Booze, Bad Decisions, And Robbery In Long Grove

Stockmen's Savings Bank in Long Grove Iowa

The automobile had changed everything. In the past, men robbed banks on foot or horseback. Now they could now roll into a town, strike, and disappear down country roads before a sheriff could arrive. Small towns with one bank and a handful of streets suddenly looked vulnerable. A quiet place could be cleaned out in minutes. Newspapers across Iowa and the Midwest called them auto bandits.

Long Grove sat ten miles north of Davenport and had a population of about 150. Strangers stood out like a sore thumb. That’s why the Hudson touring car drew attention as it rolled into town on December 15, 1921.

William Clausen, a truck driver for Tri-City Bottling Works, saw it pull up and felt something was off. Then, just as quickly, he watched it move on and let the moment go. He didn’t connect it to anything until the shooting started and the whole town seemed to crack open at once.

No Justice For Evelyn Lee

Evelyn Lee

Nine-year-old Evelyn Lee was playing near her Des Moines home on Saturday afternoon, May 10, 1930, when she disappeared in the woods along Four Mile Creek. 

Two days later, E.M. Wessels stumbled upon Evelyn’s battered body while digging up shrubs in the same woods, just south of the Youngstown Bridge on Scott Street. Investigators quickly determined she had been choked to death by a left-handed attacker. Footprints found at the scene matched Evelyn’s shoes, and showed her attacker might have been a man with a crippled right foot. 

Detectives wasted no time in narrowing their search to two suspects—Carl McCune, 34, and Elmer Gibson, 35—scrappers who had been spotted driving a beat-up 1926 Ford roadster loaded with barrels and scavenged items. Witnesses recalled seeing the pair in South Des Moines that Saturday, drinking heavily and behaving erratically. 

The manhunt ended on May 15 when police apprehended McCune and Gibson at McCune’s mother’s house in Des Moines.

Evelyn’s parents were devastated. Her stepmother learned of Evelyn’s death when Agnes Arney, a reporter for the Des Moines Register, showed up at her door.

Carlisle Straw Stack Murder

Man running from straw stack
murder scene

The straw stack murder mystery broke in Des Moines in early August 1925. A red-haired woman was clubbed her to death and then burned in a straw stack on the George Patterson farm near Carlisle.

Investigators had little evidence to go on—a pile of bones, an expensive brooch, a string of pearls, and a tuft of red hair.

Earl Leverich and Harlan Cain found the charred skeleton at the top of Watts Hill. Leverich was driving home when he saw a skull in a pile of ashes in the field.

“Harlan thought I was seeing things,” said Leverich. He stopped the truck a couple of hundred feet down the road and walked back to investigate. “As we got closer to the skull, we could make out the rest of the body, which was badly burned.

“It looked to me as if someone was having a party that ended in murder.” He saw a partial bottle of ginger ale, alcohol, and some sandwiches nearby.

He said He Was Going To Kill me And My Baby

Katherine and Paul Eberle

Paul Eberle was crazy. No one questioned that.

His chauffeur, Harry Schultz, heard Eberle tell his wife, “I don’t see why I don’t kill you, Katherine.”

Schultz watched Paul Eberle threaten the lives of his wife and child again and again. Once, he saw Eberle on the edge of killing himself. Another time, he said, “I’m going down in the basement to cut my arteries.”

Schultz and Katherine followed Eberle downstairs and watched him sit in a chair next to the furnace with a razor blade pressed to his wrist.

Eberle had many strange obsessions and addictions. He was a cigarette fiend, buying them in boxes by the tens of thousands. He drank coffee constantly and used drugs. His moods swung so fast, you never knew how he’d act.

Others noticed it too. John McDonnell said Eberle acted like a man with a permanent chip on his shoulder, ready to do battle at any time.

The Bomb Was Only The Beginning

Howard Drenter

Howard Drenter lived at home with his parents.

He was twenty-eight years old, a Scott County farmer, and he’d never lived anywhere else. He worked the fields during the day and came back to the same house every night. People described him as reliable. A man who didn’t waste words or draw attention. He didn’t drink, fight, or have a record. If anything, he blended in.

For a while, he kept company with Edna Smith, a teacher at the Argo School. She was young, attractive, and well liked. Parents trusted her their children. She and Drenter had been seeing each other since the spring of 1925. Things appeared good. They talked, danced, and went to the movies.

Over time, the questions started. At first, they sounded casual, almost playful. Until they didn’t. Drenter wanted details. Names. He watched her every move, wanted to know who she spoke to, who walked her home, and who sat near her at school functions. Edna noticed it. So did her friends.

By January 1926, she’d had enough. She broke things off, but Drenter didn’t let go. He kept asking her out. He showed up. Sent messages through others. She kept refusing. Each time, the refusals seemed to harden him. He stopped sounding disappointed and started sounding offended. At some point, the requests turned into warnings.

The Burzette Gang of Sioux City

Everett Burzette

Some criminals aren’t born in the dark. They’re trained there.

And Everett Burzette—sitting in a jail cell in Mason City, Iowa, accused of first-degree murder—was raised in the shadow of a name that carried fear like a headline.

Burzette.

A name tied to stolen automobiles, gun smoke, and a man who didn’t plan on surrendering. A name made infamous by Everett’s older brother—Red Burzette—who, as one account put it, “met his death with a belching revolver in his hand,” fighting the police in Sioux City.

That was the family legacy Everett inherited. Now it was his turn to face the rope.

His cousin, Melvin Burzette, was locked up on the same charge in the cell next to him. They were accused of murdering Morris G. Van Note, a well-to-do farmer, shot down in the yard of a rural school building near Mason City. He’d tried to stop them from stealing school property, and—bang . . . Van Note was dead.

Villisca Muder House

The Des Moines Register printed this picture of the Villisca muder house on July 10, 1927, fifteen years after the brutal axe murders of eight people.

There had been may confessions since then. All of them false. The most recent confession had come from Frank Carter, the "Omaha Sniper." He took credit for the murders before his execution in the electric chair, saying they were his "most notorious kill." Officials ignored the confession, figuring it was a last ditch effort to buy himself more time.

Previous supects were Sentor Frank Jones, William "Blackie" Mansfield, and Reverend Lyn George J. Kelly. None of the leads panned out--114 years later the case is still open.

Moonshine and Murder in Red Oak

Albert Girardi and his family

Albert Girardi was dead. George Austin checked the pulse, pressed his ear to the lifeless chest. There were no signs of life. None. So, you can imagine his surprise when Girardi sat up as they headed out to dispose of the body.

“For God’s sake, hit him again!” John Stewart screamed. “He is raising up.”

Austin hit Girardi with the king bolt. “This blow finished him,” he said. “I didn’t notice any more life to him.”

Austin rifled through Girardi’s billfold. He counted $82 in cash, pocketed the money, and tucked the wallet back in Girardi’s jacket. No sense taking evidence with him.

That was the second time they killed Girardi. But let’s start at the beginning.

Albert Girardi was a produce salesman from the Little Italy district of Omaha, Nebraska. He had a wife, two small children, Arto, 4, and Lucrezia, 9 months—and a booming business.

Murder at the Kirkwood Hotel in Des Moines

Officer Clarence Woolman

Alcoholism, disregard for the rules, and incompetence played into a double murder at the Kirkwood Hotel early in the morning on March 25, 1911.

Officer Clarence Woolman was assigned to take his best friend and prisoner, Dr. Harry Kelly, to the State Inebriate Hospital at Knoxville. They stopped for the night at the Kirkwood Hotel in Des Moines and had a few drinks. The next morning, one man lay dead with a bullet in his brain, and the other on the floor in a nearby saloon shot full of holes.

 

The men checked into the Kirkwood at 9:30 p.m. By rights, Woolman should have taken Kelly to the county jail—standard operating procedure was to lock up prisoners when traveling overnight. Woolman disregarded it because he didn’t want to hurt his friend’s feelings.

 

Kelly wasn’t the person you’d expect to be an alcoholic or a murderer. He grew up in an excellent family. His father managed the Standard Oil office in Council Bluffs. He was a “crack athlete” who played halfback for the University of Nebraska football team. Before his drinking got out of hand, he was considered the top doctor in Council Bluffs, maybe in the entire state.

The Pacific Junction Horror: Murder in Small Town Iowa

Helen Kuhl

Someone crept into Edith and Helen Kuhl’s bedroom overnight on March 20, 1935, and bludgeoned them nearly to death. 

The girls were taken to Mercy Hospital at Council Bluffs. Helen had a fractured skull and cuts and bruises on the right side of her head. Edith’s injuries were so severe, doctors didn’t expect her to pull through. 

 

Both girls remained unconscious late into the afternoon, so the police had very few clues to work on. Edith died the following day. Helen remained unconscious for nearly five days, and when she came to, she could shed no light on the attack. 

 

The girls roomed at the home of their aunt Ritta Graham in Pacific Junction. Their uncle, Clarence Price, also boarded in the house. Ritta was away attending a funeral in Omaha.

 

Price told authorities he rapped on George Durkee’s door at about 11 p.m. Wednesday. “Come quick!” he shouted. “Something terrible has happened.”

 

They found the girls on the bed. The glass had been broken out of their bedroom window, and the screen pulled off. Durkee told police there were signs of a struggle.

A Midnight Murder in Davenport

James Gallagher

He didn’t see them coming until they were right on top of him.

October 30, 1915. Second and Fillmore Streets. Davenport, Iowa, after dark. A street corner that feels normal in daylight and ugly at night. Quiet. Empty. A little too much shadow.

James Gallagher came in from Ottumwa and ended up on that corner at the wrong time. Two men stepped out of the dark and closed the space between them fast. They weren’t there to talk.

There’d been two holdups in the past two days. Quick stickups. A hard voice, a gun in your ribs, a pocket turned inside out. The same story stayed the same: two men. One taller. One shorter. The short one with the nerve.

That night they picked Gallagher.

The smaller man pulled a .38. There was a flash, a crack, and it turned from robbery to murder in a heartbeat. Gallagher took a bullet through the right lung. He lurched forward.

He made it a few steps. Then he folded and hit the pavement.

He Killed His Wife To Marry His Girlfriend

Walter "Dusty" Rhodes

Walter “Dusty” Rhodes wasn’t a stranger drifting through Iowa City. Everyone knew him. He could joke with a hardware clerk, nod at a neighbor, and blend into the daily noise of town. “Dusty” sounded harmless, like a nickname earned from farm roads and old work boots. Nothing about him said danger.

He had a wife, a steady job, and a home. People like that don’t get whispered about or watched. They move through life under a blanket of normal, and normal is the best hiding place.

 

The morning his wife died, he leaned on normal like it could hold him up.

 

Down in the basement, the shotgun went off with the force of a bomb.

 

Dusty ran upstairs and told the maid to call a doctor and the sheriff. It was an accident. His voice was fast, controlled, almost businesslike. Myrtle remembered that calm later.

 

When the officers arrived, Dusty said he was preparing to go hunting. His wife handed him the shotgun, and it accidentally discharged. It was tragic, but nobody’s fault.

Jack the Hugger--A Different Kind of Ripper

Jack the Hugger would sneak out from the shadows,
hug a woman, and disappear

London had Jack the Ripper. Muscatine had Jack the Hugger. He appeared out of nowhere the day after Valentine’s Day in 1904, randomly grabbing and hugging women on the street.

The Muscatine Journal was at a loss to explain the strange phenomenon and dubbed the perpetrator “Jack the Hugger.” The story quickly went viral, appearing in newspapers throughout the Midwest, and eventually spawned a slew of imitators.

The Hugger assaulted three women on the evening of February 15. The first attack occurred on East Seventh Street. The man jumped out of the shadows and embraced the girl, almost suffocating her in a giant bear hug. He grabbed his second victim as she walked through the cut on East Second Street. The Hugger leaped out and grabbed her tight.

The third assault occurred on the high bridge near Walnut Street. The Hugger was a little more daring this time. He threw his arms around the girl and planted a wet, juicy kiss on her lips. Then, when she screamed, he bit her under the eye and hurried off down the alley.

Barbershop Shootout In Davenport's West End

John Hassman

Edward P. Cochran walked into John Hassman’s barbershop at 804 West Second Street like a man looking for work.

He walked out like a man looking for blood.

Cochran asked if Hassman needed another barber. Hassman looked him over, laughed, and said he didn’t look like a barber. The insult landed hard. Cochran slapped him across the face—then turned and walked away.

Hassman picked up a rock and hurled it after Cochran as he left.

That was the moment the morning turned deadly.
Cochran went to the Miller Hotel, ate breakfast, then went to his room and took a Savage Automatic pistol from its place. Ten shells. Nine in the magazine, one in the chamber. Loaded to the brim.

When he circled back toward the barbershop, he didn’t go in through the front. He came around the back, stopping near a sagging, four-foot-high board fence that separated him from Hassman’s shop.

He Threatened To Chop His Wife's Head Off Because She Wouldn't Walk The Street

John Lee (aka Albert Kling)

Love doesn’t always make sense. You love someone; they go a little crazy. Threaten to kill you, and then...

This story didn’t end in murder, but—it was touch and go several times.

After her husband threatened to kill her and behead their seven children, Mrs. Kling told authorities it didn’t matter. She loved him “more than life.”

“I love that man better than my own life,” she said. “He is the father of my ten children. I still love him with all his drinking and degrading talk, his efforts to force me to lead a life of shame, and his abuse and neglect. I have loved that man as I never loved another.”

John Lee (aka Albert Kling) 39, worked at Zimmerman Steel on Rockingham Road in Davenport, but he had big plans for freeing himself from the day-to-day drudgery of work.

If his wife would cooperate.

Times were tough. The family had ten children, and Lee didn’t enough money to support them. A day didn’t pass that someone went without food or needing new clothes. Someone always had their hand out asking for more money.

One day, he told his wife there were easier ways to make money. All she had to do was sleep with other men. Pretty soon, they’d have everything they wanted.

Three Dead Before Dawn: The Hardy Family Murders

The Hardy family

Raymond Hardy was days away from getting married when he walked into his family’s farmhouse and found his life blown apart.

His mother lay dead on the couch. His brother was sprawled on the kitchen floor. Before the night was over, his father would be found beaten to death in the barn. Three people were gone. The house was quiet. Whoever had done it was already gone—or so it seemed.

Raymond called for help, grabbed a shotgun, and searched the house in case the killer was still there. Then he waited.

Within hours, Raymond Hardy became the prime suspect.

The case against him was thin, centered on where he hung his hat, and why there was blood on it. Where a revolver turned up, and how much money he had in his pockets. For Raymond, those details became a matter of life and death. If the county attorney convinced a jury, he would hang.

The Night Clara Rosen Didn't Come Home

Clara Rosen

After supper on February 6, 1909, Clara Rosen left her parents’ home on Plum Street in Ottumwa, Iowa, to walk to her sister’s house on Dare Street, a route she knew well.

She never arrived.

At eight o’clock, her sister called the Rosen home. Clara wasn’t there either. By midnight, neighbors were searching the streets. Hundreds joined in, moving through yards, alleys, and empty lots, calling her name.

Around four in the morning, Clara’s brother Fred Rosen and his friend Otto Johnson found her body in an empty lot near Dare Street. Her skull was crushed. Her body had been dragged and left in the dirt. Officer Frank Williams called undertaker C. T. Sullivan. By daylight, all of Ottumwa knew Clara Rosen was dead.

Clara was twenty-nine. Until recently, she had worked as a bookkeeper. For fifteen years, she was the lead soprano in the Swedish Lutheran Church choir. She was engaged to be married that spring. Newspapers printed her photograph: neat hair, a fashionable hat, a respectable young woman. A victim, a town rallies around.

A Demon In Human Form: The Van Winkle Murders At Fairport

Harry Jones

“Sometime during the night,” reported the Muscatine Journal, “a demon in human form visited the home of Mr. and Mrs. Will Van Winkle.”

By daylight on December 4, 1907, Fairport knew they weren’t exaggerating. William and Anna Van Winkle lay dead on the bedroom floor, beaten until their skulls gave way. Blood soaked the bedding, streaked the walls, and pooled darkly on the floorboards. It wasn’t a clean kill. It was violence that left nothing to misunderstand.

The Van Winkles were young, broke, and new to married life. William, 23, was a section hand for the Rock Island railroad, one of dozens of men who spent their days swinging tools along frozen track. Anna was twenty. They’d been married four months and lived in a drafty little home that barely deserved to be called one. They had no money, no enemies, and no business dying the way they did.

People knew almost immediately who’d done it. Or who they thought had done it.

Davenport Police Officer Henry Janssen: A Shot In The Dark

Police Officer Henry Janssen

Police work doesn’t come with warnings.

A patrolman steps into the dark never knowing if the next call will be nothing more than rattling doors—or the last thing he does. Most nights blur together. Fights broken up. Drunks sent home. Lives nudged back from the edge.

 

Then there are nights that change everything.

 

At 4:10 a.m. on May 1, 1911, Davenport police officer Henry Janssen answered what sounded like another routine call. A burglary at 330 West Fifth Street. Night Desk Sergeant Henry Nagel dispatched Janssen and Detective Sidney La Grange to investigate. The city was quiet, the kind of quiet that makes footsteps sound louder than they should.

 

As the two officers rounded the corner of Sixth Street, they nearly collided with a man moving fast in the opposite direction.

 

He was in a hurry. Too much of one.

 

The officers stopped him.