The Boy Nevada Killed Read online

  Shortly after the cat burglar ran into the night, the team assigned to catch him arrived at the Soller home. When describing her sister-in-law’s assailant, Emma Soller recalled a slight young man about five feet, ten inches tall who wore a blue-striped shirt, denim trousers and work shoes. Her description matched that of the other victims. Police officers were certain that this was the work of the cat burglar.

  On the slim chance the prowler might be among those enjoying Saturday afternoon at the courthouse square, every available officer was assigned to watch the crowd for someone matching the cat burglar’s description: a skinny young man in a striped shirt and blue trousers.

  Jennie Horwitz stared at the teenager across the counter from her. Here he was in her shop trying to sell the very watch he’d stolen from her three weeks ago. She glanced out the window to see another boy peering in at her. When he realized she was looking at him, he turned away. He was cross-eyed—she would remember to tell the police that.

  “You stole this from me,” she said, snatching the watch from him.

  He should have known better. Maybe he could grab it from her. He was bigger and stronger. “Forget it!” He snarled, racing for the door. She watched the two teenagers jump on their bicycles and speed away.

  In his confession, Loveless told of that event:

  On or about June 2, 1942 I went to the Horwitz Store at 828 Main St, Lafayette and purchased a ring for $1.10 and while Mrs. Horwitz was writing a receipt, I stole a ladies Elgin pocket watch. A few days later I went back to this store to sell this same watch back to Mrs. Horwitz but she recognized the watch, grabbed it and said it was a stolen watch and then I left.

  Jennie Horwitz called the police. “This young man just tried to sell me the same watch he stole from me about three weeks ago. I tried to keep him here while I phoned you. But he got suspicious and ran out.” She stammered nervously.

  When investigators arrived at Horwitz’s Main Street store, they found the shopkeeper calm. “If that doesn’t beat all, that boy was trying to sell my stolen watch back to me!”

  “How do you know he was the same person who stole the watch?” an investigator asked.

  “I’m not likely to forget him,” she said.

  “Can you describe him?”

  She closed her eyes and thought a moment. “He’s got a thin face and a dimple in his chin. He’s one of those boys that have a sullen look about them and a very smart mouth. Besides,” she smiled, “he was still wearing that ring I sold him a while back.”

  Holding his excitement in check, the investigator asked. “What ring?”

  “One of those cheap costume rings. A woman’s ring like those over in the case.” She nodded toward the display case. “It was a dollar ring with a big amber stone.”

  He studied the garish rings sparkling in the case. “Mrs. Horwitz, that was the cat burglar.”

  “What?” She gasped. “Which one of them?”

  “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

  “There were two of them. The boy with the ring that came in here and the older, cross-eyed boy that waited outside by the bicycles.”

  “What color were the bicycles?”

  “They were both red.”

  “Did you notice which way they went?”

  “North.”

  THE WRONG DIRECTION

  Floyd was back in Lafayette and looking for a car to steal. The best place to find one was the Fowler Hotel on Ferry Street. On this night, luck was with him. There in front of the hotel was a shiny Studebaker sedan.

  In his confession of July 6, 1942, Floyd Loveless said:

  I stopped and noticed that the car had keys in it and I got in and I pushed on the horn accidentally and got out quick, thinking someone may have heard it. I stood nearby for a while and when nobody came, I started the car up and drove out on State Road 25.…I stopped and looked over the things that were in the car. I piled some of the things which were in the back of the car into the front and I began throwing stuff out of this car before I got to Logansport and after I had passed thru [sic] Logansport. One large trunk, small medicine bag, one suit case I threw out near a golf course on Road No.1 near Waynedale, Indiana. I did not keep anything that I found in this car. There was no one with me when I stole this car or while I was riding in it. I drove the car to Waynedale, Indiana where my father lives but when I got there I decided I did not want to stop to see him and I drove back.

  Further into the confession he told of his decision to break and enter a nearby home:

  I came to Lafayette about 2 o’clock in the afternoon. I got a ride on 52 near the Stockwell Road with a worker from the Aluminum Company. I went to a show and then I went to the Columbian Park. I was starting home about midnight June 30 1942 and I passed a house which I later learned to be the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Knoth, 417 Park Avenue, Lafayette. It was all lit up and I looked through the front window and saw a woman ironing in the kitchen which was located in the back of the house. I decided to get into this house.

  Alone in the bungalow at 417 Park Avenue, Mrs. Knoth bent over the ironing board, unaware that someone was watching her. It was hot, and her screened windows were open so the house would be cool when her husband returned from his overnight shift. Then they could sleep a few hours before the house warmed up all over again. She absently slid the iron back and forth across a shirt that hung on the ironing board. Finished, she stood the iron on its end and went to another room for a clothes hanger. Now, Floyd thought, was his chance. Mrs. Knoth returned to the kitchen, slipped the shirt on a hanger and picked up another one. Placing it across the ironing board, she hummed softly to herself.

  I went up on the porch and took a little chair and I went around to the side window of this house and put it under the window. I pulled the nails out which had held the screen in place. Took the window screen off and sat [sic] it down. The window was already open. The woman was still ironing. I climbed in through this window and walked into the bedroom and looked around.

  With his lower face covered with a handkerchief, he searched the room for something worth stealing; he found a man’s wristwatch first and then a loaded revolver. This might come in handy, he thought. He smiled and sat down on the bed. He could wait. Minutes passed. Finally, she came into the bedroom

  “Who are you?” she demanded. “How did you get in here?”

  He jumped up, pressing the gun against her. “Take off your clothes!”

  “No. Oh please no,” she sobbed. “Please don’t do this. My husband will be home any minute.”

  It was a lie; he knew her husband worked all night. Holding the gun firmly in his left hand, he raped the young wife, oblivious to her pleas. His face might have been partially covered, but she would remember what he wore: a blue-striped shirt and blue-green trousers.

  After I was through this woman started hollering and I ran out of the house through the front door and down Park Avenue towards Main Street. I heard this woman hollering about four blocks away.…In the 2500 block on Main Street I threw the flashlight into a yard.…I told my brother Robert Kay Loveless what happened and I gave him the watch I stole to keep for me. Later on he told me that he lost this watch…

  I had the gun in Junior Loveless’s car. He is my brother. On the night of July 1, 1942 Junior and I had a couple of girls out riding in his car and after that I missed the gun. I don’t know what happened to it. We must have lost it. The last time I saw it, it was on the back seat of my brother’s car.

  Officers found Mrs. Knoth sobbing in her kitchen. As she described her assailant, they realized this was the work of the cat burglar and that his MO had changed. Now that he was a rapist, they would work round the clock to catch him.

  Floyd Loveless with an unidentified girl. Photo courtesy of Robert Kay Loveless.

  With World War II in full swing, the Fourth of July 1942 was a day of families and patriotic celebrations. Floyd was at Columbian Park in Lafayette for the fireworks. He wandered through the park and watched, enthralled as fath
ers hoisted children overhead so that they too might catch a glimpse of the sparkling sky show. While the little ones giggled with delight, their mothers smiled with pride.

  Everywhere Floyd looked, someone was eating. The aroma of barbecuing meat hung in the air, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He stopped at a hot dog stand and dug a nickel from his trouser pocket. Hungrily, he shoved the proffered hot dog into his mouth. Too soon, the fireworks were over. Once again, the night sky was dark. Families gathered up their blankets and picnic baskets and headed for their homes. As Floyd walked on South Street, a Ford V8 coupe caught his eye. He made certain that he was alone on the street and then opened the driver’s door. The keys were in the ignition. “I got in and started the car, drove to the Soldier’s Home and back and left the car at Maple Point near Lafayette about 1 o’clock on the morning of July 5, 1942.”

  Police questioned farmers in the area about two boys on red bikes. They caught a break when a farmer in Monroe suggested they check out the Loveless brothers. “Those two are in one kind of trouble after another,” he told them.

  With a name in mind, police officers searched the juvenile court records. There they found files on Robert Kay Loveless. There was also information on Loveless’s fifteen-year-old brother, Floyd. Described as “a pimply, arrogant, emotionless incorrigible who rebels at discipline and manifests a deep-seated anti-social attitude,” Floyd Loveless was, according the report, the strong-minded brother who called the shots. All they had to do was locate the two brothers.

  An informant told them the boys were living on their own in a shack near Monroe. Before they could comb the area, police received a phone call from a pawn shop. Someone was in the shop trying to sell a stolen watch. Officers stealthily converged on the shop and followed the boy back to his and his brother’s hideout.

  Within minutes, the cat burglar was in custody.

  At the Indiana State Police headquarters, Floyd Loveless admitted to breaking into more homes than the police were aware of. Under questioning, he also confessed to the rape of Mrs. Knoth and the attack on Mrs. Soller.

  The victim Mrs. Knoth couldn’t positively identify Floyd. The clothing had already been identified as belonging to Floyd. It looked like what the assailant had worn, but she couldn’t be certain.

  Floyd Loveless cat burglar lineup photo. Photo courtesy Robert Kay Loveless.

  Floyd confessed but was not charged with, or convicted of, the rape. His confession to the rape of Mrs. Knoth would later be read in open court and used in determining whether or not to commute his death sentence to life in prison.

  JULY 15, 1942

  The adults in Floyd’s life had failed to keep him out of trouble. After his arrest, the duty to set the boy on the right path fell to the State of Indiana. The state was up to the challenge; for eighty years, it had sent its incorrigible boys to Plainfield Boys’ Home. Many of them turned their lives around, acquired vocational skills and became productive citizens.

  Floyd was four months from his sixteenth birthday and charged with burglary. None of his adult relatives attended his hearing in juvenile court. A smirk crossed his face when Judge W. Lynn Parkinson asked if any member of his family was present.

  “No,” he answered.

  But Kay was also in court, awaiting sentencing for having received the stolen goods from Floyd. Years later, Kay would remember this day as the last time the two brothers ever saw each other.

  Floyd listened to the charge of first-degree robbery and calmly pleaded guilty. They couldn’t send him to prison or a reformatory, he was only fifteen.

  Judge Parkinson glared at Floyd. “I can exercise my powers only within their prescribed limits. I hereby sentence you to the Indiana Boys’ School until you become of age,” he said.

  So there it was. He would be at the school until he was twenty-one years old. Five years at the Indiana Boys’ School in Plainfield some sixty miles away—this must have seemed like forever to someone his age. He promised his grandmother to obey the rules and to stay put. Keeping that promise proved more difficult than he imagined.

  PLAINFIELD

  He arrived at the Plainfield Boys School in the summer of 1942. Situated on 1,300 acres, the school was a working farm that produced wheat, oat and corn crops. This wasn’t a tony place reserved for the sons of wealthy men. Those who came here were from impoverished and broken homes, homes in which physical and emotional abuse were meted out. About five hundred boys were usually housed here. Many hadn’t even attended school regularly. They would receive their education in this place. In addition to a curriculum that followed that of the public schools, Plainfield offered vocational training in one of two fields: trades and industry or agriculture. With the war effort, there was little money for needed repairs and staff. Because it was wartime, many of these boys wanted to enlist in the armed forces, and Plainfield offered a national defense training program and military training.

  The annual report of William L. Howard, director of education, for the fiscal year ending June 30, 1941, lists the vocational skills that were offered:

  In the Trades and Industry field he may choose from; electrical work, baking, woodworking, laundry, shoe repair, printing, tailoring, barbering, cooking, painting, cement and bricklaying and plumbing,

  In the field of Agriculture he may choose gardening, greenhouse, orcharding, poultry, livestock, dairying, farm shop and general farming.

  Boys who disobeyed the rules and regulations were punished. The punishment depended on the severity of the infraction. Rules and regulations were new concepts for Floyd. Later, as he fought to stay out of the Nevada gas chamber, he would say that none of the adults in his life had ever reprimanded him. At Plainfield, the boys lived in barracks referred to as cottages. Each cottage was supervised by a husband-and-wife team. Early wake up at 6:00a.m. and early to bed at 8:00 p.m. was hard for Floyd; he was used to getting up when he wanted to and roaming the streets of Lafayette late at night with no chores and certainly no consequences. Here, the boys were kept busy with household chores, school lessons and vocational training. From Superintendent E.M. Dill’s seventy-seventh annual report: “The Indiana Boys’ School was organized and is operated for the purpose of re-educating the boy who has not been able to adjust to rules and regulations of society.…It means that many of the boy’s behavior patterns must be reshaped.”

  There would be no opportunity to reshape Floyd. He wasn’t staying long. Nonetheless, he looked at his options and decided to train as a barber. While training, Floyd befriended Dale Cline, whose birthday fell exactly one month before his did. Kindred spirits, they were assigned to company nine. Living in the same cottage gave them time to talk about the offenses that had brought them to the school. As the days wore on, their braggadocio gave way to complaints about their shared circumstances. They agreed that Plainfield was too strict; this was especially true for Floyd, who wasn’t used to adult supervision or intervention. Neither had ever worked as hard as they did at Plainfield. Their stomachs rumbled day and night. When they were finally arrested in Nevada, Dale said of his time at Plainfield, “I was always so hungry.”

  A sample listing of menus of the time lends credence to this complaint:

  Breakfast: Syrup, butter, oatmeal and sugar

  Dinner (lunch): Beef and noodles, boiled rice, sauerkraut, grape butter, bread

  Supper (dinner): Pork and beans, tomatoes and onions, chocolate pudding, bread and milk

  They broke rules but were clever enough to avoid anything that might warrant a whipping. This was the 1940s; corporal punishment was used on anyone who committed a serious enough offense. Hearing someone being whipped was painful.

  Five years after Loveless and Cline ran away from the Indiana Boys’ School (Plainfield), an incorrigible thirteen-year-old boy by the name of Charles Manson was sent there. Manson would escape from the reformatory several times over the next few years. In the book Manson in His Own Words by Charles Manson and Nuel Emmons, Manson describes the ter
rible cruelties and harsh punishments inflicted on inmates at Plainfield during his time there.

  During Floyd’s brief stay, several complaints were lodged against the home for its treatment of inmates and lack of qualified psychiatric doctors. None of this mattered to Floyd; he’d decided to escape. When his bravado kicked into high gear, he talked about going on a crime spree that would shame John Dillinger.

  Dale Cline was impressed. Floyd knew the score. While the others slept, they plotted their escape. Their chance came on August 15, 1942. There was no going back.

  Escaping was easy. They simply walked away. The plan was to go out West to California. Indiana’s humid heat bore down on them as they raced along the two-lane dirt road.

  “We’ll never get to California without a car,” Dale moaned, wiping sweat beads from his face.

  Floyd laughed. “Course we’re gonna get a car. You think we’re walking all the way to Fort Wayne?”

  They would finance their cross-country trip by robbing and stealing. Once in California, they would be home free; neither of them had given much thought to what they would do once they arrived at their destination. It was all in the getting there.

  “You think they miss us yet?” Dale asked

  “So what if they do?” Floyd countered. “They still have to catch us.”

  Floyd was right. Dale nodded in silent agreement.

  Getting caught meant going back to a whipping and an unbearable existence neither could endure. With their energy drained, they stopped. The sun had moved toward the west. Certain that at least several minutes had passed since their departure, Floyd turned back and squinted in the direction of the reformatory, a speck in the distance. Slowing their pace, they kept walking. An hour later, they reached the nearby farm town of Mooresville, famous for being the hometown of notorious bank robber John Dillinger.

  Every Hoosier knew the story. Dillinger’s father moved the family from Indianapolis to Mooresville, thinking the rural farm life would be good for them. But young Dillinger didn’t like the farm. He continued getting in and out of trouble. The big city was where he wanted to be. Eventually, he ended up on the FBI’s most wanted list and then dead.