Friendly Fire, Delayed Death

The three Prohibition agents walked carefully along the sidewalk in Cosmopolis, Washington, a village located a few miles east of Grays Harbor bay. Showers had drifted in all day from the coast, wetting the pavement and making for a dark evening. The date was September 20, 1923, and the Volstead Act had been in effect for well over three years. William “Bill” Whitney led the team. Whitney was Assistant Prohibition Director for the state of Washington. Very much a “hands-on” boss, Whitney often handled liquor raids himself. One of the other agents was Harold Mooring.

Agent Harold V. Mooring

They tried to act like casual customers as they entered a pool hall where bootleg liquor was reportedly for sale. Later, Whitney told reporters that “Mooring had been recognized” as soon they entered. Thus, “their chances of finding anything incriminating were slight.” Their mission frustrated, the agents left. Whitney crossed the street, then he and Mooring headed one direction while the third agent went the other way.

The third agent was apparently out of sight when a car stopped beside Mooring. Two men jumped out and and began beating him. Then a shot rang out and the agent went down. The attackers leaped back into the car, which sped away. Before he passed out, Mooring identified his attackers as Elmer Todd and H. H. “Gimpy” Smith, proprietors of a Cosmopolis cigar store. The sheriff immediately arrested the two. Neither carried a weapon and they vehemently denied firing any shots. They did admit to the beating attack, but their motive never made it into the news.

Mooring, who had been hit in the back, remained unconscious through the night. Still, the next day, doctors announced that he was “much improved” and should recover fully. They did not attempt to remove the bullet. Mooring never saw who shot him, but assumed it was Smith, presumably because Todd was in front of him. However, the story proved to be far more complicated than that.

Harold Vincent Mooring was born around 1880, in a southern district of London. He joined the Royal Navy as a teenager, but was discharged in less than two years. (The reason is unclear, being hand-written and unreadable on his digitized papers.) After that, he spent several years at sea with civilian vessels before arriving in San Francisco in August of 1910.

Within two years, he had found work in Seattle as a chauffeur. His listing in the City Directory included a wife, Maude, and by 1915 the couple had two children. Harold now made a living as an auto mechanic. The family spent a couple years near Centralia before returning to Seattle in 1922.

And some time during that year, Mooring became an agent for the U.S. Prohibition Unit. One of Harold’s first assignments was to go undercover in Spokane. Leads he generated resulted in the arrest and conviction of several members of a liquor ring in that city. He did not, however, appear as a witness. In fact, his name did not show up in newspaper reports until he was shot.

Here we must make a few “educated guesses.” At some point, Mooring was probably assigned to go undercover in the Grays Harbor area, already known as a destination for the boats of rum runners. Of course he would be recognized right away, as Whitney said. That was the whole point … to be known as “just one of the boys.” But the habitués of the pool hall must have been shocked to see him standing next to Whitney, the well-known “dry law” enforcer.

Agent William M. Whitney

Born in Ohio in 1878, William M. Whitney briefly taught school before volunteering for duty in the Spanish-American War. After earning a degree from Ohio Wesleyan University in 1903, he moved to Washington, D.C. as headmaster of a boys school. On the side, he obtained a law degree from George Washington University. He then opened a practice in Seattle, where he dealt in estate and business law.

But Whitney was far more interested in politics, having been active in the Republican Club at Ohio Wesleyan. In Washington, he became heavily involved with state party politics, and even ran (unsuccessfully) for Congress in 1916. Four years later, Whitney earned some favors helping elect Wesley L. Jones to the U.S. Senate. But Bill also got caught in a messy scandal involving his attentions to a married woman. Thus, Jones gave the full Director position to another crony, who promptly made Whitney his chief assistant to do the real work.

Another educated guess suggests that a phone call from the pool hall brought down some physical punishment on the informer. Although Mooring ended up shot, there are no reports that the two suspects were ever prosecuted for anything. If they struck a plea deal, it was not weighty enough to make the news.

Eighteen months passed. Mooring’s name now appeared in newspaper reports, so he was probably not doing as much, if any, undercover work. Then, on April 2, 1925, a headline in the Seattle Times read, “Harold V. Mooring, U.S. Dry Agent, Dies.” He had become ill while on a moonshine raid in rough country about twenty miles southeast of Olympia. An autopsy gave the cause of death as pneumonia, and blamed the bullet from the earlier shooting as a “contributory” factor.

With that as a basis, authorities reopened the investigation into “who shot agent Mooring?” Recall that nothing serious had happened to the two attackers. The sheriff’s office reported that the only weapons that could be linked to the two were both .32-caliber revolvers. The sheriff also retained criminologist Luke S. May, handing over to him the .38-caliber revolver used by Bill Whitney on the day of the shooting. The slug from Mooring’s body would be available the next day.

I was unable to retrieve a full report on this case from the Luke May Papers, so we do not know much about what he discovered. The slug was indeed .38-caliber, but perhaps too distorted or altered by time to provide a definitive result, either positive or negative. Whitney never explicitly stated that he had not fired his gun, although he tried to leave that impression. Of course, he also never said he had fired.

However, Prohibition enforcers were notorious for their “when in doubt, shoot” approach, as in the Ernest Emley case. Thus, seeing his agent in trouble, Whitney quite possibly tried to help, and hit the wrong target. In the end, we can never know. But if Mooring was indeed hit by “friendly fire,” he was neither the first Prohibition agent, nor the last, to go out that way. The widow continued to press for further action, but a look back at the case in 1927 noted that nothing further was ever done.

Around 1931-1932, Maude began spending time in California. Thus, in the spring of 1932, daughter Vivian married a field craftsman employed by the Southern California Edison Company. Sidney Mooring would have been eighteen years old that same spring, so he probably joined the army shortly after that. In 1935, he was stationed at Schofield Barracks, in Hawaii, and returned stateside in December 1936.

Afterwards, Sidney became a professional photographer. Thus, in 1940, he owned a photography shop in Wenatchee, Washington. At that time, Maude also worked there as a photographer. However, she did not follow when he moved the business to Seattle around 1942, and was in California by 1948. She passed away May 2, 1957 in San Francisco.
                                                                                

References: Norma H. Clark, The Dry Years: Prohibition and Social Change in Washington, University of Washington Press, Seattle (1965, 1988).

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

“[Mooring Wounding, Death, and Afterwards],” Kennewick Courier, Seattle Times, Seattle Star, Spokane Chronicle, Spokesman-Review, Spokane, Washington (March 1914 – August 1927)

Photo credits: Harold V. Mooring, Officer Down web site. William M. Whitney, Gazette-Journal, Reno, Nevada (May 28, 1930).

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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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Sudden Death Ends Long Friendship

Hunters in eastern Oregon had just a week to bag their one allowed bull elk for the season, starting on November 5, 1934. Long-time friends Fred Lampkin and Dan Bowman were among the eager nimrods. Along with several others, they had set up a base camp on a ranch in the Blue Mountains, 15 to 20 miles southwest of La Grande. Bowman carried his older .35-caliber Remington. He liked the potent stopping power of the rifle’s big slug, but could not know the tragedy that was about to unfold.

Elk Habitat Southwest of La Grange.

Daniel C. Bowman was born July 12, 1879 in a small town about 15 miles south of Eureka, California. The family moved to Umatilla County, Oregon, some time before 1886. Daniel served  with the Oregon National Guard in the Spanish-American War. In 1902, he married Effie Neil, who had also been born in California. She was about three years older than Daniel. Her family had moved to the area before 1880. In 1910, Dan had a job as a traveling salesman for the Pendleton Woolen Mills.

By then, Dan probably knew Frederick W. Lampkin, who had been a classmate of Effie’s. Fred had been born about eight months before Dan, in Kansas. The family was in Oregon by about 1895. In 1910, Fred was manager of the Eastern Oregonian newspaper in Pendleton. Dan and Fred became close friends who hunted, fished, and played golf together.

Both Dan and Fred registered for the World War I draft, but were not called up. At that time, Fred was still with the newspaper. Dan had opened an “agency store” about five miles east of Pendleton, on the Umatilla Indian Reservation. He still had that outlet ten years later.

In 1922, Fred Lampkin married Inez Hall, who had come to Pendleton a few years earlier. He continued to expand the general publishing company that had grown around the newspaper. By 1930, he and his firm were well known all over the region. Like Dan and Effie, Fred and his wife had no children. Then, some time in late 1930 or early 1931, Fred and Inez separated and were soon divorced.

When the two friends headed into the mountains to hunt elk in November 1934, the weather was both bad, and good. They were plagued by occasional rain showers, making for muddy and slippery footing. But fresh hoof prints would have shown up clearly and temperatures were quite nice for the season, rising into the 60-degree range during the day.

Still, up to the 9th, neither of the two had claimed an elk. As they returned from their morning search, they came to a fence that blocked their way back to the ranch yard. To save time, one member of the party vaulted the obstacle. Dan thought that was a great idea. But he was ten years older and a good deal heavier than his companion. Dan landed awkwardly and hurt a knee. At first, however, it didn’t seem like his injury was that bad, and Dan took some playful ribbing about it. In the same spirit of fun, another member of the hunting party snapped four photos while Bowman was being helped along to the ranch house.

After some rest, the party climbed into Bowman’s car to ride back to the campsite they shared with at least one other band of hunters. Lampkin got out on the passenger side, apparently still engaged in some banter with his old friend. Bowman replied in a raised voice because he knew Fred was hard of hearing. Meanwhile, Fred circled behind the car, perhaps to come around and help Dan out.

Bowman retrieved his rifle and then slid out to stand beside the car. But as soon as he put weight on his gimpy knee, it gave way. Dan desperately tried to catch himself, grasping the barrel of the rifle as a cane … and the weapon fired! He caught his breath on the ground and then rolled over to a horrifying sight: The heavy .35-caliber slug had hit his friend in the face and killed him instantly.

The day after the tragedy, newspapers reported that officials considered the death an accident and expected to quickly close their investigation. But then a member of the other hunting party – we’ll call him “Wayne” – offered damning testimony. He claimed that the loud voices he had heard were part of a verbal dispute. According to him, the two were arguing about the photographs taken of Bowman’s plight after his injury. This seems odd, since – this being 1934 – neither man could know what the images might show. Hurriedly snapped out in the field by an amateur, they might be unreadable.

Even so, Wayne claimed that not only had they argued with each other, but Bowman had told him “roughly” to keep out of it. Dan did not want Wayne driving his car, so there might have been some personal distrust or animosity between the two. Still, members of the other party agreed about the loud voices. They also thought they’d heard argumentative remarks, although they couldn’t quite agree on exactly what was said.

To make a long story short, Dan Bowman was charged with first degree murder. He went on trial in January 1935 at the Union County seat in La Grande. Besides testimony about the alleged “argument,” the prosecution entered into evidence the now-developed photos taken right after Bowman hurt his knee. Reports of the trial do not suggest that the images were in any way embarrassing or compromising.

County Courthouse in La Grande.
Union County Sheriff’s Department.

Bowman’s defense countered with numerous witnesses who testified to the long-standing friendship between the two. In that context, the “argument” could be seen as a jocular, and perhaps rueful, exchange between two aging buddies about the evils of growing old. As it happened, Bowman had suffered a compression fracture in his knee and spent several weeks in a cast. He was still on crutches at the trial, when X-ray images were entered into evidence to prove that he had been seriously injured.

The firearms assessment offered by criminologist Luke S. May supported the defense’s contention that the tragedy was an accident. The bullet had struck Lampkin’s face at a sharp upward angle and exited through the top of his skull. That finding was reinforced by the bullet hole punched in the victim’s hat. A deliberate shot would have surely had a more horizontal trajectory.

Moreover, May averred, the action of Bowman’s older Remington rifle had a crucial design defect. It could go off without anyone pulling the trigger, even with the safety engaged. By this time, May was famous throughout the Pacific Northwest for his scientific investigations. Nevertheless, to bolster the point, the defense brought in a local witness: a professional gunsmith from La Grande. He agreed that early versions of the firearm had a faulty design, which the company had soon modified.

They did not, however, recall guns that had already been sold. Nor, apparently, did they warn owners about the potential problem. On the witness stand, a distraught Bowman said, “I did not know my gun would go off without pulling the trigger. I did not know the gun was dangerous.”

In the end, the jury sided with the defense and acquitted Bowman on the murder charge.

Dan and Effie continued to operate the agency general store until about 1946-1948. Some time after that, they moved to Smith River, California, a small town near the coast about five miles south of the Oregon border. Daniel C. Bowman died July 10, 1953, at the veterans’ hospital in San Francisco. He was buried at the Golden Gate National Cemetery in San Bruno. Effie died about nine years later and was buried beside her husband.
                                                                                

References: “[Bowman-Lampkin Background],” Oregon Journal, Portland, East Oregonian, Pendleton, Oregon (July 1902 – July 1906).

“[Bowman Trial],” Statesman-Journal, Salem, The Oregonian, Portland, La Grande Observer, Eugene Guard, Klamath News, Corvallis Gazette-Times, Oregon (January 9, 1935) (January 15, 1935).

“[Bowman Afterwards],” Coos Bay Times, Marshfield, La Grande Observer, Oregon; San Francisco Examiner, California (August 1940 – July 1953).

“[Lampkin Hunting Death],” The Oregonian, Portland, Bend Bulletin, Eugene Guard, La Grande Observer, Oregon (July 10 – December 29, 1934).

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

Elmer Smith, Big Game Rifles and Cartridges, Small-Arms Technical Publishing Company, Onslow County, North Carolina (1936).

William F. Willingham, “Pendleton Woolen Mills,” The Oregon Encyclopedia, https://oregonencyclopedia.org/articles/pendleton_woolen_mills/#.XfUIS-t7kt9. Accessed December 14, 2019.

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Death In The Line Of Duty

September 14, 1928 brought typical early fall weather to Seattle, with showers moving through during the day. Police patrolman Emery Ray Sherard had the University District as his evening beat. The many neon business signs and more subdued street lamps brightened the main areas, but otherwise it was quite dark.

On University Way, the Egyptian Theater featured The Mysterious Lady, a silent film starring Greta Garbo. A few doors down, the popular Manning’s Coffee offered their “luxury blend” in a hot cup of fresh brew, or as a bag of ground roast to take home. Further north, on the corner of The Way and 50th Street, the Jamieson Drug Company store was busy with late customers.

Officer Sherard. Family Archives.

Sherard had seen combat in the Great War, but he cannot have expected the firefight that was about to erupt. As 9 o’clock approached, a lady rushed up to him. She and her husband thought that two men were robbing Jamieson’s. With no time to call for backup, the officer hurried by the store front. To enter there would put the victims, held in the back, in his possible line of fire. He continued around the corner, hoping to catch the robbers by surprise from a side entrance.

Sherard started inside, but the two bandits fled out the front. He dashed outside and around the corner. The crooks claimed the officer shot at them first, and Sherard may well have fired a warning round into the air. He also surely ordered them to “Halt.” They don’t mention that at all. In any case, the two, along with the driver of their getaway car, met Sherard with a hail of bullets. It’s unclear how many times, or even if, the patrolman fired at them before he went down from a bullet in the head.

Despite police efforts all around the city, the crooks actually managed to pull off several more robberies before they vanished. Meanwhile, the downed patrolman lay in a hospital, dying and unable to talk. Officer Sherard succumbed shortly after midnight, his wife at his side. Once again, Mary Frances – she usually went by just “Frances” – had lost a husband in the line of duty.

Mary Frances Vanderdasson was born in 1895 in Emmett, Idaho, about 23 miles northwest of Boise. She married 26-year-old William Henry Kuckku of Emmett on July 27, 1917. However, her new husband enlisted shortly after their marriage, and his infantry regiment departed for France on December 12 of that year. With him in “A” Company was his good buddy, Emery Sherard.

Sherard was born in Wyoming in 1887 and the family moved to Idaho while he was in his teens. When he registered for the draft in 1917, Emery had a farm about 25 miles north of Boise. (It’s unclear if he owned or leased the acreage.) He met Frances shortly before he and William shipped out. In late May 1918, they took part in the first major offensive operation for American forces in Europe, the Battle of Cantigny. Sadly, Will Kuckku was killed in action, making the ultimate sacrifice for his country. Sherard survived, as he did the later storied battles of the American army on the Western Front.

Mustered out and back in Idaho, Emery’s acquaintance with the widow blossomed into friendship and then love. They were married November 4, 1919, and moved to Seattle within a month or so. Emery worked as a mechanic for several years and spent a short period as a salesman. He joined the Seattle Police Department in November of 1926. Now he too had been killed in the line of duty. Frances was left alone to raise their three children: Dorothy, age 8, James, 5, and Theodore, 4.

The two bandits inside the drug store had both shown signs of being drunk, or at least tipsy. One had waved his gun around and boasted about shooting someone just to show they were serious. The victims provided police with reasonable descriptions of the two, and officers soon rounded up over sixty suspects.

Around noon on Monday, witnesses picked Knute Lindberg, a 22-year-old immigrant, out of a lineup based on his appearance and distinct accent. The Swede had entered the U.S. five years earlier. He listed his destination as Aberdeen, Washington, and claimed to be an orphan.

Under intense interrogation, Lindberg named his accomplices: 20-year-old Leo Burns and 21-year-old James McCourt. Born in Pierce County, Washington, Burns was known to the police and described as a “hard-boiled egg” in news reports. McCourt had been born in Kitsap County and worked briefly as a plumber. His police record was said to match that “of a hardened criminal of fifty years.”

Lindberg and Burns had indeed “fortified” themselves with a bottle of moonshine before going on their robbery spree. McCourt, the getaway driver, was apparently sober. Told that a .38-caliber slug had killed Sherard, Lindberg admitted that he might have fired it – he or McCourt. Burns had carried a .32-caliber automatic pistol. Police arrested Leo Burns within a day or so. His claim to have not fired at the officer was disproven by .32-caliber slugs collected at the crime scene. Meanwhile, McCourt had fled the area and would remain on the run for about four months.

Oddly enough, criminologist Luke S. May logged this case in mid-January 1929, just two days before the trials of Lindberg and Burns. The prosecuting attorney sent him a .38-caliber Colt double-action revolver and a .32-caliber Colt automatic pistol, plus several bullets. May’s files contain no information on when police had collected this evidence, but it’s highly likely that Luke had already inspected the exhibits. A full firearms and bullet assessment can be quite time-consuming, so this late interaction seems almost pro forma.

In court, May testified that, although many slugs from the two Colts had been collected at the crime scene, neither had been the murder weapon. Even so, for their participation in a felony where a death occurred, Lindberg and Burns were convicted of first degree murder and sentenced to life in prison.

Three weeks after they were sentenced, James McCourt was arrested for a robbery in Butte, Montana. Shown a “wanted” poster, he admitted that he had indeed participated in the drug store robbery. He seemed to recall firing his gun twice, but implied he’d only meant to make the patrolman duck while they made their escape. He had sold the weapon to a known bootlegger after his escape to Montana. McCourt waived extradition and was quickly returned to Seattle.

Police were unable to retrieve the suspected murder weapon. Yet authorities somehow learned a great deal about it. In his opening statement to the jury, the prosecutor said they knew enough “to convince you it was his gun that fired the fatal bullet.”

James McCourt.
Montana Standard.

Given that confident assertion, we must engage in a bit of conjecture. We first assume that Montana police grilled the gun buyer, who had perhaps re-sold it (or ditched it, but he’d probably not admit to that). He would have echoed McCourt’s description of the “.38 caliber long-barreled Colt revolver.” May had surely identified the make and model of the weapon that fired the fatal bullet. Thus, the buyer’s statement sealed that link, since McCourt had already admitted that he had fired that gun at Sherard.

We can, in fact, stretch our hypothesis a bit further. McCourt or the buyer would have almost certainly test fired the gun, just to prove that it was in good working order. Officers might have been able to recover a slug from whatever target they used, and that could have been compared to the death bullet. Unfortunately, May’s file for this old case only had the inventory of the first evidence received, not the reports. Whatever the exact sequence, newspapers noted that expert testimony stated “that the bullet which killed the officer came from McCourt’s gun.”

The jury issued a guilty verdict, and McCourt was sentenced to life in prison, joining his partners in crime. As it happened, Leo Burns died less than six months after he arrived at the state penitentiary. Cause of death was listed as tuberculosis, although he had shown no apparent symptoms through the period of his trial. McCourt and Lindberg were enumerated at the penitentiary for the 1940 census, but it is unknown what became of Lindberg after that.

McCourt was paroled in early 1943, apparently as part of a program to ease the strain on the under-funded and under-manned prison. He eventually moved to California, where records show he spent time in prison (San Quentin and then Folsom) for burglary. He died in San Francisco at the age of sixty.

Mary Frances Sherard never remarried. After her husband’s murder, groups in Seattle sponsored at least two benefit events to provide a “nest egg” for the family. She received small pensions from the U. S. government and from the city of Seattle, and added to that with occasional work cleaning homes.

For the 1940 Census, daughter Dorothy listed her occupation as Comptometer operator, a highly skilled position. (The Comptometer was a brand of mechanical calculator.) She perhaps married during the war because it is not possible to trace her after that.

James and Theodore went to work for Boeing Aircraft when they were old enough. Then, in the summer of 1943, Theodore enlisted in the army. One can imagine the mother’s fears, but he survived the war. Theodore married in 1947 and became a commercial artist. James stayed in the aircraft industry and eventually learned to fly himself. He moved to California and married there in 1950.

Mary Frances Sherard died in January 1954.
                                                                                

References: H. W. Crocker III, The Yanks Are Coming!: A Military History of the United States in World War I, Regnery Publishing, Washington, D.C. (2014).

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

“[Sherard Murder: Background and Investigation],” Seattle Star, Seattle Times, Post-Intelligencer, Seattle, Spokesman-Review, Spokane, Washington; Emmett Index, Idaho (January 1919 – October 1928).

“[Sherard Murder: Trials and Afterwards],” Post-Intelligencer, Seattle, Spokesman-Review, Spokane, Olympian, Olympia, Bellingham Herald, Seattle Times, Spokane Chronicle, Washington; Montana Standard, Butte, Montana; The Oregonian, Portland, Oregon (January 14, 1929 – January 1943).

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The Christmas Presents Murder

Aged sixty-two, all Allen Presley wanted was to live out his life in peace at a small place about twenty miles east of Wenatchee, Washington. Selfish and cruel greed stole that from him shortly before Christmas of 1927. Some news reports would describe Presley, a lifetime bachelor, as a “recluse.” However, while he did avoid crowds and had only a small circle of close friends, he was widely known in the region. After he was murdered, an acquaintance in Clarkston, Washington took steps to insure that Presley was buried in Tennessee near where he grew up.

Presley was born in Loudon County, Tennessee, about thirty miles southwest of Knoxville. He moved to Douglas County, Washington in the early 1890s, about the time the Great Northern Railway laid tracks through the region. In 1899, he claimed a homestead on the high wheat-growing plains northeast of Wenatchee. Twelve years later, he claimed more land next to his first plot.

Coincidentally, just a few months earlier, Arthur “Art” Woodin, a man who would figure in Presley’s future, claimed wheat acreage only fourteen miles to the north. The Woodin family had moved to Douglas County in 1909, when the Great Northern ran a branch line through the heart of the wheat country. In September of that year, Arthur’s older brother Thomas, age 29, married Viola Thompson. A couple weeks later, Arthur, age 22, married Viola’s sister Lillian.

By 1920, Thomas and Viola had a brood of six children, including James Earl. Thomas had a farm, but that apparently did not work out. He drove a delivery truck for a time, but scrambled to find steady work. Arthur and Lillian had three children, and he was working for a wholesale grain company. He would eventually be promoted to a manager’s position with the firm.

Meanwhile, some time in the early Twenties, Allen Presley decided to take it easy. Reports do not say whether he sold his land or leased it. Either way, he had enough for his simple needs so he moved down off the high plains. His cabin was a few hundred yards from McCue station on the Great Northern branch rail line. From there, he could easily travel to nearby Palisades or into Wenatchee.

Steam Train at Palisades. Washington Heritage Register.

In December of 1927, Art Woodin was apparently at McCue station regularly. (News reports don’t say why, but he was probably traveling by rail from Waterville to Wenatchee and back.) During the week before Christmas, he realized he hadn’t seen Presley around for several days. Even with the freezing temperatures, normal for this time of year, it was unlike the old man to stay cooped up that long.

Thus, on Wednesday morning, Art stopped by Presley’s cabin. Inside under a cot, he found the Tennessean’s body. The corpse was stiff, not just from rigor mortis, but from the frigid cold. Robbery seemed to have been the motive, since the victim’s pockets were turned out and the cabin had been ransacked.

A medical examiner concluded that a small-caliber gunshot to the eye had killed him. However, he also observed severe trauma from a heavy blow to the same wound area. At the crime scene, investigators had found a stick of firewood with a splotch of blood and perhaps hair on its surface. Thus, the sheriff surmised that Presley might have been clubbed, and then shot to make sure he was dead.

McCue was only a tiny hamlet (it’s totally gone now). Interviews quickly established that the last person seen anywhere near the Presley place was Art’s seventeen-year-old nephew James. The previous Friday, he had been hunting rabbits in the hills during the day. He left after a while, but came back on a late-afternoon train. After walking toward the Presley place, he returned to the train shortly after 6:30.

When questioned, “Jim” made a token denial, but then admitted that he had, indeed, killed the old man. Earlier in the day, he had given Presley a couple of rabbits he had shot. He went back, he said, to leave his .22-caliber rifle at the cabin. Why was unclear, but he perhaps said he did not want to carry it back and forth. Jim claimed the rifle “went off” as he handed it over. In a panic after this “accident,” he had shoved the body under the cot and hurried back to the train.

Authorities then confronted him with the other damning evidence they had collected: The forceful blow to Presley’s head, obvious signs of robbery, and the fact that James had afterwards gone on a shopping spree in Wenatchee. The boy finally confessed that he had murdered the old man and used the money he stole to buy Christmas presents for his girlfriend.

James later repudiated the confession, but the evidence remained. About ten days before the boy’s trial was to begin, the Douglas County sheriff and prosecuting attorney traveled to Seattle to consult with criminologist Luke S. May. (It’s unclear if they had sent the physical evidence ahead or carried the items with them.) Some of May’s results were fairly routine. He verified that the death bullet and a shell casing found at the crime scene had come from the youth’s rifle. Embedded in the surface of the firewood, May detected human blood and distinctive eyebrow hairs that closely matched those of the victim.

However, one finding changed the crime reconstruction a bit. May also detected unburned grains of powder, similar to those found on the body, intermixed with the blood and hair on the wood surface. That is, Woodin had first shot the old man, at close range, and then fractured his skull to make sure. Knowledgeable observers suggested that such a brutal action might help Woodin’s court-appointed defense attorney with an insanity plea.

But about the best hope for the defense was the fact that “Jimmy” had never been in trouble before and was “generally regarded as a good boy in the community.” They did manage to avoid a death penalty, but James Earl Woodin received a life prison sentence. He was, however, released after a little over twelve years in prison, which seems odd, given the brutal and senseless nature of the crime. Woodin registered for the draft in Portland, Oregon, on December 26, 1940, but never entered any branch of the service.
                                                                                

References: Paula Becker, “Douglas County – Thumbnail History,” Online Encyclopedia of Washington State History, HistoryLink.org, Seattle, Washington  (October 15, 2006).

Luke S. May, Crime’s Nemesis, The Macmillan Company, New York (1936).

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

Gary Neumann, ed., Washington Heritage Register: Palisades Store, Department of Archæology and Historic Preservation, Olympia, Washington (2017).

“[Presley Murder News],” Spokesman-Review, Spokane, Olympian, Olympia, Washington; The Oregonian, Portland; Sweetwater News, Tennessee  (December 22, 1927).

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Murder of Grocer Edmund Hines

October 2, 1931 was a routine Friday for Salt Lake City grocer Edmund Hines and his wife Lottie. As usual, Edmund had begun the morning by withdrawing $500 to cash paychecks for the women who worked at a big laundry around the corner. After the lunchtime rush, his daughter-in-law drove him downtown to deposit the checks while Lottie minded the store. Tomorrow would be Edmund’s seventy-third birthday; the family would need to do something nice for him.

Edmund returned not long after 2 o’clock. Since he’d skipped lunch, Lottie said she’d get something from their home next door and they could have a late snack together. As she headed home, she saw two young men, both dressed in “light corduroy trousers,” coming up the street. She hadn’t been inside very long when she heard a bang. Thinking it was just an engine backfire, she continued putting their snack together.

Within a minute or two, Edmund stumbled through the front door, his chest and neck covered with blood. He gasped out, “Mama, I’m done for,” and then “Mama, I’m dying.” He was unable to say anything else before he collapsed at her feet and died. After some frantic moments, the police were called and she calmed down enough to tell what little she knew.

News reports do not mention any blood evidence inside the store, but police did find a glass soda bottle with blood and/or hair on it. They took that back to headquarters to be examined for fingerprints. A neighbor lady had seen two men jump her fence and run west from the store right after the shot. They fit the description Lottie gave, but the neighbor didn’t really get a good look at them.

An autopsy revealed that Edmund had suffered a severe head injury, which police assumed was inflicted by the soda bottle. But he had died from a bullet that hit him near the right shoulder blade and exited the left side of his neck. Police learned that Hines kept a gun in a drawer near the back of the store. They figured he had turned to get the weapon when he was shot. They supposedly searched for the fatal bullet but found nothing.

Feelings ran high about the murder, for the Hines Cash Store had been a fixture in the neighborhood for a decade. Born in Vermont, Edmund moved to Salt Lake around 1888, when he was thirty years old. He opened a wholesale grocery business and, in 1896, married a local girl, Charlotte “Lottie” Lewis. Around 1917, he sold the firm and the family spent perhaps a year in California.

But then they returned and Edmund worked for a meat packing company for several years. Around 1921 or 1922, he opened his grocery store a mile or so east of downtown. He was well-liked for his genial nature and public-spirited actions. Pupils from the elementary school across the street often came in to buy candy or fruit, or to have lunch at the small counter Mama Hines  served in the back. Thus, news reports noted that 700 children paraded over to pay their last respects before the grocer’s body went to the Roman Catholic church for his funeral.

Spurred by local outrage, police assigned extra officers to the case and “fifty suspects were apprehended and questioned.” Authorities held several for further investigation, but most were soon released.

Oddly enough, Edmund’s oldest son, Gerald, made what turned out to be a crucial break in the case. He was in the store on Sunday, probably cleaning up. Aged about 32, he then had a job with the state of Utah and was perhaps assessing how to sell the store. In any case, he found an empty shell casing. (How police investigators missed this vital piece of evidence is a mystery.)

The standard markings on the shell provided some information, but police turned to criminologist Luke S. May for more. A spokesman told reporters what they had learned in time for their Monday editions. The murder weapon was a .32-caliber Remington automatic pistol, a somewhat unusual model of pocket weapon. He also parroted what May always said and taught: A firearms expert could examine the shell and testify that it had been fired by a specific weapon.

In a city the size of Salt Lake, police regularly made arrests of young men for various suspected crimes. Over the next two months, those who even vaguely fit the description of the Hines attackers were also grilled about that. Unfortunately, no new leads appeared.

Officials thought they had something in mid-November when they arrested a small gang of burglars, aged 19 and 20. Among their loot, police found two .32-caliber automatic pistols. Test shells were collected from each and referred to May, but neither were the right gun. In mid-December, officials extradited a youthful burglary suspect from California. They had some hope that he might have been involved in the Hines case, but that too failed to pan out.

Finally, the Salt Lake Tribune for December 28 ran the headline, “Youth Tells of Hines Murder.” The suspect was 20-year-old Conrad Hansen. Police asserted that he had been arrested for “a series of street car holdups.” During interrogation, officials said, Hansen admitted that he was one of two men involved in the attempted robbery and subsequent murder.

Conrad Hansen.
Salt Lake Tribune photo.

Officials were more forthcoming for the next day’s editions. Actually, “another youth” had fingered the two men. The ring-leader had been 19-year-old Grant Tice, and Hansen claimed that Tice had fired the fatal shot.

Reporters learned who the informant was some time in the following week or two. His name was David F. Silver and he was about 18 years old. The tragedy actually began in late September. Tice tried to get Silver to join him and Hansen to rob the Hines grocery. Tice even went so far as to case the store and preferred escape route from a stolen car … so his own wouldn’t be seen in the area. Even so, Silver refused because Hines knew him personally. He did, however, loan Tice his .32-caliber Remington automatic pistol for Hansen to use. When Tice returned the weapon, he told Silver how the robbery had gone wrong.

Rather than being intimidated by their guns, Edmund had cracked Hansen on the head with the soda bottle. Hansen had then slugged the grocer with his gun. Edmund turned to run and Hansen shot him. Tice also tried to get off a shot, but Hansen was in the line of fire.

At first, Silver simply cleaned the Remington and stored it away. He and Tice began to worry when police named the model and said they would be able to identify the specific pistol. The continuing arrests and interrogations finally led them to toss the weapon and extra ammunition into the Jordan River, on the west side of the city. (Authorities would search the stretch where Silver said they had thrown it, but never found the gun.)

Then the on-going pressure led Hansen and Tice to leave Salt Lake at the end of October. They traveled south together, but split up in Texas. Hansen claimed they rejoined briefly in Pueblo, Colorado, around Thanksgiving. From there, Tice supposedly went “East” in search of his family, while Hansen returned to Salt Lake.

Very little is known about Grant Tice, alias Grant Hamilton, alias Grant Clark. He claimed to have been born in Michigan around 1914, but neither assertion can be verified. News reports said his mother lived for some time in Salt Lake, but do not say when. We have no idea where he was for about seven weeks after Hansen saw him in Pueblo.

Grant Tice.
Salt Lake Tribune photo.

Conrad Hansen was born around 1912 in Salt Lake City, where his father was a tailor. His name does not appear in the news prior to the Hines shooting. In any case, Conrad was most likely back in Salt Lake in early December.

At that time, David Silver was in jail, serving a six-month term for petty larceny (reduced from an armed robbery charge). At some point, the grapevine surely told him that Hansen was back in town. When officials extradited the possible Hines murder suspect back to Utah, he also knew that they still hadn’t given up on the case. Facing another five months behind bars, Silver apparently “cut a deal” for an early release. Police investigated the story he told and then arrested Hansen.

Authorities soon indicted Hansen for first degree murder, and issued a warrant for the arrest of Grant Tice on the same charge. His mother, previously known in Salt Lake as Nellie Hamilton, was traced to Long Beach, California. (Probably by Luke May’s agents or affiliates, but we can’t tell from news reports.) Tice was arrested at her home on January 18, 1932 and he was back in Salt Lake within a week.

Trials for the two young men were scheduled for late April. By this time, officials had confirmed that Hansen fired the fatal shot. Defense attorneys surely explained to him that a conviction for first degree murder could end in a death sentence. Thus, on Monday April 25, Hansen pled guilty to second degree murder, knowing that he would most likely receive a life sentence. Tice had refused a plea deal similar to Hansen’s, so opening statements for his trial began two days later.

Tice perhaps figured there was no danger of a death penalty, since he had not even fired a shot. News reports did not provide details of the prosecutor’s opening arguments. Still, we can easily imagine the tone: Hansen had fired the fatal bullet, but Tice was clearly the instigator of their foul plot. He planned the deed and even provided the weapon Hansen used for the “callous” murder of a beloved old man. Faced with this portrait of himself as the “evil mastermind” behind the killing, Tice abruptly “sought and obtained permission to plead guilty to a charge of second degree murder.”

Hansen and Tice both received life sentences. However, despite protests from members of the Hines family, those were later commuted to 25-year terms. The parole board freed Tice as of May 2, 1941 and Hansen about a year later. Hansen signed up for the draft after his release, but Tice (under whatever name he chose to use) disappeared from available public records.
                                                                                

References: “[Edmund G. Hines Murder Investigations],” Salt Lake Telegram, Salt Lake Tribune, Deseret News, Salt Lake City, Utah; Riverside Daily Press, California (October 3 – December 30, 1931).

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

“[Trial and Afterwards for Hines Murder],” Standard-Examiner, Ogden, Salt Lake Telegram, Salt Lake Tribune, Utah; Evening Tribune, San Diego, California (January 1932 – May 1941).

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