Baby Face Nelson robbed a Grand Haven bank

A few weeks ago, my husband and I finally entered the 20th century (yes, I know I said 20th century...that's how far behind the times we were) and got expanded cable service. Thanks to the wonders of technology, we have access to more than one hundred channels, 95 percent of which we'll never watch. (But we do have the Big Ten Network, so it's all good.)

Anyway, I was wiling away an afternoon flipping through our dozens of stations when I came upon a program about John Dillinger, he of the Depression-era, "Public Enemy Number 1" fame. The show mentioned the fact that Baby Face Nelson, one of Dillinger's partners in crime, got his start as a gang leader after robbing a bank in Grand Haven. I had never heard that story before, so I did some research to learn more about it. Here's what I found out.

The man who became Baby Face Nelson was born Lester Joseph Gillis in Chicago in 1908. (During his criminal years, he used the pseudonym George Nelson, which explains his new last name; I'll get to the "Baby Face" part shortly.) Nelson became a ne'er-do-well at a young age. By the time he was 13, he had been arrested twice. Throughout his teen years, he took part in robberies and bootlegging operations. Reports differ regarding the source of Nelson's nickname, but a commonly told story is that he picked it up in 1930, when the wife of Chicago's mayor, from whom Nelson had stolen $18,000 worth of jewelry, described the culprit as having "a baby face" and being "hardly more than a boy." (Nelson was said to have hated the nickname, but it became so well known, he was stuck with it.)

Lester Joseph Gillis, aka, Baby Face Nelson

Nelson's connection to Grand Haven began when he met fellow career criminal Eddie Bentz, with whom Nelson decided to plan a bank robbery. Up to that point, Nelson's involvement in bank heists had been as part of larger gangs. This time, he wanted to be one of the head honchos. Bentz scoured bank records and posed as a prospective customer to gain insight into the physical setups of financial institutions throughout the Midwest. Eventually, he decided that the People's Savings Bank in Grand Haven was a good target. Bentz and Nelson gathered together a crew of miscreants, and made plans to rob the bank on August 18, 1933.

The result was like a macabre version of a "Three Stooges" short. Nelson and Bentz had amassed four men to help them. Three of those men would rob the bank, while a fourth would drive the getaway car. When the gang burst through the doors of People's Savings Bank at around 3 p.m., they brandished machine guns and ordered everyone---a cashier, a teller, three other employees, and three customers---to hit the floor. In the ensuing tumult, the teller, Arthur Welling, pressed an alarm that alerted the police, as well as the owner of the business next door. That man, Edward Kinkema, grabbed a shotgun and ran from his shop toward the bank.

People's Savings Bank, Grand Haven, circa 1900

Here's where things got a little loopy. The getaway driver, who has never officially been identified, took one look at Kinkema's gun and drove away, leaving his compatriots to fend for themselves. With the alarm ringing, Nelson and his crew knew their time was running short, so they used frightened bank employees as human shields and made their way out a side door. A growing crowd of armed Grand Haven residents met them. The result was a volley of gunfire during which the bandits shot four citizens. (Fortunately, none of the wounds was mortal.) However, Kinkema and a few other residents were able to subdue one of the robbers, a man named Earle Doyle, who was later convicted and sentenced to life in prison. The remaining gangsters, including Nelson, commandeered a nearby vehicle and made their getaway.

They may have escaped, but Nelson and his crew weren't out of the woods yet. The criminals sped away from Grand Haven, stole another car, then headed toward Indiana. They were within spitting distance of the Hoosier State when their vehicle suffered a flat tire near Hudson, a community in Lenawee County just north of the Michigan/Indiana border. At that point, Nelson and his crew stole a third car and, finally, made it to Indiana. In 1933, bank robberies were considered state crimes, not federal crimes, so Michigan police couldn't cross the border to catch their prey. The result? Nelson and his gang got away scot-free, though with only a fraction of the money they had stolen from the People's Savings Bank. Having left most of the cash behind during their getaway attempt, the crooks netted a take of only $2,300.

The robbery hadn't gone according to plan, but the fact that he had gotten away with it gave Nelson the confidence he needed to helm his own gang of thieves. Throughout the following year, he crisscrossed the nation, leaving a trail of robberies and murders in his wake. However, Nelson's career as a criminal mastermind didn't last long. After federal agents killed John Dillinger in July 1934, Nelson became Public Enemy Number 1. A few months later, in November 1934, he died during a shootout with FBI agents outside Chicago.

Newspaper reporting on the death of Baby Face Nelson, as well as
the deaths of two federal agents who were killed during the shootout.

Nelson differed from the "Robin Hood"-type criminals that Depression-weary Americans admired. Unlike many gangsters, he had no qualms about killing innocent bystanders during his heists, so the nation heaved a collective sigh of relief when his reign of terror was over. Michiganders likely took extra solace from his death, as they no longer had to fear that the gangster would return to wreak havoc in the state that had helped start his career as a gang leader.


Additional information:

In response to incidents like the Grand Haven bank robbery, during which criminals escaped prosecution simply by crossing state borders, the United State government passed the National Bank Robbery Act of 1934, which made the robbery of certain banks a federal, not a state, offense. This gave law enforcement personnel more leeway in apprehending criminals, and also allowed for stiffer penalties for those convicted of robbery-related crimes.

The building that housed the People's Savings Bank still stands, and is located at 300 Washington Avenue. It now houses a branch of Chase Bank.

Felony Friday: The Banker Who Became a Bank Robber

As William Treadwell sat behind his desk at People's Bank in Hudson, a small community in southern Michigan's Lenawee County, he mulled over the opportunity that presented itself. It was January 1864, and area governments were depositing huge amounts of money, the proceeds of year-end taxes their citizens had paid the previous month. The governments would withdraw the money in February, when their own taxes came due, but in the meantime, the vaults were full at People's Bank, which Treadwell had bought in 1859 with his father, Urias, but which he now owned outright. Though Treadwell was a respected member of the community, and counted among his friends many of the local businessmen and farmers who trusted him with their money, the seeds of greed had taken root in his brain, and he was about to commit a crime that would forever tarnish his name in Hudson---as well as lead to his grisly death.

Overhead view of Hudson, back in the day

Treadwell had grown up in southeastern Michigan, and began his career in dry goods. He started out as junior clerk at a shop in Hudson, but proved so good at sales that he eventually became the shop's proprietor. His tenure at People's Bank began when the bank's owner hired him as manager. Eventually, Treadwell bought the bank from his boss and built a strong business based on his pleasant attitude and professional demeanor. Treadwell was so successful that he was able to build an expansive, Italian-villa-style house, which stands in Hudson to this day.

Vintage photo of the William Treadwell House

However, the temptation to acquire more wealth proved too great, and Treadwell hatched a scheme that would make him a very wealthy man. First, though, he needed more money than the treasure trove that already sat in People's Bank. On January 16, 1864, Treadwell sent a series of letters requesting loans from banks in various Midwestern cities. Many of the banks agreed, and by January 20, the corrupt banker had amassed a sizable amount of cash. Early that morning, Treadwell entered his bank's vault and left with $60,000 (which today would equal about $1 million). He hopped on a train with his ill-gotten gains and hightailed it to Ohio, where he met with his wife, Mary, and her father, Samuel Hester. Both knew about the plot, and spent the next few days traveling across Ohio with Treadwell, trying to avoid detection.

The trio remained undiscovered for a few weeks, but eventually were found on a train in Mansfield, Ohio. Officers arrested Treadwell, but for some reason, they let Mary and her father leave with the money Treadwell had stolen from his bank. Treadwell returned to Michigan, and sat behind bars until July 1, 1864, when he was convicted and sent back to jail. Before her husband returned to lockup, Mary embraced him, slipping him eight hundred dollars while she did so.

Treadwell's incarceration didn't last long; in fact, it lasted only a few hours. By 5 p.m. on the day of his conviction, Treadwell had escaped, along with another jailbird, John Cowell, who was a horse thief. The two headed back toward Ohio to find Samuel Hester, who still had the bank's money. Treadwell had promised Cowell a share of the cash they would receive from Hester when they found him, but Cowell grew impatient and decided the eight hundred dollars Treadwell carried with him was too much of a temptation to resist. Some time around July 4, near the Ohio community of Napoleon, Cowell killed Treadwell by shooting him and crushing his head, then made off with the money. A man walking through the woods found Treadwell's body on July 14, and authorities later arrested Cowell at his father's home in Bloomingville, Ohio. Cowell was ultimately convicted of and hanged for Treadwell's murder.

At that point, Treadwell was no longer on the hook for the money he had stolen (albeit for the worst possible reason). However, someone had to be held responsible, and that person---actually, those people---were Treadwell's father and father-in-law. Although Samuel Hester eventually returned his son-in-law's ill-gotten cash, for several years he and Urias Treadwell faced lawsuits from the bank's creditors, who were demanding back their money. In time, the financial issues abated, the story fell off the front pages of newspapers, and life in Hudson returned to normal. Still, Treadwell's crime remained a much-discussed topic for years to come. The reason, as The New York Times noted in an 1864 article about the incident, was simple: "Few more remarkable cases than this are found recorded in the history of crime."

Felony Friday: The Robison family murders

The smell was overwhelming that July day in 1968 as Chauncey Bliss approached the cabin he had built years earlier near the community of Good Hart, on the Lower Peninsula's northwest coast. Bliss was a carpenter who had constructed many vacation homes along the glistening shore of Lake Michigan. Now he served as caretaker of those homes, which he had collectively named "Blisswood," and which included among their number a residence occupied by the Robisons, a rich family from the Detroit suburb of Lathrup Village.

Drawn to the Robison home by a woman who lived near the family, and who called complaining about an ungodly smell, Bliss stepped up to the log-cabin-style residence. No one had seen the Robisons for several weeks, but family members had told acquaintances that they were planning a trip out of town, so their absences hadn't alarmed anyone. The smell probably came from a dead raccoon in the crawl space, thought Bliss, steeling himself to face the odor that he knew would be more pungent inside. Bliss knocked at the front door, but got no response, so he entered the house. Immediately, he saw a woman's body sprawled in the entryway, her clothing in disarray. Behind her, Bliss caught a glimpse of several other bodies, laying on the floor in pools of congealed blood. Shocked, Bliss hurried away and called the police.

An initial investigation revealed that the cabin contained six bodies---every member of the Robison family, from 42-year-old father Richard to 7-year-old daughter Susan. Both father and daughter had been bludgeoned with a hammer, as well as shot with a pistol. The other family members---40-year-old mother Shirley, and sons Richie, 19, Gary, 16, and Randy, 12---had been shot with the same weapon as had the other Robisons, but had not been struck with the hammer. Due to the condition of the bodies, which were heavily decomposed and covered with flies, officers estimated the murders took place about a month before the Robisons were found. Authorities eventually placed the date and time of death as the late afternoon or early evening of Tuesday, June 25, 1968.

The Robison family. Top row, left to right, Gary and Richie; Middle row: Randy;
 Bottom row, left to right, Shirley, Susan, and Richard.

At first, police were at a loss. The Robisons were an upstanding family that attended church regularly and had no enemies. Richard was an advertising executive and published an arts magazine called "Impresario," while Shirley took care of the family's home. Richie, the eldest son, attended Eastern Michigan University. The younger Robisons did well in their studies, and family acquaintances said they were smart and polite children. Why, then, would someone kill the family in such a violent manner, then leave their bodies to decay for several weeks?

 

The Robison cabin during the police investigation.

As police dug into Richard Robison's business dealings, they came up with a lead. Though Robison presented himself as a prosperous executive, his companies were in trouble. He was engaging in funny business with the finances for "Impresario," and was telling colleagues and family members about various deals he had in the works, though no one knew much about them. One of the most revealing discoveries was that, while he was in Good Hart, Robison had left his business in the hands of 30-year-old Joseph Scolaro III, an employee who was embezzling money from Robison. (The amount was later revealed to be about $60,000.) Police theorized that, during a phone call between Robison and Scolaro hours before the murder, Robison revealed that he had found out about the embezzlement. At that point, according to police, a panicked Scolaro took off from Detroit, drove several hours north to Good Hart, and killed the family before Richard Robison could come forward with details about Scolaro's crime.

Circumstantial evidence supported this conclusion. Scolaro had been out of contact with friends, business associates, and family for twelve hours on the day of the murder, and police couldn't find anyone to support Scolaro's alibis as to where he was that day. Officers also discovered that shell casings found at a shooting range that Scolaro frequented matched casings police had found at the scene of the crime. In addition, Scolaro failed two polygraph tests, and delivered inconclusive results on a third. To officers, Scolaro became a prime suspect.

However, because police couldn't find the murder weapons, nor any eyewitnesses to the crime, the prosecutor in Emmet County, where the Robison's cabin was located, didn't press charges. Frustrated, state police officers worked with prosecutors in Oakland County, where the Robisons lived, to continue the investigation. In 1973, Oakland County Prosecutor L. Brooks Patterson was ready to charge Scolaro with conspiracy to commit murder. However, before officers could apprehend their suspect, Scolaro shot himself in the head, effectively ending Brooks' attempt to prosecute him. Scolaro left behind a suicide note in which he said that he did not kill the family, but many students of the case, as well as the state police and the Emmet County Sheriff's Department, still consider him the chief suspect.

That's not to say that Scolaro is the only person who has been accused of killing Richard Robison and his family. Critics of the "Scolaro as killer" theory say that Scolaro couldn't have driven to Good Hart, shot the Robison family, and driven back to the Detroit area in the amount of time for which he didn't have an alibi. Some people suspect that John Norman Collins, who was convicted in 1970 of killing a female college student in Ypsilanti (and is a suspect in the killings of several other co-eds), was somehow involved in the Robison murders. Collins attended Eastern Michigan University at the same time Richie Robison did, and is even said to have possibly roomed with Robison during orientation week.

Another proposed suspect is the caretaker, Chauncey Bliss, an eccentric whom some Good Hart locals believe committed the murders after his son, who was friends with the Robison boys, died in a motorcycle accident shortly before the Robison murders. According to this theory, Bliss felt slighted by Richard Robison in the days following the younger Bliss's death, and took his revenge by killing the family. (Police didn't regard Bliss as a suspect in the Robison murders.)

Other suspects have been suggested and discarded, and the case is officially unsolved. Forty-five years after the murders, the community of Good Hart remains a popular vacation destination for downstaters looking to get away from it all. Unfortunately, for the Robisons, their attempt to "get away from it all" ended during a violent encounter after which they would never return.


For more information:

A few books about the Robison murders have been published. They include:

"When Evil Came to Good Hart" by Mardi Link (an excellent nonfiction book about the murders; I highly recommend it)

"Dead End" by James J. Pecora (I own this book, but haven't yet read it; it's essentially a nonfiction book, but changes the names of the family members and various characters)

"The Tarnished Eye" by Judith Guest (a fictionalized version of the Robison story)

Felony Friday: The tragic end of Marvin Gaye

One of my favorite Motown songs is "I Heard It Through the Grapevine," the version by Marvin Gaye. This song gives me chills, it's so soulful and heart-rending. I'm sure everyone has heard it, but check it out again:

Even more heart-rending than this song is the tragic way Gaye's life ended: at the hands of his own father, who shot Gaye with a gun that Gaye himself had given his dad. However, before I tell the story of Gaye's death, let me share some information about his life.

Marvin Gaye was born in Washington, D.C. in 1939, the son of Marvin Gay, Sr. (the younger Gaye eventually added an "e" to the end of his last name) and Alberta Gay. Signs of trouble between father and son began early in Gaye's life. Though Marvin Sr. was a minister, he was abusive, and administered regular beatings to his son. Salvation came in the form of Gaye's mother, who encouraged his interest in music. Gaye began singing in church at the age of four, and as a teen performed in various doo-wop groups. After an unsuccessful stint in the United States Air Force, Gaye helped form a group called The Marquees, which performed around the D.C. area. Later, the group became "Harvey and the New Moonglows" and worked out of Chicago, where the band recorded a few of its own songs and also performed as session singers for musicians like Chuck Berry.

Marvin Gaye, early in his career

 

The "New Moonglows" disbanded in 1960, and Gaye moved to Detroit, where he signed on with Tamla, a subsidary of the Motown record company. His initial recordings didn't go anywhere, but he eventually gained fame with songs like "Hitch Hike" and "Pride and Joy." Gaye also became known for his duets with female Motown stars, in particular, Tammi Terrell, with whom he recorded songs like "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" and "Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing." Gaye's real breakthough came with his recording of "I Heard It Through the Grapevine," which was released in 1968 and was the first of Gaye's song to hit number one on Billboard's Hot 100 chart.

Despite his professional success, Gaye's life was taking a downward spiral. Terrell, his duet partner, had been diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor, and the news plunged Gaye into a depression that worsened when Terrell died in 1970. Gaye was also disillusioned with what he perceived was a lack of power over his own career. He considered himself a "puppet" of Motown found Berry Gordy, Jr., as well as of Gordy's sister, Anna, whom Gaye had married in 1964 and would ultimately divorce in 1977. After Terrell's death, Gaye took a break from Motown, but returned a few months later to record "What's Going On." Gordy deemed the song "too political" and refused to release it, but after Gaye went on strike, Gordy gave in. Almost immediately, the song reached the top spot on the R&B charts.

"What's Going On" album cover

During the 1970s, Gaye's work, which included the songs "Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology)" and "Let's Get It On," garnered him critical acclaim and commercial success. On the surface, life was going well, but inside, Gaye was crumbling again. He had developed an addiction to cocaine, and also owed several million dollars in taxes. In an effort to evade the IRS, Gaye moved to Europe, and left Motown soon after because, he alleged, the company had released one of his recordings without his consent.

Life in Europe was good to Gaye; he cleaned up his addiction and signed on with CBS Records. Gaye also embarked on a comeback effort that included the 1982 release, "Sexual Healing," which hit number one on the R&B charts, made it into the top ten on the pop charts, and won two Grammy awards. However, while on tour to promote his album Midnight Love, Gaye reverted to old habits, using cocaine again, and, according to friends, becoming increasingly paranoid and suicidal.

Gaye's troubles came to a head at his parents' Los Angeles home on April 1, 1984. For days, the family had been arguing about a misplaced business document. That morning, Marvin Sr. brought up the issue again. Around 11:30 a.m., Gaye was sitting in his bedroom, talking to his mother, when the elder Marvin, shouting, tried to enter the room. According to Alberta, Gaye shoved his father, then hit him. These actions were, essentially, a death sentence, as Marvin Sr. had often told his children that if they laid a hand on him, he would kill them. Marvin Sr. returned to the room with a gun--a gift that Marvin Jr. had given him--and shot his son in the chest. Marvin Sr. then fired a second shot at point-blank range. Though Gaye survived for a few minutes, the first shot proved fatal, and he was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital an hour and a half later. Gaye had died the day before his 45th birthday.

Marvin Sr. was arrested, and insisted that he had fired at his son in self defense, and that he didn't know the gun was loaded. (Editor's note: This argument seems suspect to me, because if Marvin Sr. wasn't expecting the gun to contain bullets, why did he shoot his son a second time?) Perhaps most telling is the way Marvin Sr. answered the question, "Did you love your son?" His response? "Let's say I didn't dislike him."

Marvin Gay, Sr. being escorted by police

Ultimately, Marvin Sr. pleaded "no contest" to voluntary manslaughter and was sentenced to probation. Gaye's ashes were scattered over the Pacific Ocean. The man himself become the subject of scores of tributes from his musician friends, and was also inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Almost thirty years after his death, Gaye's work still receives accolades and awards from music critics and organizations across the world. The "Prince of Motown" may be gone, his legacy lives on.

Felony Friday: A killer love story

It's a typical love story, told in countless romance novels. A poor boy meets a rich girl and works tirelessly to elevate his social standing so that he can win her affection. The boy woos the girl, marries her, and spirits her away to a life of comfort and luxury in the big city. Then, when the girl's parents come to visit the newlyweds in their posh new home, the boy kills them.

Okay, so the marriage of Arthur Warren Waite (the boy) and Clara Peck (the girl) was not a storybook romance, a fact with which Clara's ill-fated parents, John and Hannah Peck, would likely agree. The sad saga of the Peck family began when Waite started dating Clara during high school, shortly after the turn of the 20th century. Waite came from a family of farmers, while Clara enjoyed a wealthy lifestyle made possible by the fortune her father had earned as co-founder of Peck Brothers Drug Company in Grand Rapids. The lovebirds continued their romance after Waite left for The University of Michigan, where he studied dentistry, and later for postgraduate work at the University of Glasgow in Scotland, from which he graduated with honors. The newly minted physician found his way to South Africa, where he served as chief dentist for a mining company. However, Clara was never far from his thoughts and Waite eventually returned to Grand Rapids in 1914 to speed up their courtship.


Arthur Warren Waite

Trouble was already brewing between Waite and his sweetheart's family; John Peck disapproved of the relationship, insisting that Waite was too ambitious. However, his concerns fell on deaf ears, and Clara married Waite in Grand Rapids in September 1915. Perhaps as a peace offering, John gave the newlyweds an apartment in Manhattan, where Waite and Clara moved shortly after their marriage and where Waite set up a dental practice.

If Waite had been as diligent about maintaining his practice as he was about playing tennis and hooking up with married women, John and Hannah Peck might have lived the rest of their lives in peace. As it was, not long after arriving in New York City, Waite began an affair with a wealthy married woman, and realized that he needed money to keep his new honey satisfied. Though his in-laws give him and Clara a monthly stipend, the amount wasn't enough to please Waite. He hatched a plan to get his hands on the rest of the Pecks' fortune, and put it into action in January 1916, when Hannah Peck arrived in New York to visit her daughter and son-in-law.

Hannah likely relished the chance to relax and catch up with her family while spending time in a fast-paced, cosmopolitan city. However, ten days after her arrival, she was dead, and her cremated remains sent back to Grand Rapids. Waite insisted on overseeing the cremation and funeral preparations so that the rest of the grieving family would be spared the task.

Hannah Peck

John Peck mourned his deceased wife, but was also grateful for the way Waite had taken charge of the situation. The eldest Peck decided a visit to his daughter and son-in-law was in order, and he arrived in New York City in March 1916. In an eerie coincidence, he, like his wife, died not long after. As he had done after Hannah's death, Waite insisted that a quick cremation and return to Grand Rapids was in order. However, Clara and her brother, Percy, resisted, saying that their father was so well-known in his hometown that mourners would certainly want to see his body.

John Peck

Not wanting to invite suspicion, Waite gave in, but his murderous plot was already unraveling. When Percy returned to Grand Rapids, he received a telegram from an unknown person, "K. Adams," that urged him to have his father's body examined. (It was later revealed that a Peck relative, Elizabeth Hardwicke, had sent the telegram after seeing Waite parade around New York City with his mistress.) Percy arranged for the exam, during which physicians discovered traces of arsenic and chloroform in his father's body. Their conclusion was that John Peck and, in all probability, his wife Hannah, had been murdered.

At first, Clara insisted that her husband had nothing to do with her parents' suspicious deaths, but the evidence quickly mounted against Waite. The man who embalmed John Peck told police that Waite offered him money to put arsenic in the embalming fluid, so that examiners would attribute the presence of that substance in John's body to the embalmer's work, and not to Waite's deadly deeds. (Though the embalmer accepted the money, he never spiked the fluid with arsenic.) Police also found an atomizer that Waite had filled with typhoid and anthrax germs, and had then given to Clara when she caught a cold. (Clara refused to inhale from it, a decision that likely saved her from becoming the third Peck to die at the hands of Arthur Waite.)

The evidence against Waite was piling up, and Waite, seeing no way out, tried unsuccessfully to kill himself with sleeping pills before finally confessing to the murders of John and Hannah Peck. Waite said he had dosed the couple with anthrax and typhoid strains that he had stolen from a hospital. While Hannah died right away, John hadn't perished quickly enough for Waite, who eventually resorted to arsenic. When that still didn't work, Waite smothered John to death with chloroform.

Arthur Waite in custody

The reason for Waite's crimes? Money, plain and simple. Waite had set his sights on the Peck fortune when he was just a kid, and everything he did afterward--courting Clara, graduating from The University of Michigan (through which he had cheated his way to a degree), and attending the University of Glasgow (where he forged papers stating that he had graduated from the institution)--moved Waite closer to that goal. The dentist admitted that he planned to kill everyone in the Peck family, so despite the fact that Clara and Percy Peck lost their parents to a deranged sociopath, they were also lucky in a sense, as they had escaped his murderous clutches.

Waite was tried and convicted for his crimes, and executed in the electric chair on May 1, 1917. John and Hannah Peck are buried in Oakhill Cemetery in Grand Rapids.

Felony Friday: An execution in Michigan

The streets of downtown Midland were a blur of chaos and fear the morning of September 29, 1937. Shortly before noon, two armed men had tried to rob the Chemical State Savings Bank, whose employees were processing payroll money from the Dow Corporation, one of the city's major employers. Though the men fled with no cash, they left two injured bank employees in their wake. Now, as the would-be robbers escaped in their car, bullets flew at them from an unknown location. One of the bullets hit the driver, who crashed his car into a parked vehicle. As both men stumbled from the wreckage, they set in motion a chain of events that would lead to the deaths of three people: two men who died from injuries they received that day, and a third man who, less than a year later, became the first and only person executed in Michigan since the state abolished the death penalty in 1846.

That person was Anthony "Tony" Chebatoris, a career criminal with a lengthy list of offenses. Chebatoris, originally from Poland, now lived in Detroit, and had served time in prison for bank robbery. He was also wanted in other states for crimes including robbery and assault.


Tony Chebatoris

Chebatoris had previously been incarcerated at the state prison in Jackson. It was there that he met Jack Gracy, another bank robber who, like Chebatoris, had spent much of his life behind bars. (A quick note: During my research for this post, I found that "Gracy" was spelled inconsistently among sources, some of which cited the name as "Gracey." I went with the "Gracy" spelling because it's the version that most sources used.) Prison life did nothing to rehabilitate the pair, and when Chebatoris and Gracy gained their freedom, they decided to rob the Chemical State Savings Bank, setting their plan in motion by arming themselves and driving north to Midland from Hamtramck that fateful September morning.

The plan was a risky one, and not just because Chebatoris and Gracy might get caught and imprisoned again. The country was in the midst of the Great Depression, and many Americans had turned to bank robbery as a means of keeping themselves afloat. To thwart future crimes, Congress passed the National Bank Robbery Act of 1934, which made the robbery of certain banks a federal offense, not a state one. This meant that robbers would face stiffer penalties and would serve their time in federal institutions, not state prisons. The act also stated that anyone who killed an innocent person in the course of committing a bank robbery would be eligible for the death penalty. Though Michigan had outlawed capital punishment nearly 100 years before (and was, in fact, the first English-speaking government in the world to do so), the federal legislation took precedence, so the lives of Michigan bank robbers who killed bystanders would no longer be protected by state law.

Whether this fact was on Chebatoris's and Gracy's minds as they approached the Chemical State Savings Bank is unknown, but in any event, the pair entered the building with weapons--a sawed-off shotgun for Gracy, a revolver for Chebatoris--hidden under their clothing. Gracy approached the bank's president, Clarence Macomber, and stuck the shotgun in his side. Startled, Macomber fought Gracy for control of the weapon. Any thought that Chebatoris and Gracy would escape without violence disappeared as Chebatoris shot Macomber in the shoulder, then shot cashier Paul Bywater in the stomach when the latter man rushed to help his ailing boss. Realizing their plan had gone horribly awry, Chebatoris and Gracy fled the bank, rushed to their getaway vehicle, and tore away from the scene of the crime.

Their actions had not gone unnoticed by bystanders. Frank Hardy, a dentist with an office on the bank building's second floor, saw the vehicle speeding away, grabbed a deer rifle he kept on hand to thwart robbers, and started shooting. A bullet from Hardy's gun hit Chebatoris, the vehicle's driver. After Chebatoris crashed the car, he and Gracy got out, wildly searching for the mystery gunman. Chebatoris's eyes fell on Henry Porter, a Bay City truck driver whose uniform, to Chebatoris, looked like it belonged to a cop. Chebatoris shot Porter, then, with Gracy, tried to hijack a few vehicles in an increasingly desperate bid to escape. Hardy, still hidden from the criminals' view, killed Gracy with a shot to the head, and Sheriff Ira Smith apprehended Chebatoris moments later.

The gunfire was over, but the drama had only just begun. Macomber and Bywater, the bank president and cashier, eventually recovered from their wounds, but truck driver Porter died from his injuries twelve days after receiving them. Porter's death meant that Chebatoris would not only face charges in the Bay City federal court for attempted bank robbery, but that he would also be eligible for the death penalty. Jury members needed only one vote to convict Chebatoris, but required seven votes before they agreed that death was an appropriate punishment for his crimes.

Appalled at the thought that an execution would take place in Michigan, Governor Frank Murphy pleaded with the trial judge to commute Chebatoris's sentence to life in prison. When that effort failed, Murphy tried another tack, insisting that the execution should occur in another state. He took his case all the way to President Franklin D. Roosevelt, but Murphy's argument fell on deaf ears. So it was that in the early morning hours of July 8, 1938, Chebatoris found himself facing the hangman's noose at the Federal Correctional Institution in Milan. He was pronounced dead at 5:21 a.m, and to this day, remains the only person legally executed in the state of Michigan.

Felony Friday: The "Lonely Hearts" murder case

A lonely heart led Delphine Downing to her death.

 

The recently widowed woman had posted a personal ad in the hopes of finding companionship for herself, and a father figure for her 20-month-old daughter, Rainelle. Downing likely sifted through several responses before finding one from Charles Martin, a well-mannered and successful businessman from New York City who happened to loved children—exactly the type of man Downing was looking for. In January 1949, she welcomed Martin and his sister, Martha Beck, into her home in Byron Center, a suburb of Grand Rapids.

 

Delphine and Rainelle Downing

 

Downing may have thought she met the man of her dreams, but in reality, she was about to live a nightmare. As it turned out, Charles and Martha weren’t brother and sister.  Charles Martin wasn’t even the man’s real name. The people Downing had guilelessly admitted into her home were Raymond Fernandez and Martha Beck, a pair of swindlers with a complicated relationship and at least one murder in their past. Downing and her daughter would become their next victims.

 

Raymond Fernandez and Martha Beck

 

Beck and Fernandez were a decidedly odd couple who might have seemed incapable of the crimes they would eventually commit—and those they already had. The pair met through the personals themselves, in 1947, when Beck was a 27-year-old nurse in Pensacola, Florida, and Fernandez a 32-year-old schemer from New York City. Beck, despite a successful career, found herself starving for companionship. Overweight and insecure, she was a single mother of two children, a daughter and a son. As a practical joke, one of Beck’s coworkers sent her an advertisement for a lonely hearts club. Though Beck was crushed by the prank, she also desperately sought affection, and eventually submitted an ad that she hoped would rescue her from a lifetime of loneliness.

 

Fernandez wasn’t quite so romantic. To him, lonely hearts ads were all about money. He had a history of wooing the women he met through them, then pilfering their cash and jewelry before making a quick getaway.  Initially, he regarded Beck as merely another mark, and cast her aside when he decided his potential take wasn’t worth the effort required to court her. Fernandez changed his mind a few weeks later when Beck, recently fired from her job at a Pensacola maternity home, appeared on his doorstep in New York City. Realizing that Beck was so in love that she would cater to his every need, Fernandez agreed to take her in, and Beck happily settled into domestic life with her new lover.

 

Beck found Fernandez so captivating  that she not only kept his house, she became his partner in crime. Posing as either his sister or sister-in-law, Beck traveled across the nation with Fernandez to meet his lonely hearts victims and help steal their money. Beck also took on the self-imposed role of chaperone, jealously watching over Fernandez and his targets to deter the consummation of their relationships.

 

By the time Downing met Fernandez and Beck in 1949, the grifters had been at their game for over a year. Now, they were seeking long-term cons—women they could swindle over extended periods of time. With Downing, they likely felt they had met their mark. For about a month after Fernandez and Beck moved into her home, Downing’s relationship with the man she knew as Charles Martin seemed promising. Downing invited Martin and Beck to Nebraska, her home state, where they met Downing’s parents. The young widow even planned to sell her property in Byron Center and move to California with her paramour and his sister. All in all, Martin seemed to be a gentleman and a provider, the type of person with whom Downing could eventually settle down.

 

The turning point came when Downing entered her bathroom on Saturday, February 26, and discovered that Fernandez had been keeping a secret from her. The swindler had suffered a serious head injury years earlier, and since then had worn a toupee to keep his damaged pate a secret. Now, as Downing beheld his bald, scarred head under the bathroom light, she became distressed, and accused “Charles” and his sister of deceiving her.

 

Fearing that Downing would contact the police and end their charade, Beck and Fernandez decided that murder was their only way out. To quiet the increasingly agitated woman, Beck urged Downing to take sleeping pills. Downing did so. After she drifted into unconsciousness, Fernandez grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around a pistol once owned by Downing’s husband. Then, while Rainelle watched, Fernandez shot the sleeping widow in the head, using a single bullet to end her life. Fernandez and Beck buried Downing in her own basement, encasing the grave with cement to deter discovery.

 

With Downing out of the way, Beck and Fernandez had free rein to cash her checks and loot her home. However, they still had a problem. Rainelle, missing her mother, would not stop crying. Fernandez grew tired of the commotion and told Beck to kill the child, which she did, two days after the elder Downing’s death, by drowning the girl in a tub of water. Fernandez and Beck buried Rainelle next to Delphine, covering the grave with cement as they had done for her mother.

 

Beck and Fernandez could have taken this opportunity to make a quick escape from the scene of their crimes. Instead, they left the house to watch a movie. That decision would lead to their undoing. When Beck and Fernandez returned a few hours later, they walked in on police officers who had been called to the Downing home by neighbors worried about Delphine’s sudden disappearance. The officers took Beck and Fernandez into custody, and shortly afterward discovered the bodies of Delphine and Rainelle Downing. Realizing the gravity of their situation, Beck and Fernandez made full confessions to the Kent County district attorney in exchange for what Fernandez later claimed was a promise that authorities would not extradite the pair to New York and would instead prosecute them for the deaths of Delphine and Rainelle Downing in Michigan.

 

Why did Beck and Fernandez fear extradition? Because the Downing killings had not been their first murders. During their confessions, Beck and Fernandez admitted killing 66-year-old Janet Fay, a “lonely heart” from Albany, New York whom Beck and Fernandez had bludgeoned, strangled, and buried in a Queens cellar the year before. Because New York imposed the death penalty and Michigan didn’t, Beck and Fernandez preferred to face the Downing murder charges rather than expose themselves to potential death sentences for the Fay murder.

 

After a series of legal maneuvers and an agreement between the governors of both states, Michigan authorities released their prisoners into the custody of New York’s justice system. In August 1949 a jury found Beck and Fernandez guilty of Janet Fay’s murder, and the trial judge sentenced them to death. Their executions in the electric chair at Sing Sing prison outside of New York City took place on March 8, 1951.

 

Students of the case believe that Fay and the Downings weren’t the pair’s only victims, as some of Fernandez’s previous marks had died under suspicious circumstances, and that as many as 17 other victims may exist. Regardless of whether they killed three people or twenty, no one can dispute the fact that Raymond Fernandez and Martha Beck were cold-blooded killers who blazed a trail of emotional destruction across the nation—a trail that ultimately ended only when they stopped the beating of a lonely widow’s heart in West Michigan.

Michigan in Radio History Part IV: The death of a crusading broadcaster

If you think political campaigns are nasty today, this story might make you think again. On July 23, 1930, Detroit radio broadcaster Gerald "Jerry" Buckley was murdered for reasons that are officially unknown, but that many suspect relate to Buckley's successful effort to oust Detroit's mayor from office.



Jerry Buckley

Buckley had previously used the airwaves to champion various humanitarian causes, but hit his stride after the 1929 mayoral campaign, during which candidate Charles Bowles gained the support of voters by running on a "dry" platform (meaning he supported the restriction of alcohol). When Bowles won the race and became mayor on January 14, 1930, he immediately broke his promise and turned a blind eye to the speakeasies and gambling dens that covered Detroit despite the fact that the country was in the midst of Prohibition. Bowles also surrounded himself with similarly suspect cronies, including Joseph Gillespie, who was appointed commissioner of public works even though he had previously been ousted from his position as police commissioner because of the fact that, under Gillespie's tenure, vice in Detroit was the worst the city had ever seen.



Charles Bowles

Under Bowles' leadership, city officials who didn't toe the unspoken "pro-vice" line met predictable fates. Harold Emmons, police commissioner under Bowles, grew tired of the beating Detroit's law enforcement took in the media because of his boss's laissez-faire attitude toward booze, so he orchestrated a raid of the city's gambling dens while Bowles was out of town. Bowles' response upon his return was not to congratulate Emmons on his attempt to uphold law and order, but to remove the lawman from his position as commissioner.

Detroit seemed to be embroiled in enough corruption to keep Buckley on the air for a lifetime. The radio man knew what his next steps would be. He used his program to advocate a recall election that would oust Bowles from office. Not surprisingly, this effort earned Buckley few fans among Bowles and his associates, some of whom included gangsters and members of the Ku Klux Klan. However, it found a welcome ear among Detroit residents, who, during the July 22 recall election, voted out Bowles from office, slightly more than six months after he had assumed it.

Buckley broadcast the election returns at about 11:30 that night from his studio at the LaSalle Hotel, then went to dinner with his secretary. Upon his return to the LaSalle, where he kept a room, Buckley bought a newspaper and settled into the lobby to wait for a woman who had phoned him with a potential lead.

At about 1:40 the morning of July 23, the LaSalle's door opened, but a woman didn't enter. Instead, three men strode into the lobby, one of whom stood near the door, and two of whom approached Buckley. The latter men pulled out guns and fired eleven shots into Buckley's chest, killing him instantly. The men left as quickly as they had entered.

 

The LaSalle Hotel, Woodward Avenue and Adelaide Street in Detroit

Detroiters were aghast at Buckley's murder, and immediately pressed for answers. Police commissioner Thomas C. Wilcox painted Buckley as a hypocrite, a crusader who railed against corruption while himself associating with underworld types. Wilcox produced an affidavit signed by a bootlegger who claimed that Buckley had extorted "protection" money from him. Wilcox theorized that Buckley's alleged connections to seedy types led to his demise. That theory lost some water when investigators discovered that Wilcox obtained his affidavit under false pretenses, and that the man who had signed the document could neither read nor speak English.

Wilcox's theory may have contained an element of truth, however, despite the bumbling way he presented it. After Buckley's death, newspapers printed stories about the radio man's alleged underworld dealings, which involved extorting money from racketeers who didn't want their activities mentioned on Buckley's show. Buckley's brother, Paul, a former assistant prosecutor, countered by insisting that Buckley's death stemmed from his involvement in the recall effort, and was likely committed by the former mayor's underworld connections.

Though several seedy types were arrested for their alleged roles in the Buckley murder, no one was ever convicted of the crime. However, Buckley's death did establish one firm fact: he was beloved by his fellow Detroiters, more than 100,000 of whom attended his funeral. Buckley's death also incited a massive cleanup of the speakeasies and gambling dens that the radio man had railed against--and that Bowles had ignored--for so many months before the recall.

The LaSalle Hotel no longer stands, having undergone a series of name changes before being demolished in 1996 to make way for a condominium complex. However, those who are so inclined can pay their respects to Buckley by visiting his grave in Detroit's Mount Olivet Cemetery.

Felony Friday: The "Anatomy of a Murder" case

The film "Anatomy of a Murder" is a classic of 1950s noir movie making, telling the story of a sultry young woman who claims she was raped by the town playboy. Her husband, in a fit of rage, kills his wife's attacker, and stands trial for first-degree murder. It's up to the husband's attorney to devise a defense that will set his client free...a task that seems almost impossible given the fact that several witnesses saw the defendant shoot his victim in cold blood.

The movie is based on a book by Ishpeming attorney John Voelker (who wrote it under the pen name "Robert Traver"). The book itself is based on an actual case in which Voelker secured an acquittal for his client, Coleman Peterson, a wronged husband who shot tavern owner Mike Chenoweth after Peterson's wife accused the latter man of rape in the sleepy Upper Peninsula town of Big Bay in July 1952.

Peterson was a first lieutenant in the United States Army who had come to Big Bay in June 1952 with his wife, Charlotte, after being assigned to an anti-aircraft artillery range in the area. Peterson didn't know many of his fellow soldiers, having just returned from service in Korea, so he and his wife socialized with their civilian neighbors. The Lumberjack Tavern, owned by Chenoweth, a former state policeman, was a hot spot among residents who could find little else with which to entertain themselves during their off hours. Peterson and Charlotte stopped at the Lumberjack for occasional drinks, and got to know Chenoweth on a casual basis.

Chenoweth, despite his background as a cop, was something of a "dirty dog" who had a reputation as a womanizer, and who, according to a member of the jury that would eventually acquit Chenoweth's murderer, had raped other women prior to his fateful encounter with Charlotte Peterson. (Chenoweth never stood trial for any of these alleged assaults.) Though Chenoweth was arrogant and disrespectful, his bar nevertheless enjoyed a steady stream of customers looking to chase away their cares with a pint or two of beer.

That all changed in the early morning hours of July 31. According to testimony Charlotte gave during Peterson's murder trial, she had spent the evening at the Lumberjack, playing shuffleboard and drinking. When she returned around 11:45 p.m. on July 30 to the trailer she shared with her husband, she was hysterical and crying. Charlotte told Peterson that Chenoweth had offered to drive her home. However, instead of taking Charlotte back to the trailer, she said, Chenoweth drove her into the woods, where he raped and beat her.

(I'll take a time-out here to note that many students of the case question Charlotte's story, citing the fact that Peterson was known to have a quick temper, and that Charlotte may have concocted the tale to cover up a consensual sexual encounter with Chenoweth, or out of fear that her husband would beat her because she had returned home so late in the evening. A subsequent medical test could not confirm whether or not she had been assaulted. However, regardless of what happened between Chenoweth and Charlotte, Peterson's response to it is ultimately the issue at hand, as he believed Chenoweth had engaged in some sort of sexual contact with his wife that night.)

Enraged about the story his wife told him, Peterson grabbed a loaded nine-millimeter Luger and sped toward the Lumberjack. The lieutenant later claimed that, when he left for the tavern, he had no intention of killing Chenoweth, and brought along the gun simply for protection, as he knew Chenoweth kept firearms around the bar. Regardless, when Peterson arrived at the Lumberjack shortly after midnight on July 31, he stepped inside, saw Chenoweth behind the counter, strode toward him, and emptied his gun into the barkeep. Peterson then turned around, drove back home, and eventually surrendered to the caretaker at his trailer park, who happened to be a police deputy. 

Faced with first-degree murder, Peterson retained Voelker, who prepared a novel defense for his client. Voelker advised Peterson to plead not guilty because of temporary insanity, and placed on the witness stand a psychiatrist, Dr. Thomas Petty, who stated that Chenoweth’s act could be considered an “irresistible impulse” resulting from his wife’s allegations. Petty testified that the anger Peterson felt upon learning of his wife’s alleged encounter with Chenoweth could have created a frame of mind that left him unable to distinguish right from wrong. A man in a situation similar to Peterson’s, Petty said, would deal with the tension by dissociating himself and entering a “trance-like state or spell” during which he would be temporarily insane and unaccountable for his actions. Because Peterson was unable to distinguish right from wrong, the defense argued, he could not be convicted of the crime with which he was charged.

The prosecution countered with the argument that Peterson had killed Chenoweth in a fit of jealousy or revenge. However, the jury rejected that claim and returned from its deliberations with a verdict of not guilty by reason of insanity. Psychiatrists subsequently examined Peterson and determined that he was no longer insane, which meant that he did not require institutionalization. Peterson returned to the trailer he shared with Charlotte and, in a move that can only be described as "not cool," skipped town without paying his attorney’s fees.

 

From left, Voelker, Charlotte Peterson, and Coleman Peterson, presumably taken
 before the Petersons left town and stiffed Voelker.

However, Voelker made lemonade out of the lemons his client handed him, using the case as the basis for “Anatomy of a Murder.” Though the novel presents a fictionalized version of the Peterson trial, most of the main players in the “real-life” case have counterparts in the book. In 1959, director Otto Preminger brought to screen the movie version, which featured Ben Gazzara as “Frederick Manion” (the fictional version of Peterson), Lee Remick as his wife “Laura,” and Jimmy Stewart in the Voelker-esque role of defense attorney “Paul Biegler.” Preminger filmed the movie on location in Big Bay, as well as in other Upper Peninsula communities. Several sites related to both the movie and the crime still exist and are open to tourists, who can visit Perkins Park (where the Petersons lived in their trailer), or gaze upon the bullet holes that still pockmark the Lumberjack’s walls, and celebrate their connection to a case that made legal—and cinematic—history.

More Information:

Anatomy of a Murder fiftieth anniversary website

Anatomy of a Murder, the book

Anatomy of a Murder, the film

Lumberjack Tavern website

Michigan's oldest covered bridge destroyed by arson

This post comes a few days after the fact, but authorities have confirmed that White's Bridge, a covered bridge located in Smyrna, and spanning the Flat River between Belding and Lowell in Ionia County, fell victim to arson. The bridge was Michigan's oldest covered bridge still in use, and its destruction devastated community members, many of whom said it was a memorable and beloved part of their childhoods. White's Bridge went up in flames in the early hours of July 7. Police officials are now confirming that an accelerant was found on evidence taken from the bridge's wreckage, leading them to determine the fire was intentionally set.

I don't think I've ever crossed the bridge, or even seen it, but this story breaks my heart. The bridge was built by hand (and by ox and horse) in 1867, and was named for a prominent local family. In the years since, it survived a variety of mishaps, including damage inflicted by a drunk driver in 2010. Throughout it all, White's Bridge maintained its status as a community landmark and point of pride, at least until the morning of July 7.

I have many things I'd like to call the person or people who decided to burn down the bridge, but I don't want to waste any mental energy on them. What makes me truly sad is the fact that, when so many things in our society are impermanent, we can't rely on our fellow citizens to respect the things that ARE permanent, the things that have withstood almost 150 years of changes and seasons and events that we humans can only read about in history books. It makes me sad to think of the men who built this bridge, their painstaking handiwork long usurped by modern technology, and now destroyed by the dash of an accelerant and the flick of a match. I love this state, I love the people who have lived (and are living) in it, and it saddens me that the blood, sweat, and memories of the thousands of people who have a connection to this bridge were destroyed by the selfish actions of a few.

An effort is under way to rebuild White's Bridge, and though no structure can replace the historic original, I take some comfort in the fact that the effort's organizers are making history of their own. Maybe in another 150 years, the "new" White's Bridge will be the source of as much reverence and community pride as was the old one.

More information:

White's Bridge Restoration

White's Bridge History

Survivor of 1927 Bath School Disaster dies at age 100

One of the last survivors of the Bath Consolidated School bombing, America's worst school-related mass murder, died July 18 at the age of 100.

Bath bombing survivor, 100, dies

Merrien Josephine Cushman wasn't at the school the morning of May 18, 1927, as her grades were high enough that she had earned time off from classes that day. However, her younger brother, Ralph, showed up as usual, and lost his life in the tragedy that killed 45 people (mostly children) and injured at least 58 others. The mass murder was the work of a deranged Bath resident, Andrew Kehoe, who bombed the school over slights he believed he had suffered at the hands of fellow community members.

Kehoe had moved to Bath, about ten miles north of Lansing, in 1919, and quickly became a thorn in the side of local leaders. He was an intelligent man, but impatient and frugal. One source of his ire was the Bath Consolidated School building, which the community built so that all the district's students could attend a single school, rather than divide themselves among the one-room schoolhouses they had previously attended. Kehoe railed against the higher taxes the consolidated school required, but construction proceeded regardless, and the school opened in 1922.




Bath Consolidated School

Kehoe eventually served as treasurer of the Consolidated School board, where his combative personality and penny-pinching ways made him a difficult person with whom to work. During this time, Kehoe suffered a series of financial and emotional setbacks; his wife was sick with tuberculosis, he couldn't pay his bills, and, in 1926, his mortgage company announced the start of foreclosure proceedings on his farm. Many students of the disaster believe Kehoe's "last straw" was the fact that he lost a race for town clerk in 1926; it was after this supposed slight that he developed his plans to bomb the school.

Kehoe began stockpiling explosives, which he planted in the school's basement under the guise that he was working on its lighting system. On May 18, 1927, a few days shy of graduation, Kehoe set his plan in motion. Sometime in the days before the bombing, he had killed his wife, Nellie. Around 8:45 a.m. on the 18th, Kehoe set off firebombs he had wired throughout his farm. (Nellie's body would later be found there, in the charred remains of a chicken coop.) At almost the same time, an alarm clock, set by Kehoe, detonated the explosives he had planted under the school. The school's north wing collapsed into a heap of rubble, taking its young occupants and their teachers with it.

View of the Bath Consolidated School, after the bombing

Kehoe's deadly work wasn't done. As volunteers rushed between his farm and the school, trying to save whoever they could, Kehoe drove his truck, loaded with explosives and metal shrapnel, into town, and parked it near the school. He called to Superintendent Emory Huyck, with whom Kehoe had a fractious relationship, and Huyck approached the truck. A witness later testified that he saw Kehoe and Huyck grapple over a gun that Kehoe had brought with him. Suddenly, the truck exploded, killing both Kehoe and Huyck, as well as three other people (including an eight-year-old boy). The blast injured several others.

By the time Kehoe was done wreaking his vengeance, 45 people (including Kehoe and his wife) had died, and 58 had been injured. More would surely have died save for the fact that the explosives Kehoe wired under the school's south wing did not detonate, possibly because of a short circuit caused by the first explosion.

While Bath struggled to recover, donations poured in from across the nation, including $75,000 from James J. Couzens, Michigan's U.S. Senator. In 1928, the new James Couzens Agricultural School opened on the site of the consolidated school building, and served students until its demolition in 1975. The site now contains a memorial park, the centerpiece of which is a cupola that survived the school bombing and that pays tribute to those who lost their lives on one of the deadliest days in Michigan history.

To read more:

Bath Massacre: America's First School Bombing, by Arnie Bernstein

The Bath School Disaster, by M.J. Ellsworth

Mayday: History of a Village Holocaust, by Grant Parker