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.

An Unsual Golf Tournament at the Newton Country Club

(colorized image, from a black and white photo)

The Des Moines Register printed this picture of an unusal golf tournament at the Newton Country Club on August 28, 1927. The players (left to right) are: Harlan Bailey - Newton postmaster, and Harry Cross - a local attorney. Bailey played the course with his clubs, while Cross attacked the balloons with his bow and arrow. The final score was 5 up, in favor of Cross.

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.

Monkey Island at Fejervary Park in Davenport

Visitors at Monkey Island

Fejervary Park has an island inhabited by seventy monkeys, running around the rocks like they’ve got somewhere urgent to be, splashing in the water, screaming at each other. Acting like the place is one wrong look away from turning into a full-blown riot.

From a distance, it looks cute. Up close, you realize it’s a setup.

There’s a concrete wall around the lagoon, and the water’s kept low on purpose so the monkeys can’t use it like a springboard and launch themselves out of there. No grand escape. No heroic leap. Just a shallow moat and a reminder that the island is more stage than wilderness.

Still, they’ve made a life in it. A whole little kingdom.

Muscatine Business District Lit Up At Night

The Muscatine Journal published this image of the city's buisness district all lit up under the new illumination system. The lights were turned on at 8 p.m. on February 1, 1928, by the Queen of Light (unidentified). (colorized version of black and white newspaper image)

Samuel J. Kirkwood: He Mobilized Iowa For The Civil War

When Samuel J. Kirkwood became governor of Iowa in 1860, the country was already sliding toward civil war. He acted fast, calling for volunteers, forming new regiments, and getting those men ready to serve the Union.

On April 16, 1861, Washington ordered Iowa to send a regiment for immediate service. Kirkwood didn’t have time to ease into the war; he began organizing at once.

The United States didn’t have a large army. That meant the states had to do much of the work. Iowa had willing men, but supplies were scarce. Guns and ammunition were the biggest problem. Even when volunteers poured in, the state couldn’t outfit them properly.

Kirkwood’s job became a constant scramble for equipment. At first, he wasn’t sure he could raise a full regiment. When volunteers flooded in by the thousands, the number of men ready to serve was larger than the state could quickly arm and outfit.

That created a fresh crisis. Kirkwood and other leading Iowans took unusual steps to get the state moving. They pledged personal property to borrow money for supplies, because waiting meant wasting time the Union didn’t have.

The Bat, The Bite, And The Midwestern Freak Show

January 1982. The Blizzard of Ozz plays Veterans Memorial Auditorium, and for a few chaotic seconds, Des Moines became the center of the American freak show.

Ozzy Osbourne is onstage. Lights slicing through smoke; guitars loud enough to rearrange your organs. The crowd is packed in tight. Denim and teenage adrenaline fill the auditorium.

Then something comes flying onto the stage. Small. Dark. Flopping wings.

A bat.

Depending on who you ask, it was a rubber toy or the real deal—a dead bat someone had brought like a twisted party favor. Either way, it lands near Ozzy’s boots, and that’s when reality shifted.

Ozzy picks it up. And bites it. The crowd watches, unsure how to react. They aren’t horrified. Just stunned. Like their brains need a second to catch up and decide—is it part of the show or some new-fangled Ozzy Voodoo ritual?

Then it hits. Screams. Cheers. Confused people, unsure how to react.

Afterward, Ozzy said he thought it was rubber. Maybe, but— There’s something unsettling about it. Grabbing something off the ground and biting it.

 The moment lives on, one of those stories that’s too ridiculous to die. Forty years later, the legend persists. And the question—reality or sideshow.

Skyjack Hill Motorcycle Climb - Carlisle, Iowa

Riders came from across the country for a motorcycle hill climb at Skyjack Hill, located five miles southeast of Carlisle, Iowa. The event was held on June 1, 1930.

The contest drew twelve professional riders from different parts of the country, along with over 30 riders from Iowa and neighboring states.

Several well-known hill climb riders entered the contest. Petrali of Chicago was listed as a national hill climb champion. Reiber of Milwaukee entered as the runner-up from the previous year’s championship climb. Art Erlenbaugh of Milwaukee also competed. He was reported to hold a hill climb record of 6.25 seconds.

 

Pioneer Club Pushmobile Race 1929 - Des Moines

The Des Moines Tribune-Capital printed this picture of the Pioneer Club Pushmobile Race which took place on Saturday, May 4, 1929. The winners were John Dowd and Earl Myers.

Steamboat Muscatine

The Davenport Democrat and Leader published this image of the Steamer Muscatine on August 25, 1929. The paper said the boat began service on the Mississippi River in 1864.

Author David Morrell: Rambo Was Just The Beginning

David Morrell

David Morrell published First Blood in 1972. It introduced John Rambo. The original Rambo was wounded, furious, and lost. The story was a pressure cooker.

Vietnam was still fresh. America was jumpy. The country felt like it was cracking at the seams. And here was a novel about a returning veteran who couldn’t fit back into normal life, colliding with a small-town system that didn’t know what to do with him.

 

Morrell wasn’t guessing about any of this. He taught literature at the University of Iowa and knew how stories work and what themes do when you tighten them like a vise. He just aimed that knowledge at a new target: suspense.

 

Morrell taught American literature at the University of Iowa from 1970 to 1986, became a full professor in 1977, and wrote bestselling novels during that same stretch.

 

So picture it. He lectured on American writing and culture during the day… then went home and wrote chase scenes, manhunts, and plots with real teeth. 

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.

Author John Irving New Hampshire Born Iowa Bred

John Irving

Iowa City looks harmless. Bookstores. Brick streets. Workshop gossip. Then John Irving shows up and says, “Sure, but what if we make it weird?”

He comes to the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in the mid-60s, and ends up studying under Kurt Vonnegut—who’s basically a human smoke alarm with a typewriter. Funny. Furious. Allergic to fake seriousness.

 

Irving’s young. Full of big-story energy. A writer who loves accidents, coincidences, and fate like they’re all cousins at the same chaotic family reunion.

 

At Iowa, he drafts Setting Free the Bears. A thesis that turns into a full-blown novel. Europe. Wild turns. That shaggy, runaway-cart feeling that becomes his signature. Kirkus called it “a wonderfully fresh, wildly imaginative notion of a book,” which is reviewer-speak for this kid might be trouble in the best way.  

 

Then he cranks out The Water-Method Man and drags the chaos closer to home. Iowa City shows up. Graduate school creeps in. Relationships get messy. The jokes get sharper. The plot keeps slipping sideways like it’s trying to escape the room.

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.