Murder at the Iowa Soldiers' Orphans' Home Davenport

George Foulk ate a piece of chocolate, a moment later he was
on the floor fighting for his life

Sunday, October 1, 1905. The mail came to the Iowa Soldiers’ Orphans’ Home in Davenport. Bills, church bulletins, a few letters, and one small brown-paper parcel tied with string.

 Nobody panicked. Nobody ever does at first. Packages showed up all the time—mostly socks and Bibles. This one had toys. A ball. A picture book. A doll with yellow yarn hair. And a little sack of chocolate creams. Children love chocolate. Adults love to think of children loving chocolate. That’s how you end up with stories like this.

 

After supper, the matron passed them around. George Foulk, age seven, went first. He said the candy tasted bitter. Nobody listened. A minute later, he was rolling on the floor.

 

Somebody screamed. The doctor ran in, hands shaking, smelling of liniment and coffee. The boy’s body arched like a drawn bow. “Strychnine,” the doctor said. 

 

By morning, the boy was gone, and the entire town was chewing on rumors.

The candy came from his father, Jonathan Foulk—a poor, limping Civil War veteran who lived part time at the Soldiers’ Home in Danville, Illinois, and part time in a damp basement in Marion. The papers wrote it up with gusto. Children at Orphans’ Home Poisoned by Eating Candy. Then the next day: Package Came from Their Father.

 

Foulk told the police he hadn’t bought the candy. Said a paper sack had been left for him on his table with a note that read, “For the children.” He thought it was kind. The road to hell, as they say, is paved with little gestures of kindness.

 

The doctor pumped his stomach, hoping to save his life

People said all sorts of things. Some said he was lying. Some said he wasn’t. Most just felt sorry for him, the way people do when they’d rather not look too close.

 He’d fought at Chickamauga. Took a bullet in the leg. Three wives gone. The last one, Ella Hess, died young and suddenly. Pretty woman. Too pretty. The Hess family hated him. Money troubles, jealous words. Maybe he did something. Maybe he didn’t. You can get away with a lot if people decide they’ve pitied you long enough.

 

The police found nothing. No fingerprints. No witnesses. The poison was clean, dry, measured. Whoever sent it knew how to do the job right.

 

Then came another package. Candy again. The papers called it A Diabolical Plot. It sold a lot of newspapers.

 

Then another.

 

A woman saw a man leaving Foulk’s porch before dawn—thin, quick, collar turned up. He walked like someone who didn’t want to be seen. That’s the problem with witnesses. They always describe men like that.

 

The police chased the story across two states until it ran out of gas. No charges. No answers. The father was never accused, which tells you everything you need to know about sympathy in small towns.

 

Eventually, Jonathan Foulk packed up his ghosts and left Iowa. Drifted west. His daughter grew up. The town moved on.

 

He died in 1929. No confession. No enemies. Just a story that didn’t add up and a bitter piece of candy that packed a deadly punch.