Life Through A Jagged Pane

May 23, 1931, a pleasant spring evening in Seattle. Mike Kitoff left his soft drinks parlor and walked across Weller Street toward a car where he expected to meet his estranged wife, Florence. He’d brought his brother Paul along more or less as a witness to their conversation.

But as they neared the car, from inside a female voice cried, “Take that, you *#*#* !” A single shot rang out, then the car sped away. Mike was too stunned to do more than flinch. Paul crumpled to the pavement and died almost immediately. Police arrested Florence Kitoff just hours later. She had a once-fired revolver in her handbag.

Florence Kitoff. Seattle Times photo.

Mike told police that she’d probably meant to shoot him and simply missed. No, Florence declared, Paul had indeed been her target. He had prevented a reconciliation between her and Mike. How shooting the brother was supposed to help was unclear, although it’s possible she hadn’t meant to actually kill him. And it’s likely her muddled thoughts had deep roots.

Florence (Vadnais) Kitoff was born July 21, 1897 in Lethbridge, Alberta, Canada. Both her parents, Richard and Eleanor, had violent tempers and quarreled a lot. Her father was also a particularly “bad drunk,” and had made enemies. Thus, in late January, 1909, an unknown assassin gunned him down, shooting through a kitchen window. Florence was off attending school at a convent in Lethbridge, so she did not have to witness the murder like her brother did.

Besides the home ranch about forty miles southwest of Lethbridge, the family had property near Butte, Montana. Thus, after the murder, Eleanor moved the family to Butte. Florence would later claim that she had been “married off” as a child bride against her will. In reality, early on the morning of August 17, 1916, she and a young miner, Earl Miller, drove to an adjacent county where the county clerk married them.

Florence could be very charming, and the newspaper society pages gave the impression that she had many local friends. Yet she had also “inherited” a volatile temper from her parents. Later, she averred that she had even more trouble controlling herself after she suffered a severe head injury in a motorcycle crash. Thus, at various times, she blew up and physically assaulted her mother’s Butte husband (Eleanor had remarried), her own husband, and even her brother.

That behavior and later events suggest that Florence had some form of “bipolar disorder” (BD). Modern scholarship thinks that BD has a strong hereditary component, and cases can be triggered by head trauma. Sadly, she never received any professional treatment. Thus, we cannot know if she exhibited the classic BD cycle, or possibly some other “dissociative” problem.

Finally, in December 1922, her husband filed for divorce. During her angry outbursts, Earl noted, she “picks up any article or weapon and throws it at him.” He had literally begun to fear for his life. The divorce was granted, although the exact date is unknown. After that, Florence’s whereabouts cannot be reliably traced until she appeared in the 1927 Seattle City Directory as “Mrs. Florence Kitoff.”

Little is known about Mike Kitoff, somewhat more about Paul. The family – whose actual surname was “Kaitukoff” – was originally from the Caucasus region of Russia, between the Caspian and Black seas. They must have immigrated to Canada before 1911. Paul moved to Seattle that year, when he was about 18 years old. Mike followed three years later, when he turned 18. Paul worked in San Francisco long enough to get married and have a son there, while Mike seems to have stayed in or around Seattle.

The next we hear of Mike was in December 1926, when his liquor “joint” was raided by federal Prohibition Agents. Of course, such operators considered the resulting fines simply part of the cost of doing business. Meanwhile, about this time, Mike and Florence must have met and gotten married. We don’t know how or where.

But the marriage was not a happy one. In 1929 and 1930, Florence filed petitions for divorce on the grounds of cruelty, but those actions went nowhere. She said that was because Mike had promised to mend his ways, but it’s also possible she could offer no proof of an abusive relationship. Another request filed in February 1931 was apparently still in limbo three months later.

On May 23, Florence told a police clerk she spent a lot of time home alone and needed a weapon to feel safe. With permit in hand, she then went to a pawn shop and bought a revolver. At various times afterwards, she would say she didn’t know why she’d taken the gun to her meeting with Mike, or simple didn’t remember anything at all about the incident.

Two “alienists” (psychiatrists) examined her in jail just before her scheduled trial on a first degree murder charge. They concluded that she suffered from “fear hysteria” that might not subside until her fate was decided, but was otherwise normal and lucid. About then, however, Florence changed her “not guilty” plea to “not guilty by reason of insanity.” Her trial date was pushed back into the fall.

In his opening statement, the main defense attorney made a surprise announcement. Florence Kitoff had an adopted daughter, 8 or 9 years old, whom she had spirited way to California to protect her from an abusive household. She refused to reveal, even to her lawyers, where the girl was. After that, the attorney painted a picture of a woman who had been mentally as well as physically damaged by a tumultuous, unhappy life.

Still, much of the trial was routine. Eye-witnesses to the shooting offered the usual mix of observations, some conflicting, about the incident. Criminologist Luke S. May identified Florence’s revolver as the death weapon. Several witnesses said Florence had told them that Mike beat her, but none could swear to having seen any signs of actual physical abuse. The defense next offered testimony that Mrs. Kitoff was “irrational” at times in her ordinary dealings with people. A former landlord said that she seemed charming and friendly most of the time, but could also be “a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde – two entirely different persons.”

King County Courthouse. Library of Congress.

Florence finally took the stand in her own defense. She blamed everything on her husband, who had physically and mentally abused her. That only added to the trials she had undergone back in Montana. Her mind was blank about the shooting itself and she had no idea how killing Paul might have helped her situation.

She now described her (alleged) child as an adoptive niece who was still a baby, deprived of any joy for Christmas by an absent, hard-drinking father and no money for holiday food or presents. Later in her testimony, Florence said she had sent the girl away so she wouldn’t have to bear the stigma of a mother accused of murder. Significantly, no other witness – defense or prosecution – had seen a child living in the household. In fact, extensive research failed to uncover any hints that such a person existed.

Prosecutors never called Mike Kitoff to the stand. Letting the defense cross-examine a convicted “jointist” of uncertain temper, speaking in a thick foreign accent, probably seemed like a potential disaster. Certainly not worth the risk for what little he might add to the state’s case.

After a week of argument and rebuttal, the case went to the jury. They soundly rejected the first degree murder charge, but declared her guilty of manslaughter. Despite a plea for leniency by the defense, the judge imposed the maximum sentence for manslaughter: five to twenty years in prison. However, Florence initially spent only two years in prison before she was paroled.

She received a divorce from Mike at the end 1934. The following June, in Seattle, she married one A. B. Coleman (the name he signed on the marriage certificate). They moved to Lewiston, Idaho, where Florence operated a barber shop. That fall, Florence was jailed for stabbing and slashing her husband in a fit of anger. Those charges were dropped when the husband admitted he’d been drunk and had perhaps provoked the fight. However, while she was in jail, it came to light that her parole had been revoked. Thus, so far as we can tell, Florence spent the next two or three years back in the Washington penitentiary.

Finally, on January 30, 1939, she married for a fourth time. Her new husband was Arthur A. West, an auto mechanic. By the time of the 1940 U.S. Census, the couple had relocated to Juneau, Alaska, where Florence again operated a barber shop. She died there from cervical cancer in October 1947.

By an odd coincidence, Mike Kitoff also died in Alaska. He had moved to Fairbanks in 1937 to engage in mining exploration and investments. He passed away there from “a chronic ailment” in November 1955.
                                                                                

References: Charles J. Long and Leslie K. Ross (editors), Handbook of Head Trauma: Acute Care to Recovery, Plenum Publishing Corporation, New York (1992).

“[Kitoff Case Background],” Butte Miner, Montana; Seattle Times, Washington; Lethbridge Herald, Alberta, Canada (February 1909 – February 1931).

[Kitoff Murder and Afterwards],” Seattle Times, Washington; Anaconda Standard, Great Falls Tribune, Montana; Lewiston Tribune, Idaho; Fairbanks News-Miner, Alaska (May 1931 – November 1955).

Luke S. May, Luke S. May Papers, Special Collections, University of Washington, Seattle, Washington (1969).

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Death On A Weekend Outing

The summer of 1920 arrived early in northeastern Washington. During the third week of May, temperatures on the wheat-growing plains west of Spokane spiked into the high eighties, 15-20º F above normal. The Emley family decided on an outing to beat the heat. They could not foresee the fatal result for Ernest Elmer Emley.

The family had pioneered in the region after the railroad arrived in 1883, starting with George Emley, a great-uncle to Ernest. Ernest’s father and an uncle followed around 1890. Ernest was born December 14, 1892 in Reardan, a small town about 22 miles west of Spokane. He married in 1913, but that did not work out. He was again unmarried when he entered the army and served in France, returning to the U.S. in June 1919. In 1920, Ernest was helping with a brother’s wheat crop and improving his own homestead about 45 miles northwest of Spokane.

Car Camp, ca 1920. National Archives.

By the spring of that year, auto-camping was, if not “all the rage,” at least a trend that had mushroomed in popularity. Over the previous five years, the number of visitors to the national parks had almost tripled. Consumer magazines, such as Sunset and Woman’s Home Companion, published more and more “how-to” articles to help beginners who wanted to experience the latest thing.

The Emleys were farmers, so they could only plan for a few days off. Most of the eleven adults and five or six children in the group were relatives or in-laws, but they may have invited a few friends along. They gathered in four cars on a Friday afternoon and found a spot along the San Poil River near Keller, a mining town about 15 miles east and a bit north of today’s Grand Coulee Dam. Three autos were parked and strung with ropes and canvas to form a shelter.

By all accounts, the weekend was a success. They used the fourth car, Ernest Emley’s good-sized Essex, for excursions around the area. On Sunday evening, seven men piled into the car and went looking for some booze. They could not just visit a bar because the Volstead Act, which enforced national Prohibition, had gone into effect at the end of January.

As it happened, the state highway through Keller was one of the few that linked Canada with the main east-west roads and rail lines across central Washington. Thus, the men soon located a bootlegger (or perhaps he found them). Mellowed by whisky from the north, they headed back to camp. But a community center happened to be holding a dance, so they pulled in there to enjoy the music. Four got out so they could hear better. After a bit, Ernest drove on with the other two. He presumably expected to return later for the others.

Agent William C. Vest.
U.S. Government photo.

Authorities were well aware that liquor was moving south through Keller. They had reassigned two Prohibition Agents from Tacoma to try to stop it. That particular day, Ferry County Sheriff James L. Moore had been keeping an eye on an Oldsmobile that he suspected belonged to a bootlegger. He called the two agents – William C. Vest and John G. Montgomery – in the evening and told them they might have a chance to catch the suspect with “the goods.”

Here, it’s important to note that these men had no training, and little experience, in law enforcement. Sheriff Moore, about 40 years old, was an immigrant from Nova Scotia, Canada. He had been an unemployed mechanic when he was elected sheriff in late 1918. Vest, about 35, had worked on a survey crew and then as a civilian supply clerk for the U.S. government. Montgomery, about 38, had been a watchman, jailer, laborer, and city health inspector. Both were army veterans. Montgomery served stateside during the Spanish-American War, while Vest was in France with the quartermaster corps during World War I.

When Prohibition first went into effect, enforcement jobs were part of the old patronage or “spoils” system. Prospective agents “qualified” simply by knowing an elected official or political operative who had favors to dispense. They were not subject to Civil Service exams or rules, and there seemed to be no training to speak of. New agents got an identification card, a badge, and a gun. Vest and Montgomery were certified on March 3, 1920.

Agent John G. Montgomery.
U. S. Government photo.

The story of what happened next in Keller depends upon who was talking. The agents claimed they had identified themselves as federal officers as they and the sheriff approached the car in front of the community center. The Emley party vehemently denied that. Another man who witnessed the events from the porch of the center agreed. Beyond that, the officers had neither a warrant nor “probable cause” to search the vehicle. In fact, they had most likely mistaken Emley’s Essex for the Oldsmobile that Sheriff Moore had been watching. They were startled, and a bit annoyed, when the car simply drove off.
The agents hurried to the sheriff’s car and started in pursuit.

Meanwhile, Ernest had turned around and was coming back. The time was now 10:30 to 11:00 p.m., so he had probably decided to go right back for the other men. The sheriff supposedly tried to block the road, but Emley easily slid by and continued along the road. Hoping to gain the driver’s attention, the sheriff fired two warning shots into the air, using a .30-caliber Luger.

At this point, the Essex would have been an indistinct block in the darkness, outlined by the reflected glow of its own headlights. Yet, caught up in the moment, the two agents fired directly at the car. The sheriff joined them after a few seconds, firing three times from another pistol, a Remington .38-caliber automatic. Montgomery said he too fired three shots, using a .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver. Vest’s gun was a .45-caliber Colt automatic. He was later seen to insert three or four cartridges into its magazine.

Hit twice, once in the back of the head, Ernest Emley died almost instantly and the Essex slammed into a ditch. One passenger dove to the floor of the car, while the other jumped out and ran off. He was soon caught and arrested, along with the other man. The Emley party had no weapons whatsoever, and only a handful of whisky bottles. Both of the arrested men were soon released.

The Ferry County prosecutor lodged manslaughter charges against Vest and Montgomery. Sheriff Moore was not indicted, perhaps because he hadn’t fired at the car at first. Some legal maneuvering followed, starting with a change of venue to Spokane. That presented the oddity of having Ferry County attorneys as prosecutors in a federal court, while federal lawyers handled the defense.

The case was based largely on the statements from the three shooters. It would turn on whether or not the use of such deadly force was justified. No bullets had been collected from the shooting scene, and only a single empty shell casing from the Luger. As physical evidence, prosecutors did have the autopsy report and photos of the death car, the latter showing four holes in the back window of the car. Blazing away in the dark, the officers got off nine or ten shots at a level where some were almost bound to hit someone in the car. Only happenstance saved the other two riders from being shot.

To bolster their case, prosecutors called several witnesses who testified that Montgomery was at least tipsy, while Vest was drunk and abusive on the night of the shooting. Naturally, the two denied having imbibed any liquor. Besides, the defense asserted, all that was irrelevant. Here were two federal officers, engaged in what was already known to be a dangerous attempt to enforce the law. The jury cannot tie their hands because of this unfortunate accident. The federal judge followed with favorable (to the defense) interpretation of the Volstead Act. In the end, the jury declared Montgomery “not guilty” and split on Vest.

In the six months before a new trial for Vest, federal authorities (the defense) contacted criminologist Luke S. May. Since there were no bullets to assess, he really had only the autopsy report to go on. He concluded that the death wound had probably not been inflicted by a .45-caliber slug. That, of course, further weakened the case against Vest. One of May’s operatives did interview a local who said that the sheriff knew the agents were “intoxicated,” but called them anyway.

With again lenient instructions from the judge, the jury took a little over two hours to return a “not guilty” verdict for Vest. Sadly, Emley’s death was not the first attributed to over-zealous enforcement of the Volstead Act by federal, state, and local officials. Nor would it be the last.

James Moore did not run for reelection, so he was no longer sheriff of Ferry County by the time of the second trial. It’s not clear what he did between then and 1930, when he appeared in the census as a guard at Folsom Prison in California. Vest left the Prohibition Unit not long after the trial and was back in Tacoma in 1922, selling insurance. Montgomery stayed with the service essentially until Prohibition was repealed in 1933.
                                                                                

References: Laura Arkey, “Ferry County – Thumbnail History,” Online Encyclopedia of Washington State History, HistoryLink.org, Seattle, Washington (June 1, 2006).

An Illustrated History of Stevens, Ferry, Okanogan and Chelan Counties, State of Washington, Western Historical Publishing Company, Spokane (1904).

“Killings Resulting from Prohibition Enforcement,” Congressional Record – Senate, January 18, 1930, Volume LXXII, Part 2, United States Printing Office, Washington, D.C. (1930). pp. 1859 - 1886.

Luke S. May, Luke S. May Papers, Special Collections, University of Washington, Seattle, Washington (1969).

“[News Related To Emley Case],” Oroville Weekly Gazette, Seattle Times, Spokane Chronicle, Spokesman-Review, Spokane, Washington; Idaho Statesman, Boise, Idaho; The Oregonian, Portland, Oregon (November 1886 – October 1921).

Daniel Okrent, Last Call: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition, Scribner, New York (2010).

Terence Young, Heading Out: A History of American Camping, Cornell University Press, Ithaca, New York (2017).

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