received a call that sent him
speeding to Harvey’s Lake. The officer
had formerly lived in Edwardsville and
was an old friend of the McKechnies. He
had known and been fond of Freda since
her childhood. As he drove up to Sandy
Beach the sun was still shining brightly
on the clear waters-of the lake and on the
bright umbrellas that dotted the beach.
The bathers, he noticed, were clustered
together at one end, peering at an object
which he could not see. With long, swift

‘strides he went toward the spot.

A bronzed young man separated himself
from the others and came forward to meet
him. Powell recognized him as the life-
guard.

“What happened?” the Chief asked,
pushing his way through the crowd.

The life-guard did not speak until they
were standing beside the still figure in the
orange bathing suit. A man was bending
over the body. He raised his head to nod
to Powell. The officer recognized him as a
physician he knew. Powell asked:

“She’s dead?”

The doctor nodded and stood up.

The Chief remained motionless, regard-
ing the dead girl, his shoulders sagging.
Suddenly he stiffened and knelt down. He
had caught a glimpse of the back of the
head, and turned inquiringly to the physi-
cian who stood quietly by. The doctor once
more nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “She was struck by some
heavy instrument, which probably ren-
dered her unconscious. Then she was left
to drown. Without an autopsy I can’t be
certain, of course. The blow may have
killed her eutright.”

By the time he stood up, the Chief’s ex-
pression had undergone a sharp change.
His eyes were cold and his mouth was
grim. It was obvious that Freda Mc-
Kechnie had been brutally murdered. ~

“The Coroner has been sent for?” he
inquired.

“Yes,” he was told. “Chief Stevenson
telephoned him at the same time he called
you. Then he went off to hunt for clues,
leaving us to guard the body.”

“Who found the body, and when?” was
his next question.

The life-guard pointed to a youth on
the outskirts of the crowd. The young
man stepped forward. He told of see-
ing the bright bathing suit and the white
cap in the same position in the water
for a long time. Figuring that no living
person could keep her face immersed for
such a long period, he had called the life-
guard’s attention to the swimmer. The
guard had gone out and dragged the body

64

ashore.

The officer let his eyes travel over the
sea of awed faces, as he inquired:

“Anyone see her enter the lake?”

All shook their heads and remained
silent. He prodded them with queries, but
no one had apparently seen Freda, alone
or with an escort, during the entire day.
It didn’t seem likely that the killer could
have brought the body to the beach and
dumped it into. the water, in full view of
the bathers at that section, without some-
one having seen him. And if he had killed
her at the point where her body was
found, a number of persons would have
heard her scream or seen her struggling.
No one had noticed anything suspicious.

As soon as the Coroner’s physician ar-
rived, Powell left him in charge and went
off to call his old friend, George Mc-
Kechnie. It seemed to him that he had
never been faced with a more disagreeable
duty than to inform the father who, he
knew, was devoted to his daughter, of her
tragic death. The father’s tone showed
clearly that he was not taking in what the
officer was saying. Knowing it would be
difficult to get information from him when
he at last realized what had happened,
Powell asked him a number of questions
in quick succession.

He responded that neither he nor his
wife had known of Freda’s going swim-
ming in the lake; that she had been home
for dinner, leaving about eight with her
friend, Rosetta; that Bob Edwards had met
the girls and driven Rosetta home, and
had then left Freda half a block from
their house. This had been around ten
o’clock and seemed to have been the last
anyone had seen or heard of her.

'M POWELL HUNG up and stepped out

into the fresh air. Heavy dark clouds
were gathering, lending a feeling of im-
pending storm to the sunset. He walked
to the bathhouse and questioned the pro-
prietor, asking him to view the body.
When he had complied with the request,
the man stated that he had never seen the
girl before and that if she had changed to
her bathing things in one of the small

rooms provided for the purpose, he would

have remembered it, and recognized her.
Chief Stevenson, of Harvey’s Lake, and
State Trooper David Green came up and
greeted Powell. The Chief had been
questioning the bathers and everyone in
the. vicinity, but could find no one who
remembered seeing the slain girl during
the entire day or the previous evening.
The medical examiner was preparing to
have the body removed to the’ Wilkes-
Barre morgue where he. could perform an
autopsy. Powell asked if he could -ascer-
tain the time of death, but he shook his
head. : ;
“That will be impossible until after the
autopsy,” the physician stated, “because
of the fact that the body has been in cold
water for a number of ‘hours, which
changes the processes of rigor mortis and
blood coagulation.” He further stated
that in his opinion the blow on the back
of the head had been sufficiently heavy to
have caused almost instant death.
Twilight had descended over the lake
and the bathers had picked up belongings
and scattered to various homes, leaving
the beach deserted. Powell and. Trooper
Green started down the beach to look for
clues. Suddenly the Chief halted and
pointed to a clump of trees in the distance.
“Let’s go over there,” he suggested. “If
she didn’t change in one of the bathhouses,
then she may have done so within the pro-
tection of those trees. Let’s have a look.”
The trooper nodded. “I don’t see why
no one remembers having seen her today,”

he said thoughtfully.

Powell frowned. He was trying to figure’

some possible reason why anyone would
wish to kill gentle Freda McKechnie.

“Her father says that the last seen of
her was at 10 p.m. yesterday. She may
have come out here with’ someone she met
near her home, and gone swimming last
night,” he replied. .

“But it poured then,” the trooper re-
minded him.

Powell was silent. They had’ now
reached the trees, and the Chief was fixing
his eyes on the ground. All at once he
knelt to examine some tire-marks he had
discovered. 7 : :

“Look at these,” he said. “They may
mean nothing, of course, but they were
undoubtedly made last evening when the
earth was damp from the rain. They have
dried hard in today’s hot sun. Notice the
flaw in the right one.”

Green knelt to get a better look at the
impressions, then nodded. “The car must
have been parked here after it stopped
raining last ‘night, or the tracks would
have been obliterated. But the ground
was still very damp. We can probably
establish the approximate: time through
the Weather Bureau, in casé it:turns out
to be the murderer’s machine.”

They went on with their search and soon
came upon a bundle wrapped in news-
paper, lying on a rock, under a tree. With
great care, they took off the Paper. In-

side was a girl’s printed silk dress, a pair |

of white shoes, white gloves, underthings,
and a red pocketbook. The officers were
convinced the things had belonged to the
slain girl, and rewrapped them. Powell
drove to the McKechnie home, where
Freda’s married sister identified the
clothing.

He found the mother in a state of col-
lapse, but George McKechnie answered
his questions to the best of his ability. He
repeated that neither he nor his wife knew
when or with whom Freda had gone swim-
ming at Harvey’s Lake. Because of her
mother’s fear of the lake, the girl seldom
went there. ;

Under the Chief’s sympathetic probing,
the father told how his daughter had been
ailing until a few days before, when she

had made a sudden and: complete recovery.’

She had gone to visit her friend Rosetta,
and had come home a new girl. She was
one of the sweetest girls who ever lived,
he insisted, and could not possibly have
had an enemy. To the query as to whether
she had been in love, he answered that he
believed Freda and Bob Edwards had
been very fond of each other, and that the
young man spent much time at their home.

@ LEAVING THE bereaved parents, the

officer walked down the block to the
large and attractive Edwards home. Bob
greeted him with a pale face and sad ex-
pression. He seemed much upset by the
tragic news that had been telephoned to
him.

“Have you found out what happened?”
he asked. :

“Not yet,” said Powell. “We know
that she went out to Harvey’s Lake with
the killer, either late last evening or early
this morning.”

Bob started. “Why, she and I drove
to the lake on our way home from Ro-
setta’s last evening,” he said in a be-
wildered tone. “She wanted me to take
her swimming. She thought it would
be romantic to go bathing in the storm.
The beach was deserted. I wouldn't let
her go in; besides, the bathhouses weren’t
open and there was no place to change.
I drove her home and left her here at the
corner. I watched her ge toward her

MASTER DETECTIVE

front door befo
garage.”
“At what time
“Oh, around te
The Chief ask
where he had pe
Bob’s description
where the officer
mobile tracks.
“And you did n.
her after you left
home last night?”
“That is correct
“You two were
understand,” said
“Yes. We've bx
for a long time.
blow to me. I car
“You think that <
returned to the la
this morning and ;
she was in the wat
“That’s the only
Bob admitted. “Bu
Freda to have gone
anyone else at tha
wasn’t a girl who d
Finally Powell le
sped over the Susq)
home of Rosetta Cu
were swollen with \
him into the living
facing him,

@ “ROSETTA,” ing
did you last see ,
“Last evening wh

wards drove me h

ville,” the girl answ:

left me here and

Freda was radiantly

like a different pe

days.”

“I understand she
depressed until] she
a few days with you
for the sudden chang
the Chief.

“Well, no; but it be
Supper where she an
themselves for a little
if he had Proposed to
Planning to get mar:
me to help her mak:
and seemed in a hurry
sang and hummed {t}
teased her, but she wo
caused her high spirit:

“And you have r.
offer for the murder?’

The pretty girl sho
I can’t understand it a

Powell regarded he
moment, then he ask.
only young man Paying

Rosetta looked Start)
about Charles, who ha
a good deal while Bob
lege, but whom Freda
ing since the other ma
took down the youth’s
the girl and went ove
to hear the medical exa

When he emerged fr:

few minutes later, the
Sagged. _How could

friends and tell them t!
to whom they had been ;
about to become a mot
feared that was the rea:
ruthlessly murdered?

On the drive back to

Stared unseeingly throug
trying to figure some \
the news so it would no:
a shock. The McKechnie
very religious people and
strictly brought up. 5H
found it difficult to believ
statement. ~

Arriving at the house, hi

aside; for by this time an

FFBRUARY, 1942