The Fog of War? No, Politics.

The town of Kelso, Washington simmered going into the summer of 1925. Not the weather – daily highs were a pleasant 65-70º – but politics. The infighting became so widespread and contentious that one would need a “program” to keep track of the names. All of that befogged the search for who really murdered newspaper editor Thomas Dovery

Kelso, 1925. Washington State Historical Society.

Logging and lumber were the economic lifeblood of Kelso, located just over 60 miles due south of Olympia. Beyond the products themselves, all those loggers and mill workers fueled a booming demand for booze and female “companionship.” Prohibition was in full force, yet the Roaring Twenties were also in full roar. As usual, payoffs to protect the illegal trade lurked just beneath the surface, revealed by periodic exposés.

Thus, a reform mayor took office at the beginning of 1925, and immediately got into a huge fight with the City Council. Several councilmen were suspected of accepting bribes from bootleggers and speakeasies. Heated arguments followed and the mayor finally initiated recall campaigns against five councilmen. They countered with a recall petition against him, as well as other charges that briefly put the mayor in jail. With city government at a standstill, a compromise was (reluctantly) worked out. The mayor would not fight the recall election if the five councilmen would resign.

On June 4, Kelso had a mostly-new City Council, which then selected a mayor. This “settled” the matter administratively, but only intensified the unrest that seethed just below the surface. Reform efforts continued through what we would now call a political action committee (PAC). Thomas Dovery, the editor/owner of the Kelso-based Cowlitz County News, strongly supported the deposed mayor and was a zealous advocate for reform. Two weeks after the town got a new mayor, he attended an evening meeting of the PAC. Minutes after he started home on foot, a pedestrian heard what he thought was a car backfire. He then found Dovery’s body on the sidewalk. The editor had been shot to death.

Thomas J. Dovery was born in May 1866, in Norway. The family immigrated to Canada when Thomas was about seven years old. A year later, they settled on a farm about 30 miles southeast of Green Bay, Wisconsin. With an early start, Dovery mastered English well enough to become a successful newspaper owner and editor. By 1905, he had operated several small-town papers in Wisconsin and Minnesota.

The next year, Dovery bought farmland near Buhl, Idaho and moved his family there. Within a few years, he had a newspaper in that town and another in Twin Falls. He was known as “an aggressive political writer,” who “engaged in many political controversies.” After about ten years, he began to phase out his Idaho holdings and, in 1920, opened a general printing shop in Eugene, Oregon. Finally, near the end of 1923, Dovery traded that firm for the Cowlitz County News. He brought his aggressive and controversial style with him.

The unstable situation in Kelso absolutely exploded after the murder. Surely this had to be a political assassination! It didn’t help that the subsequent investigation discovered that the head of the water department had embezzled funds from his office. Another of Dovery’s crusades had been a demand that the water department’s books be audited. So, resources were diverted to trace that suspect’s movements on the day of the murder. For a time after the shooting, Kelso had an extra “government,” including one selected by the ex-mayor. In fact, the ex-mayor lodged a criminal conspiracy charge against the official city engineer. In retaliation, the ex-mayor was hit with a “malicious prosecution” indictment. At one point, the governor was asked to send troops to maintain order (he refused).

Meanwhile, a day or so after the shooting, the county sheriff hired criminologist Luke S. May to examine the only worthwhile clue they had. Not too far from the body, officers had found a .41-caliber Colt revolver. Newspapers described the weapon as an “old” or even “ancient” style, so it was most likely a Colt Model 1877 “Thunderer.” May first verified that the revolver was indeed the death weapon, and then began to laboriously trace its ownership. About a week after the shooting, further distractions came in the form of threatening letters to May and the sheriff.

With all the political tumult and acrimony, tracking genuine leads on the revolver went slowly. Finally, in late September, the state Attorney General appointed a special prosecutor to pursue the case. Ten days later, a headline read, “Luke May Finds Kelso Slayer.” The zigzag path began with the long-time owner of the revolver, a fireman at a Kelso mill. Several months before the murder, he had sold the old firearm to a twenty-year-old apprentice carpenter in Portland, Oregon.

Luke clearly established the links from there to the shooter, but answers to a couple questions did not make the news. Why did the youth, who was never in trouble (before or after), buy the gun? Perhaps he saw some historical value in the artifact. Next, why did he loan the gun to Bill Thompson, an ex-convict? He might not have known about the man’s criminal record, but what story did Thompson use to get the revolver? We don’t know.

The next stage was easy: News reports noted that Thompson was a “former jail acquaintance” of John W. Owens aka John W. Smith. Thompson loaned the gun to Owens, who said he had a big hit planned. Born in Ohio around 1872, Owens probably had a worse criminal record than Thompson, who had been in prison for burglary at least twice. However, we do not have many details because Owens had a fondness for phony names. His most recent known imprisonment was for complicity in the death of a Salt Lake City policemen during a robbery in 1907.

Owens was apparently released from the Utah State Penitentiary in late 1918. After that, he dropped out of sight. Later, officials learned that he’d been employed for over a year as a cook in Walla Walla, Washington. During that time, he was cited twice for disorderly conduct, but stayed out of trouble otherwise. He next appeared as a cook at a Kelso restaurant in 1925. There, he joined up with another ex-convict, Frank T. Hart.

Frank Thomas Hart was born March 11, 1894 in Portland, Oregon. Again we don’t know all the details of his criminal career. But between 1916 and late 1924, he spent: several months in the Nevada State Penitentiary, almost a year in San Quentin Prison, and six years in Folsom Prison. By 1925, he had a job in Kelso as a waiter or cook.

The two decided to hold up the payroll car of the largest lumber company in Longview, just west of Kelso. But that plan fell through for some reason. (Perhaps the managers heard rumors and beefed up their security.) Frustrated, they looked for someone else to rob. It was just bad luck that Dovery happened to come along. Neither ex-con ever consistently described how the robbery “went down,” but the editor ended up shot to death. It’s also unclear why the shooter left the revolver near the victim.

Afterwards, the two rented a car and drove to Portland. They then abandoned their ride, probably continuing their flight by train. Owens later said that he last saw Hart in Laramie, Wyoming. If so, he then doubled back, because his next known contact was in Moscow, Idaho. Owens stayed a week or so with a lady friend he had lived with before. Although he was long gone when investigators got there, they found an informant who could let them know if the lady heard anything from the fugitive. That finally provided a tip that Owens was headed for, or already in, St. Louis, Missouri. With the help of two members of May’s nationwide web of affiliate private detectives, police arrested him there on July 17, 1926.

Brought back to Kelso, Owens admitted that he’d been a part of the Dovery shooting as an accomplice of Frank Hart. But only one part of his story remained consistent: He insisted that he’d passed the revolver on to Hart and he had fired the fatal bullet. Hart wasn’t there to confirm or dispute that claim, but the jury convicted Owens of first degree murder anyway. He was sentenced to life (“99 years”) in the state penitentiary.

And so matters stood for almost eleven years. Then, in March 1937, one Fred Hall, described as a “race track follower,” was picked up in Columbia, South Carolina. He was routinely processed on a “drunk and disorderly” charge, paid his fine, and was released. As a matter of further routine, “Hall’s” fingerprints were transmitted to the FBI in Washington, DC. They quickly identified the man as Frank T. Hart, wanted on an open murder warrant in Washington state.

Frank T. Hart.
California Prison Records

Hart went on trial at Kelso in May. Owens was brought back from prison to repeat his claim that Hart had fired the fatal shot. The defense countered with two key points: First, Owens was the one who borrowed the death weapon. Second, a fellow prison inmate testified that Owens had admitted to him that he had shot Dovery. The jury deliberated only about ninety minutes before returning a “not guilty” verdict.

Owens was, of course, sent back to prison and seems to have died there some time before the spring of 1940. Hart went east, where he began dealing in race horses in Maryland, New York, and other states. However, around 1946-1948, he returned west to Cheyenne, Wyoming, and found a job as a cook. He died there in early 1956.

After the Owens trial in 1926, Dovery’s widow and two daughters moved to Tucson, Arizona. The daughters, both school teachers, never married. The widow died in 1956, the daughters in 1982 and 1985.
                                                                               

References: Rita Cipalla, “Kelso – Thumbnail History,” Online Encyclopedia of Washington State History, HistoryLink.org, Seattle, Washington (October 21, 2019).

Commemorative Biographical Record of the Upper Lake Region, J. H. Beers & Company, Chicago, Illinois (1905).

“[Dovery - Hart - Owens Background], Dunn County News, Menomonie, Wisconsin; Minneapolis Journal, Worthington Advance, Minnesota; Twin Falls Weekly News, Twin Falls Times, Idaho Evening Times, Twin Falls, Idaho; Salt Lake Tribune, Salt Lake Telegram, Utah; Eugene Guard, Morning Register, Eugene, Oregon (February 1895 – December 1923).

“[Dovery Murder And Afterwards],” Seattle Times, Spokane Chronicle, Spokesman-Review, Spokane, Daily Olympian, Olympia, Washington; Idaho Evening Times, Twin Falls, Idaho; Oregonian, Portland, Oregon (June 1925 – May 1937).

Jim Gentry, In the Middle and On the Edge: The Twin Falls Region of Idaho, College of Southern Idaho, Twin Falls (2003).

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

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Murder For A Pittance

The senseless death of youthful Richard Cadle in Seattle on February 18, 1938 can legitimately be blamed on the ravages of the Great Depression. The full story of the Depression is obviously far beyond the scope of this blog. Still, by the spring of 1937, the economy itself – the GDP – had returned to pre-Crash levels. However, unemployment remained high, over 15% … and that was key. Nearly one in six Americans could not find work, and that didn’t include those who had given up trying.

Cadle was actually somewhat better off than most. Richard Dale Cadle was born July 21, 1915 in Sheridan, Wyoming. His family was originally from Iowa, where Richard’s grandfather was a postmaster and successful attorney. A considerable block of the family had moved west around 1906. They settled in Sheridan, where Richard’s father and an uncle were clerks for the railway company. Just before World War I, the two brothers, now both with large families, resettled in Washington state. By 1920, they were living in Seattle, and were still there for the 1930 census.

Richard Cadle.
Seattle Times (February 18, 1938).

In late 1934, Richard married Lucille May Munday, and they had a daughter, Barbara Marie, a year later. At the time, at least ten close Cadle relatives and in-laws were listed in the Seattle City Directory. That included Richard’s grandmother, who had moved to Seattle after her husband died in 1920. He thus had a large family support group, and he and an older brother found work at the Community Garage, located about a half mile north of the King County Courthouse. Richard’s brother was an auto mechanic, while he was a “floor man.” Thus, Richard had to be there to greet customers who needed to drop their cars off before they went to work. That, unfortunately, made him a target.

The two who targeted him were James R. Lewis and Floyd O. Grable. Despite extensive research, very little is known about Lewis. He said he was born around 1911, in Oklahoma. However, his name is common enough that neither statement can be reliably verified. He also said he was in Clifton, Arizona, in 1935. The town’s economy was based almost entirely on nearby copper ore beds, so Lewis probably had a job in the mines.

Oddly enough, Grable was also working at an Arizona copper mining town in 1935. Floyd Oren Grable was born November 1, 1907 in Vallejo, California. The family was originally from Missouri, but claimed a remote homestead in Oregon, about 50 miles southwest of Pendleton, in 1891. Floyd’s father married the year before he was born, but available records do not say where. Another boy was born in Vallejo in September 1910. Sadly, Floyd’s mother mysteriously disappeared from their home on the evening of June 2, 1911 … and was never heard from again. Then, two years later, his father was killed in a train wreck about a mile north of Vallejo.

Floyd and his brother returned to live with their grandparents at the family homestead in Oregon. He enrolled at Oregon State College (now University) in 1926. The college yearbook for 1929 listed him as the Treasurer for the class that was to graduate in 1930. However, the Great Crash of 1929 ended his dream of a college education. He then enlisted in the U.S. Army and was assigned to duty in the Philippines. He returned to the U.S. in early 1932 and was discharged. After that, like so many others, he sought work where he could find it.

Thus, Floyd was in Miami, Arizona, in 1935, probably working in the copper mines there. And copper was doing well, although output was still below pre-Crash levels. Production increased the following year and the early part of 1937. Then, for reasons that are disputed even now, the U.S. suffered a recession within the Depression. That pullback wiped out the gains of the previous two years, as over a million production jobs were lost. In Arizona, copper companies laid off over a thousand workers in October alone.

There is no way to be sure that Grable or Lewis were still in Arizona when the recession hit. Nor do we know how the two met. However, they were together – and unemployed – in Mullan, Idaho, in early 1938. In February, they drove west into Washington. (It was never clear who owned the car.) They were almost totally broke. In Spokane, Floyd went off on his own and robbed a service station. He netted just $15, and ended up exchanging gunshots with the attendant as he fled. The two arrived in Seattle on February 14, but were unable to find work.

Four days later, down to perhaps ten cents between them, they desperately went on a robbery spree. Some time after midnight they held up a hotel office and then, about 3:30 in the morning, a garage attendant. They drove up to the Community Garage shortly before 5 o’clock, and asked Richard Cadle if they could use the telephone. When they entered the garage office, Grable waved his .32-caliber pistol and demanded money from the cash register. Richard handed over everything, all of $2.25.

Here, the stories diverge. Richard told police that the bandits were angry about the small take and ordered him to the back. He complied, although he feared they were going to shoot him. When he hesitated after a few steps, Grable shot him. Grable later claimed that he was just nervous and “the gun went off” accidentally. The robbers hurriedly fled. Richard, hit in the arm and stomach, staggered to the phone and called a friend at another garage two blocks down the street. The friend rushed him to the hospital, where Richard told his story to an officer before becoming incoherent from loss of blood.

Police had good descriptions of both robbers and their vehicle, and the two were soon captured. They immediately confessed and expressed the hope that the wounded man was going to be all right. But that was not to be. Despite blood transfusions from two of his brothers, Richard died the following evening.

Grable and Lewis went on trial for first degree murder on May 16. Prosecutors said they would not frame their case in terms of any specific penalty. They would leave the choice between the death penalty or life imprisonment strictly up to the jury. Since their clients had confessed, the defense sought mainly to insure that neither was sentenced to die. Thus, they emphasized how hard up and desperate the two were, something that would surely resonate with most members of the jury. They also pointed out that neither man had any known criminal record.

Newspapers gave no details of the testimony offered by criminologist Luke S. May. Police had found the death weapon in the bandit’s car, so its identity was not really in question. May probably verified that in passing, and then assessed the shooting scenarios – accidental or deliberate – based on the bullet trajectory and blood spatter evidence. The jury took about four hours to deliver the guilty verdict, and recommend life imprisonment for both.

In the summer of 1950, the state Parole Board recommended a “conditional  pardon” for James Lewis. The warden noted that he had performed “outstanding service” as a trusty in the maintenance department of the prison. The governor agreed, and his decree even called it an “earned pardon.” The news report said that it was “one of the few ever granted by any governor” for someone “convicted of first degree murder.” James returned to Texas with his father, who said he planned to “establish the son in the service station business.”

Floyd Grable.
The Beaver, OSU Yearbook, 1929.

Significantly, Floyd Grable is listed in the 1951 City Directory for Pendleton, Oregon, as a grower for a flower nursery. It’s not mentioned in any available newspaper, but it appears that Lewis’s good behavior earned his partner in crime at least a parole. Floyd got married in 1956 and lived in Pendleton until his death in 1997.

Richard Cadle’s widow, Lucille, lived alone with their daughter until early 1942. She then married Malcolm Andresen, an inspector for the Washington state highway department. Malcolm tried to enter the Army, but was apparently turned down. Lucille and Malcom had two sons, Larry and Donald. In 1953, seventeen-year-old daughter Barbara Marie Cadle married a young man in Seattle. One wonders if the bride perhaps felt some element of sorrow that her natural father wasn’t there to give her away. Lucille died in August 1988, after a long struggle with cancer.
                                                                                

References: Census records, city directory listings, and other genealogical sources were consulted extensively. Online sources included Ancestry.com and others.

“[Cradle-Gable-Lewis Background],” San Francisco Call, California; Arizona Republic, Phoenix, Arizona Star, Tucson, Arizona; Seattle Times, Washington (June 4, 1911) – (June 2, 1950).

[Cradle Murder and Trial]” Seattle Times, Spokesman-Review, Spokane, Washington (February 18, 1938) – (May 21, 1938).

Brian Duignan (ed.), The Great Depression, Britannica Educational Publishing, New York, New York (2013).

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

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