Frank Nash... ...dead as a mackeral.
"It seemed like a good idea at the time..." |
with a “burst” of machine-gun fire. It’s likely that
Smith recognized Purvis as the top dog when the
East Liverpool car found the Federal car, but
otherwise didn’t know one agent from another.
Nor did it help that Chester claimed he had known
Floyd from years earlier and thought he had hit
him twice.
Getting back to 1934. When no ambulance
comes, the group props ol’ Pretty Boy in the
backseat of the Federal car between two G-men,
and the Liverpool police lead them to the Sturgis
Funeral Home.
Ernie Sturgis is not only the local undertaker;
he’s also the county coroner. As undertaker, he
knew what to do with a stiff: He cleaned Floyd up,
sutured the wounds, and embalmed the body.
Only later did he concede that with such a big-
shot corpse an inquest should be held; and only
then did he find out that the district attorney (who
made such decisions) was sending over two
pathologists, who arrived at ll that night. When
they found the wounds already sutured they
couldn’t tell an entrance from an exist wound and
so remarked in their one-page report. That Floyd’s
body also had been embalmed didn't help.
Perhaps realizing that he’d jumped the gun (so
to speak), Sturgis now put on his coroner’s hat
and on one death certificate wrote: “…I find that
[Floyd] was justly shot to death by a combined
force of Agents of the Department of Justice and
Officers of the East Liverpool Police Department,
when attempting to escape.” But he prefaced that
with “gunshot wound through chest and
abdomen,” and on a similar documents he wrote,
“Gunshot wounds, two through the chest and
abdomen, and one through the forearm.” On the
Funeral Record that did not even require a cause
of death he scribbled, “Four wounds, shot in
stomach.”
This suggests that the rifle shot that hit Floyd's
arm was through-and-through, as was one of the
(presumably Thompson) slugs; and that
Smith recognized Purvis as the top dog when the
East Liverpool car found the Federal car, but
otherwise didn’t know one agent from another.
Nor did it help that Chester claimed he had known
Floyd from years earlier and thought he had hit
him twice.
Getting back to 1934. When no ambulance
comes, the group props ol’ Pretty Boy in the
backseat of the Federal car between two G-men,
and the Liverpool police lead them to the Sturgis
Funeral Home.
Ernie Sturgis is not only the local undertaker;
he’s also the county coroner. As undertaker, he
knew what to do with a stiff: He cleaned Floyd up,
sutured the wounds, and embalmed the body.
Only later did he concede that with such a big-
shot corpse an inquest should be held; and only
then did he find out that the district attorney (who
made such decisions) was sending over two
pathologists, who arrived at ll that night. When
they found the wounds already sutured they
couldn’t tell an entrance from an exist wound and
so remarked in their one-page report. That Floyd’s
body also had been embalmed didn't help.
Perhaps realizing that he’d jumped the gun (so
to speak), Sturgis now put on his coroner’s hat
and on one death certificate wrote: “…I find that
[Floyd] was justly shot to death by a combined
force of Agents of the Department of Justice and
Officers of the East Liverpool Police Department,
when attempting to escape.” But he prefaced that
with “gunshot wound through chest and
abdomen,” and on a similar documents he wrote,
“Gunshot wounds, two through the chest and
abdomen, and one through the forearm.” On the
Funeral Record that did not even require a cause
of death he scribbled, “Four wounds, shot in
stomach.”
This suggests that the rifle shot that hit Floyd's
arm was through-and-through, as was one of the
(presumably Thompson) slugs; and that
| KANSAS CITY MASSACRE Killing Pretty Boy Floyd Breathing New Life Into Chester Smith's Account |
The plan was pretty simple: Frank Nash, big-time bank
robber, had escaped from a Federal prison and thought
he had found a safe haven around Kansas City, where
he had plenty of friends, including cops. When some
Justice Department agents found a cooperative local
sheriff and virtually kidnapped Nash out of a tavern
near Hot Springs, the word went out and his friend
Verne Miller, lawman turn gunman, decided he needed
to be rescued before he was taken aboard a train at
Kansas City’s Union Station. As luck would have it,
Pretty Boy Floyd and Adam Richetti were camped at
Miller's house and reluctantly agreed, probably thinking
that if they threw down on his captors with the
firepower of submachine guns, they’d say the hell with
it, throw up their hands, and ol’ Frank could walk away.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Unfortunately for our prospective rescuers, a
Federal agent who had climbed into the car behind Mr.
Nash was handed a Model 1897 Winchester pump
shotgun by the sheriff. He wasn’t familiar with the gun
or a quirk in its design, and he didn’t know that if you
jacked a shell into the chamber while the trigger was
squeezed, the hammer fell on the fresh shell and the
shotgun went Ka-boom! So, when confronted by Miller
and Floyd shouting “Up! Up! Up!,” that’s just what he
did, instinctively, taking off part of Mr. Nash’s head.
Miller and Floyd must have thought, “Goddam!
They're shootin’ at us!” So they opened up with their
Thompsons and by the time the battle was over they
had four dead lawmen, including Federal agent
Raymond Caffrey, as well as a dead Frank Nash.
Plenty embarrassed, they all took it on the lam, and
FDR’s new attorney general, Homer Cummings, really
freaked out. He declared the first national “War on
Crime,” made it so his Feds could carry guns and make
arrests, and for conspiracy to deliver a Federal
prisoner hiked Floyd and Richetti to the top of the
Justice Department’s “most wanted” list.
robber, had escaped from a Federal prison and thought
he had found a safe haven around Kansas City, where
he had plenty of friends, including cops. When some
Justice Department agents found a cooperative local
sheriff and virtually kidnapped Nash out of a tavern
near Hot Springs, the word went out and his friend
Verne Miller, lawman turn gunman, decided he needed
to be rescued before he was taken aboard a train at
Kansas City’s Union Station. As luck would have it,
Pretty Boy Floyd and Adam Richetti were camped at
Miller's house and reluctantly agreed, probably thinking
that if they threw down on his captors with the
firepower of submachine guns, they’d say the hell with
it, throw up their hands, and ol’ Frank could walk away.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Unfortunately for our prospective rescuers, a
Federal agent who had climbed into the car behind Mr.
Nash was handed a Model 1897 Winchester pump
shotgun by the sheriff. He wasn’t familiar with the gun
or a quirk in its design, and he didn’t know that if you
jacked a shell into the chamber while the trigger was
squeezed, the hammer fell on the fresh shell and the
shotgun went Ka-boom! So, when confronted by Miller
and Floyd shouting “Up! Up! Up!,” that’s just what he
did, instinctively, taking off part of Mr. Nash’s head.
Miller and Floyd must have thought, “Goddam!
They're shootin’ at us!” So they opened up with their
Thompsons and by the time the battle was over they
had four dead lawmen, including Federal agent
Raymond Caffrey, as well as a dead Frank Nash.
Plenty embarrassed, they all took it on the lam, and
FDR’s new attorney general, Homer Cummings, really
freaked out. He declared the first national “War on
Crime,” made it so his Feds could carry guns and make
arrests, and for conspiracy to deliver a Federal
prisoner hiked Floyd and Richetti to the top of the
Justice Department’s “most wanted” list.
Actually, it took the Feds awhile to identify the
culprits, by which time Miller already had been offed by
his own cronies and his nude body dumped in a Detroit
ditch. This left Floyd and Richetti (always insisting he'd
been too hung-over to participate) still on the loose.
But by now John Dillinger had pulled his wooden-
pistol escape stunt at Crown Point, Indiana, and could
be chased by the Feds for stealing the Lake County
sheriff’s car and driving it across state lines to
culprits, by which time Miller already had been offed by
his own cronies and his nude body dumped in a Detroit
ditch. This left Floyd and Richetti (always insisting he'd
been too hung-over to participate) still on the loose.
But by now John Dillinger had pulled his wooden-
pistol escape stunt at Crown Point, Indiana, and could
be chased by the Feds for stealing the Lake County
sheriff’s car and driving it across state lines to
Gangsters killing
gangsters was one
thing, but killing
cops and a G-man?
No way!
gangsters was one
thing, but killing
cops and a G-man?
No way!
Okay, so the
G-man maybe
starts the battle
by accidentally
taking Frank's
head off with a
shotgun blast.
Everybody
makes mistakes.
G-man maybe
starts the battle
by accidentally
taking Frank's
head off with a
shotgun blast.
Everybody
makes mistakes.
Chicago (the old Dyer Act of 1924). Later shoot-outs with Dillinger in St. Paul
and with his whole his gang at Wisconsin’s Little Bohemia Lodge had left
the Feds empty-handed and Hoover supremely embarrassed, but it ran him
to the top of the list until a Bimbo in Red set him up for the kill outside
Chicago’s Biograph Theatre. Li’l Mel Purvis became a national hero as the
David who slew the most notorious and colorful Goliath in American criminal
history, much to Hoover’s dismay.
That was on July 22, 1934, and now the Feds immediately target gang-
member Baby Face Nelson, who has fled Chicago and is cooling it in
California. Then in October Purvis gets a call from Chief Fultz in Wellsville,
Ohio, who’s stumbled onto Floyd and Richetti, capturing the latter while
Floyd hotfoots it into the woods. When the Chief identifies his prisoner—
“we slapped him around a little”—they know the escapee must be Floyd and
call in the Feds. And here comes the fun part.
Purvis, Hollis and some others make camp at an East Liverpool motel, and
while Hollis goes to Wellsville to argue over custody of Richetti, Purvis sets
off in search of Floyd. Of course they get lost on unmarked country roads
and have to call the East Liverpool police. Now both cars are motoring
along Sprucevale Road when the East Liverpoolians spot a bedraggled
fellow in what’s left of a business suit trying to negotiate a ride at the farm
of Ellen Conkle. He spots them and runs behind a corn crib, then high-tails
it across a field, getting maybe a hundred yards head start toward a wooded
area while the cops and the Feds are yelling at him to stop. Then they all
start shooting, mostly with pistols and submachine guns.
The cop who staggers him with a hit through right arm probably is
Chester Smith, because he’s using a .32-20 Winchester rifle. When Floyd
tries to keep on going, he’s nailed in the back with a .45 slug, probably from
a Federal agent’s Thompson, and goes down.
According to the inquest, Chester and two other local cops reach him
first, and when Melvin and other agents arrive they try to question him: Are
you Pretty Boy Floyd who killed our man in the Kansas City Massacre?! He
snarls back that his name is Charles Arthur Floyd and ends a string of
expletives with words to the effect, “I won’t tell you sonsabitches nothing!”
Then he croaks.
Melvin storms off to find a telephone, presumably to call for an
ambulance. But what he actually does is call J. Edgar in Washington and
announce, “We’ve killed Floyd!” This is great news and Hoover is happy as
a p*g in sh*t. All the wire services report that the G-men have finally gotten
Mr. Floyd, most of them assuming he was shot to pieces in a great fire-fight.
That wasn’t exactly the case; Floyd never got off a shot. And it’s rumored
that the killing didn’t go down quite like Purvis said. Some 30 years later
Chester Smith, the last East Liverpool cop still living, starts telling local
fraternal and service organizations what, he claims, really happened. He
says that Purvis, after ordering the other officers to stand back, gets only
an earful of profanity from Floyd and tells G-man Herman Hollis, who’s
standing there with a Thompson, “Fire into him!”
Chester gets away with this for a good ten years, for the reporters who
pick up on the story work only for local papers. But on the 35th anniversary
of Floyd’s death the stories are carried by wire services to other
newspapers. Smith’s version of the shooting goes national when Time
magazine (which had no "field" reporters) sees these accounts and runs
with it on September 24, 1979, and the sh*t hits the fan. Bud Hopton, the one
last G-man who was there at the time, writes a blistering letter to the editor
pointing out that Herman Hollis was not even at the scene. He referred to
Smith as an “alleged” policeman (despite his immediate promotion to
captain) and branded his account a complete fabrication. He wrote,
…The truth is he was shot by two of the four FBI agents present when Floyd aimed his gun
at them [and] after he was shot two or three members of the East Liverpool Police
Department who were in the immediate area at the time came up to us and offered assistance
in directing us to the morgue in East Liverpool.”
Hopton was right about Hollis not being present when Floyd was shot and
that was enough to scuttle Chester’s story, even if the rest of Hopton’s
account was mostly baloney--either because his own memory was in
decline, or because he felt a need, for the sake of the Bureau’s history, to
refute the idea that the FBI ever murdered anyone.
Which leaves the question of whether Chester made up his story out of
thin air when he could have settled for being the rifleman who knocked
Floyd down and being the first to reach and disarm him. A brief inquest,
attended by neither Smith nor the Feds, seemed to deliberately avoid any
details of Floyd’s death, but did establish that Smith wrested a .45 automatic
from Pretty Boy’s hand; and that Patrolman Glenn Montgomery joined in
holding him down while Sgt. Herman Roth pulled another .45 from his belt.
After 1979, two Floyd biographers, Michael Wallis and Jeffery King,
reported Chester Smith’s version but, citing the Hollis discrepancy that
Hopton pointed out, tended to accept the FBI’s much tidier version. And
some current writers have only scoffed at Chester’s account as the efforts
of an embittered, old-fart cop to gain attention. It’s true that Smith had
embellished his role considerably when speaking to the locals, claiming he
had known Floyd years earlier and also thought he’d hit him twice; but he
didn't seek and hadn't expected any national publicity until Time magazine
came a-knockin’.
So let’s go back to yesteryear and the climate of the times.
In the Twenties and Thirties, most people expected their notorious
criminals to go out in a blaze of glory. They seemed to like the signs posted
in every Texas bank offering a “Reward of $5000 for DEAD bank
robbers…but not one cent for live ones.” Oklahoma banks likewise posted
a reward that applied to bank robbers who also could be killed during a
post-robbery chase. (Presumably that was to discourage old-time vigilante
justice and self-appointed bounty hunters, but in neither case were lawmen
even mentioned.) A certain amount of police brutality was also acceptable,
and only a largely-ignored handful of do-gooders opposed capital
punishment on moral grounds. State governors certainly didn't.
For those reasons, East Liverpool authorities probably considered it
unseemly to quibble over the manner of Floyd’s death, especially
and with his whole his gang at Wisconsin’s Little Bohemia Lodge had left
the Feds empty-handed and Hoover supremely embarrassed, but it ran him
to the top of the list until a Bimbo in Red set him up for the kill outside
Chicago’s Biograph Theatre. Li’l Mel Purvis became a national hero as the
David who slew the most notorious and colorful Goliath in American criminal
history, much to Hoover’s dismay.
That was on July 22, 1934, and now the Feds immediately target gang-
member Baby Face Nelson, who has fled Chicago and is cooling it in
California. Then in October Purvis gets a call from Chief Fultz in Wellsville,
Ohio, who’s stumbled onto Floyd and Richetti, capturing the latter while
Floyd hotfoots it into the woods. When the Chief identifies his prisoner—
“we slapped him around a little”—they know the escapee must be Floyd and
call in the Feds. And here comes the fun part.
Purvis, Hollis and some others make camp at an East Liverpool motel, and
while Hollis goes to Wellsville to argue over custody of Richetti, Purvis sets
off in search of Floyd. Of course they get lost on unmarked country roads
and have to call the East Liverpool police. Now both cars are motoring
along Sprucevale Road when the East Liverpoolians spot a bedraggled
fellow in what’s left of a business suit trying to negotiate a ride at the farm
of Ellen Conkle. He spots them and runs behind a corn crib, then high-tails
it across a field, getting maybe a hundred yards head start toward a wooded
area while the cops and the Feds are yelling at him to stop. Then they all
start shooting, mostly with pistols and submachine guns.
The cop who staggers him with a hit through right arm probably is
Chester Smith, because he’s using a .32-20 Winchester rifle. When Floyd
tries to keep on going, he’s nailed in the back with a .45 slug, probably from
a Federal agent’s Thompson, and goes down.
According to the inquest, Chester and two other local cops reach him
first, and when Melvin and other agents arrive they try to question him: Are
you Pretty Boy Floyd who killed our man in the Kansas City Massacre?! He
snarls back that his name is Charles Arthur Floyd and ends a string of
expletives with words to the effect, “I won’t tell you sonsabitches nothing!”
Then he croaks.
Melvin storms off to find a telephone, presumably to call for an
ambulance. But what he actually does is call J. Edgar in Washington and
announce, “We’ve killed Floyd!” This is great news and Hoover is happy as
a p*g in sh*t. All the wire services report that the G-men have finally gotten
Mr. Floyd, most of them assuming he was shot to pieces in a great fire-fight.
That wasn’t exactly the case; Floyd never got off a shot. And it’s rumored
that the killing didn’t go down quite like Purvis said. Some 30 years later
Chester Smith, the last East Liverpool cop still living, starts telling local
fraternal and service organizations what, he claims, really happened. He
says that Purvis, after ordering the other officers to stand back, gets only
an earful of profanity from Floyd and tells G-man Herman Hollis, who’s
standing there with a Thompson, “Fire into him!”
Chester gets away with this for a good ten years, for the reporters who
pick up on the story work only for local papers. But on the 35th anniversary
of Floyd’s death the stories are carried by wire services to other
newspapers. Smith’s version of the shooting goes national when Time
magazine (which had no "field" reporters) sees these accounts and runs
with it on September 24, 1979, and the sh*t hits the fan. Bud Hopton, the one
last G-man who was there at the time, writes a blistering letter to the editor
pointing out that Herman Hollis was not even at the scene. He referred to
Smith as an “alleged” policeman (despite his immediate promotion to
captain) and branded his account a complete fabrication. He wrote,
…The truth is he was shot by two of the four FBI agents present when Floyd aimed his gun
at them [and] after he was shot two or three members of the East Liverpool Police
Department who were in the immediate area at the time came up to us and offered assistance
in directing us to the morgue in East Liverpool.”
Hopton was right about Hollis not being present when Floyd was shot and
that was enough to scuttle Chester’s story, even if the rest of Hopton’s
account was mostly baloney--either because his own memory was in
decline, or because he felt a need, for the sake of the Bureau’s history, to
refute the idea that the FBI ever murdered anyone.
Which leaves the question of whether Chester made up his story out of
thin air when he could have settled for being the rifleman who knocked
Floyd down and being the first to reach and disarm him. A brief inquest,
attended by neither Smith nor the Feds, seemed to deliberately avoid any
details of Floyd’s death, but did establish that Smith wrested a .45 automatic
from Pretty Boy’s hand; and that Patrolman Glenn Montgomery joined in
holding him down while Sgt. Herman Roth pulled another .45 from his belt.
After 1979, two Floyd biographers, Michael Wallis and Jeffery King,
reported Chester Smith’s version but, citing the Hollis discrepancy that
Hopton pointed out, tended to accept the FBI’s much tidier version. And
some current writers have only scoffed at Chester’s account as the efforts
of an embittered, old-fart cop to gain attention. It’s true that Smith had
embellished his role considerably when speaking to the locals, claiming he
had known Floyd years earlier and also thought he’d hit him twice; but he
didn't seek and hadn't expected any national publicity until Time magazine
came a-knockin’.
So let’s go back to yesteryear and the climate of the times.
In the Twenties and Thirties, most people expected their notorious
criminals to go out in a blaze of glory. They seemed to like the signs posted
in every Texas bank offering a “Reward of $5000 for DEAD bank
robbers…but not one cent for live ones.” Oklahoma banks likewise posted
a reward that applied to bank robbers who also could be killed during a
post-robbery chase. (Presumably that was to discourage old-time vigilante
justice and self-appointed bounty hunters, but in neither case were lawmen
even mentioned.) A certain amount of police brutality was also acceptable,
and only a largely-ignored handful of do-gooders opposed capital
punishment on moral grounds. State governors certainly didn't.
For those reasons, East Liverpool authorities probably considered it
unseemly to quibble over the manner of Floyd’s death, especially
when the newly-minted G-men had
found themselves more than
welcomed by a public so fed up with
the ineffectiveness of local law
enforcement that Congress was
eager to pass most of Homer
Cummings’ anti-crime proposals. If
anyone even contemplated murder
charges against the G-men, that
idea probably was laid to rest along
with the two more Federal agents
killed by Baby Face Nelson one
month later.
In 1934, Deputy Sheriff George
Hayes, who had helped capture
Richetti, was told the same story in
confidence by other East Liverpool
officers, but he kept quiet at the
time. The cops may have talked
about it privately, but otherwise it
was left as a rumor on which he
refused to comment.
On the 35th anniversary of Floyd’
s death in 1969 Chester still wasn’t
disputing the FBI’s account, unless
that can be inferred from a local
reporter’s quoting of Stewart Dyke,
the man with whom Floyd had been
arranging a ride at the Conkle Farm
when the East Liverpool police
came down the road. Dyke said to
Smith, “A lot of people talk about it
that don’t know anything about it,”
and Smith replied, “I’ve never read
the truth of it either.”
Sometime after that, Smith, long
retired, began telling his version of
Floyd's death without attracting
outside attention, but when he
discussed it with reporters on the
40th anniversary in 1974 his story
was supported by Deputy Hayes,
who thought back and added:
…I got a call a little later from Judge Ernest
Van Fossman. He asked if there was any
trouble in taking Floyd. “Only that he went
home in a box,” I told him. He seemed to
sense something was wrong. Well, I told
him the truth….
Evidently the judge had asked
that question of Hayes because
Melvin, in a moment of reckless
candor, blurted that Hoover had
ordered him to send Floyd “home in
a box.” Whether or not Hoover got
wind of that, he ordered Purvis to
leave town, if only because he
didn't want Purvis to reap all the
personal publicity that had attended
the sensational killing of Dillinger.
That had soured Hoover on Purvis
at the time, and it wasn’t long
before Mel, finding himself
assigned to evaluate other offices
around the country, decided to
resign. In any case, Purvis’s
banishment from East Liverpool left
Hermann Hollis running the show.
The newsman reporting the judge’
s phone call was Peter Geiger of
the Akron Beacon-Journal and he
wrote to the FBI regarding Chester’
s claims. He was brushed off by a
spokesman who said, “FBI policy is
not to identify the officer who
actually killed him—or even to say if
it was an FBI agent or a local
policeman.”
Between the 40th anniversary in
1974 and a dozen local stories that
led to Time’s national coverage in
1979, reporters had been screwing
up Smith’s version with their
paraphrasing from memory or
interviewing of Mrs. Smith. Besides
misspelling Hollis’s name as
“Hawless,” one had Melvin himself
shooting Floyd, one had another G-
man shooting him with a revolver
on Purvis’s orders, and one had
Purvis telling “Hawless” to kill him
found themselves more than
welcomed by a public so fed up with
the ineffectiveness of local law
enforcement that Congress was
eager to pass most of Homer
Cummings’ anti-crime proposals. If
anyone even contemplated murder
charges against the G-men, that
idea probably was laid to rest along
with the two more Federal agents
killed by Baby Face Nelson one
month later.
In 1934, Deputy Sheriff George
Hayes, who had helped capture
Richetti, was told the same story in
confidence by other East Liverpool
officers, but he kept quiet at the
time. The cops may have talked
about it privately, but otherwise it
was left as a rumor on which he
refused to comment.
On the 35th anniversary of Floyd’
s death in 1969 Chester still wasn’t
disputing the FBI’s account, unless
that can be inferred from a local
reporter’s quoting of Stewart Dyke,
the man with whom Floyd had been
arranging a ride at the Conkle Farm
when the East Liverpool police
came down the road. Dyke said to
Smith, “A lot of people talk about it
that don’t know anything about it,”
and Smith replied, “I’ve never read
the truth of it either.”
Sometime after that, Smith, long
retired, began telling his version of
Floyd's death without attracting
outside attention, but when he
discussed it with reporters on the
40th anniversary in 1974 his story
was supported by Deputy Hayes,
who thought back and added:
…I got a call a little later from Judge Ernest
Van Fossman. He asked if there was any
trouble in taking Floyd. “Only that he went
home in a box,” I told him. He seemed to
sense something was wrong. Well, I told
him the truth….
Evidently the judge had asked
that question of Hayes because
Melvin, in a moment of reckless
candor, blurted that Hoover had
ordered him to send Floyd “home in
a box.” Whether or not Hoover got
wind of that, he ordered Purvis to
leave town, if only because he
didn't want Purvis to reap all the
personal publicity that had attended
the sensational killing of Dillinger.
That had soured Hoover on Purvis
at the time, and it wasn’t long
before Mel, finding himself
assigned to evaluate other offices
around the country, decided to
resign. In any case, Purvis’s
banishment from East Liverpool left
Hermann Hollis running the show.
The newsman reporting the judge’
s phone call was Peter Geiger of
the Akron Beacon-Journal and he
wrote to the FBI regarding Chester’
s claims. He was brushed off by a
spokesman who said, “FBI policy is
not to identify the officer who
actually killed him—or even to say if
it was an FBI agent or a local
policeman.”
Between the 40th anniversary in
1974 and a dozen local stories that
led to Time’s national coverage in
1979, reporters had been screwing
up Smith’s version with their
paraphrasing from memory or
interviewing of Mrs. Smith. Besides
misspelling Hollis’s name as
“Hawless,” one had Melvin himself
shooting Floyd, one had another G-
man shooting him with a revolver
on Purvis’s orders, and one had
Purvis telling “Hawless” to kill him
one slug stayed in the body. Reporter Robert Popp wrote
that this one was removed and given to Chief Hugh
McDermott, and McDermott evidently gave it to Chester
Smith as a souvenir.
It was still in Smith’s possession when interviewed by
researcher Neal Trickel in 1980, four years before his own
death. The East Liverpool police chief who accompanied
Trickel said he also should talk to a neighbor of the late
Widow Conkle. She told him that she was a young girl at the
time, had heard all the shooting, and was putting on a coat to
investigate. Minutes later she heard another shot and
decided against it, but eventually went over to the Conkle
house and learned the man they’d killed was Floyd.
Smith gifted the .45 slug to Trickel, and a friend of his at
the Wisconsin crime lab confirmed that it had been fired from
a Thompson submachine gun. Some ten years after that
serologist Marian Caparusso at the Chicago Police Crime Lab
discovered, to her surprise, that it still tested positive for
blood, which must have remained in the spent bullet’s
crease between the lead core and the cupro-nickel jacket
commonly used at the time. It now resides at the American
Museum of Crime & Punishment in Washington, DC.
In 2008 the original autopsy report was shown to a
physician, who likewise had trouble charting the bullet paths.
After looking at a photo of Floyd on the slab, he speculated
that the wound in Floyd’s right arm had been made by a
smaller-caliber rifle bullet that also exited, and otherwise
wrote:
…There appear to have been two mortal wounds caused by two separate
gunshots.
Given the types of injuries from two gunshot wounds, the victim in one
instance may have been standing and possibly shot from behind, causing an
extensive penetrating wound of the pancreas. The wound visible in the
photograph appears to be an entrance wound fired by a shooter standing to
his front, resulting in extensive retro-peritoneal hemorrhage from the right
side and in the right iliopsoas muscle.
Whatever the confusion over quotes, misquotes and
imaginations, the one thing certain is that Pretty Boy Floyd
went to meet his maker in 1934; and Richetti went to the
chair, still protesting his innocence.
that this one was removed and given to Chief Hugh
McDermott, and McDermott evidently gave it to Chester
Smith as a souvenir.
It was still in Smith’s possession when interviewed by
researcher Neal Trickel in 1980, four years before his own
death. The East Liverpool police chief who accompanied
Trickel said he also should talk to a neighbor of the late
Widow Conkle. She told him that she was a young girl at the
time, had heard all the shooting, and was putting on a coat to
investigate. Minutes later she heard another shot and
decided against it, but eventually went over to the Conkle
house and learned the man they’d killed was Floyd.
Smith gifted the .45 slug to Trickel, and a friend of his at
the Wisconsin crime lab confirmed that it had been fired from
a Thompson submachine gun. Some ten years after that
serologist Marian Caparusso at the Chicago Police Crime Lab
discovered, to her surprise, that it still tested positive for
blood, which must have remained in the spent bullet’s
crease between the lead core and the cupro-nickel jacket
commonly used at the time. It now resides at the American
Museum of Crime & Punishment in Washington, DC.
In 2008 the original autopsy report was shown to a
physician, who likewise had trouble charting the bullet paths.
After looking at a photo of Floyd on the slab, he speculated
that the wound in Floyd’s right arm had been made by a
smaller-caliber rifle bullet that also exited, and otherwise
wrote:
…There appear to have been two mortal wounds caused by two separate
gunshots.
Given the types of injuries from two gunshot wounds, the victim in one
instance may have been standing and possibly shot from behind, causing an
extensive penetrating wound of the pancreas. The wound visible in the
photograph appears to be an entrance wound fired by a shooter standing to
his front, resulting in extensive retro-peritoneal hemorrhage from the right
side and in the right iliopsoas muscle.
Whatever the confusion over quotes, misquotes and
imaginations, the one thing certain is that Pretty Boy Floyd
went to meet his maker in 1934; and Richetti went to the
chair, still protesting his innocence.
Speaking of public sentiment in 1934, here's Oklahoma Governor Murray's remedy for bank-robbing:
"For the first offense of any kind of banditry, I would sentence the man to the
penitentiary for a long ter, and also fifty lashes on the bare back in public.
"For the second offense I would give him a longer term and sentence him to stand in
the stocks, in a public place....
"For the third offense I would send him to the electric chair...."
"For the first offense of any kind of banditry, I would sentence the man to the
penitentiary for a long ter, and also fifty lashes on the bare back in public.
"For the second offense I would give him a longer term and sentence him to stand in
the stocks, in a public place....
"For the third offense I would send him to the electric chair...."
Verne, croaked.
Mrs. Conkle, who
fed Pretty Boy; the
Conkle farmhouse;
and the car in which
Mr Floyd tried to
hitch a ride .
fed Pretty Boy; the
Conkle farmhouse;
and the car in which
Mr Floyd tried to
hitch a ride .
The East Liverpool cops were a little
pissed when Hoover's FBI received the
credit for killing Mr. Floyd. Which, in fact,
they did--one way or another.
pissed when Hoover's FBI received the
credit for killing Mr. Floyd. Which, in fact,
they did--one way or another.
In 1980 Chester Smith and his wife
were interviewed by researcher Neal
Trickel. Chester gave him a .45 slug that
came from Mr. Floyd's body. Some sixty
years later it surprised a Chicago police
crime lab serologist by still testing positive
for blood.
were interviewed by researcher Neal
Trickel. Chester gave him a .45 slug that
came from Mr. Floyd's body. Some sixty
years later it surprised a Chicago police
crime lab serologist by still testing positive
for blood.
| Adam Richetti claimed he was too hung-over to participate. He claimed that all the way to the chair. |
HELLO, PRETTY BOY! Goodbye, Charles
Arthur Floyd...
Arthur Floyd...
| The shots fired in The Kansas City Massacre gave U.S. Attorney General Cummings what he needed to declare America's first WAR ON CRIME |
