Jersey Troopers: A Fifty Year History of the New Jersey State Police 9780813567006

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JERSEY TROOPERS

JERSEY TROOPERS A Fifty Year History of the New Jersey State Police LEO J. COAKLEY

RUTGERS UNIVERSITY PRESS •

New Brunswick,

New

Jersey

Except where otherwise indicated, the photographs in this volume are from the files of the New Jersey State Police.

Second Printing

Copyright © 1971 by Rutgers University, the State University of New Jersey Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 72-163957 ISBN: 0-8135-0715-4 Cloth Ed. ISBN: 0-8135-0720-0 Paper Ed. Manufactured in the United States of America by Quinn & Boden Company, Inc., Rahway, New Jersey

This book is dedicated to those who will be its severest critics—New Jersey State Troopers

Preface This is the story of the men of the New Jersey State Police and the evolvement of that force from the horse and buggy days to modern times. New Jersey troopers are men of a rare breed. There is a bond, a camaraderie, a kinship that motivates them and holds them together through good and bad times. From the beginning they have been led by men of a rare breed. Each of their Superintendents leaves his mark as he passes through that office. This story deals in some way with the mark of each. The story is told as a personal one of men and their deeds. There are some, I am sure, who will be as annoyed by the omissions as by the inclusions. The life of a state trooper alternates between periods of monotony and high excitement, so their story reflects this life style. T h e author makes no claim to objectivity. This book is frankly a friendly view of the New Jersey State Police. For the record, I state that any viewpoints or opinions that appear are those of the author only and do not represent the official policy of the Division of State Police or of the State of New Jersey. Putting the words on the paper is a solitary task, but it requires aid from many people. Grateful acknowledgment is made to some of them: To Colonel David B. Kelly, Superintendent, New Jersey State Police, for his confidence in the writer; to Lieutenant John Burke for his ideas and suggestions; to Lieutenant Henry

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Mihaly, Sergeant John Sullivan and their staff in the Internal Records Bureau for their aid in searching for reports, old and new; to Lieutenant Raymond Brennan and the staff of the Personnel Bureau for their assistance in answering many of my questions about the State Police "family"; to Troopers Anson Baker, Public Information Bureau, and James M. Duffy, Henry Frese, and John Bartek of the Photography Unit for their help in compiling photographs; to former Superintendents Charles H. Schoeffel, Russell A. Snook, and Dominick Capello for their views of the State Police throughout the years; to all those troopers, active and retired, who gave me stories which did not appear in the records. I am indebted to the staffs of the U. S. Military Academy Library, the New Jersey State Library, and Rutgers University Library for their time and assistance. Special thanks are due Betsy Morse, Periodicals Department, Eastern Branch, Monmouth County Library, for her good-humored patience while the author monopolized the microfilm files. To Stella Castaldo, who labored faithfully in transforming the draft into an acceptable manuscript. To my wife, Norma, for her encouragement and understanding throughout these many months. Leo J. Coakley West Trenton, New Jersey April 1971

Contents

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

Preface Sheriffs, Constables: Rural Law Struggle Through the Legislature Enter Schwarzkopf Trial and Error: The Early Years "The Outfit" The Lindbergh Kidnapping Tragedy, Tribulation, and War Murderers, Gamblers, and Disasters More Men, More Duties, and a Political Convention Into the Sixties T h e Modern Image "For Distinguished Service" Appendix: In Line of Duty Bibliography Index

vii 3 21 36 59 78 99 139 168 198 227 257 271 279 281 283

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Sheriffs, Constables: Rural Law In the year of 1903, when I assumed the office of chief executive of the state, I f o u n d myself thereby invested with the supreme executive authority. I f o u n d that no power existed to interfere with me in my duty to enforce the laws of the state, and that, by the same token, no conditions could release me f r o m my duty so to do. I then looked about to see what instruments I possessed wherewithal to accomplish this bounden obligation —what instruments on whose loyalty and obedience I could truly rely, and I perceived three such instruments — my private secretary, a very small man; my woman stenographer, and the janitor. . . . So I made the State Police. Samuel Whitaker Pennypacker, Governor of Pennsylvania, 1905 T h e r e is not a sheriff or other county officer who is dependent on me; he can defy me; he can say, "I will not enforce those laws." What is the efficiency of my office under those circumstances? T h e only power I have is to call out the militia to suppress something. John F. Shafroth, Governor of Colorado, 1910 Up to the present time nothing has been done by way of legislation toward organizing a State Police Force. As far as this office is concerned we do not know of any movement afoot toward organizing such

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a force, and if we did, we would cheerfully oppose it, as it is absolutely unnecessary in this state. Edward I. Edwards, Governor of New Jersey, 1921

Three men with the same job, the same problem, but with different attitudes toward that problem. The New Jersey Governor expressed his opinion in January, 1921, a scant three months before a State Police was created to solve his problem. Generally, the state police forces were created to meet the need for enforcement powers available to the executive branch, to deal with the disturbed industrial conditions of the times, and to answer requests for effective rural law enforcement. In New Jersey, as in the other states, the arguments advanced expressed the interests of opposing groups. Those in favor were advocates of increased rural patrols and law enforcement; those opposed tended to picture the state police as a repressive "Cossack" force to be used against labor. As with all the other controversial issues in the nation's history, the contending parties tended to oversimplify the problem, although there was validity in both positions. At the turn of the century, industrial centers began to grow in the cities and suburban areas of New Jersey. The work force for these centers consisted of the large pool of unskilled immigrants. This work force became the target of organizers for industry-wide unions, whose activities brought a strong response from industrial leaders. Labor disorders became commonplace. Along with the growth of these industrial centers, there was also a growth in population and productivity in the rural areas. This expansion brought with it expansion in criminal activity in rural areas. T o handle these problems, there were some forces available. Their powers and effectiveness varied and in some parts of the state were completely ineffective. Prior to the Civil War, New Jersey had begun organizing police forces in the cities to deal with the ordinary urban lawbreakers. Rural inhabitants also made attempts to deal with the problems created in their locales. The absence of adequate law enforcement made it clear that the proverbial long arm of the

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law really reached no farther than the city limits. The creation of township police forces in 1887 was a step toward relief from trespassers, vagrants, and transient thieves roaming the countryside. Long before the enactment of those laws, the rural populace had provided self-protection of a sort with the establishment of "horse thief societies." These societies expanded their activities as the needs of particular areas dictated. For example, the town fathers of Woodbury in 1809 chartered a group popularly known as the Whirligig Society, whose function was to "suppress all riots, and Whirligig all Gamblers, Showmen and such characters as are commonly styled fair plays; that happen to intrude upon the peaceable, moral and respectable inhabitants." Webster's Dictionary defines a whirligig as a medieval instrument for punishing petty offenders, consisting of a wooden cage for whirling the offender around at high speed. There is no record of the society ever using or even possessing such an instrument, the mere mention of which was apparently calculated to strike fear in the hearts of potential offenders, students of medieval history or not. These vigilante groups, also known as detective and pursuing societies, were formally organized and chartered. Beside the usual officers, there were directors and pursuers who did the actual work. The pursuers were assigned the job of apprehending thieves, and most important, the recovery of stolen property. Under later laws passed in 1878 and 1884, the societies were given the authority to erect jails and exercise other police powers. Some pursuers carried handcuffs and weapons and it was not unusual for them to range for fifty or a hundred miles, the actual search area being determined by the identification of the accused, the value of the stolen property, and the ambition and ability of the pursuer. With all these private forces and township police agencies, the main responsibility for law enforcement in the greater portion of the state was still on the shoulders of the sheriffs and constables. This system, with its inabilities retaining a vitality far beyond its record of capability, came under attack from both proponents and opponents of newer police methods on a state

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level. Like it or not, the sheriff became the man in the middle. T h e system, with its roots going back to the Norman Conquest, suffered throughout its history from the frailities of the officeholders. Abuses by the sheriff occupied the attention of the participants in the discussions resulting in the Magna Carta. T h e early New Jersey colonists had transplanted the idea of the office, but modified it by making it subject to public election. Whether this increased or decreased the opportunity of a profitable sinecure still depended on the character of the officeholder. Although originally the election of the sheriff was placed in the political process to make him more responsive to the public need, it became a mainstay of the political spoils system. T h e U . S . Supreme Court had defined the sheriff's duties as those of conservators of peace in his county: to commit to the jail any person breaking the peace and capture traitors, murderers, and felons. In reality, most of the sheriff's time was devoted to maintaining his political rank and influence. One writer observing the system offered the opinion that very few of the sheriffs were trained or experienced police officers and when "politics mixes with police business, the result is a witch's brew." Disregarding the political implications, there was ample evidence that the system was incapable of coping with the demands made upon it. In a lengthy survey made for the New Jersey Chamber of Commerce in 1917, reports from the sheriffs themselves reflect their inability to perform the criminal enforcement functions of the office, either through lack of interest, training, or able and dependable people to assist them. If the sheriff bore the stigma of the failure to deal with the police problems of his county, it was to a large extent traceable to the character and competence of his constables, who often were the real-life counterpart of the Keystone cops. T h e constables, who worked at regular jobs and served in their law enforcement capacity under a fee system, were usually appointed by the local officials and as such were a mixed bag. T h e sheriff of one county frankly stated that his constables gave him more trouble than his prisoners, and some of them "are much less reliable." The general public attitude toward the

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constables caused the office often to be left open by default, and frequently given to the town loafer, who enjoyed the spasmodic nature of the duties. T h e small fees did not arouse any burning desire to expend much energy, and in some cases it might cost the constable more to apprehend someone than the total fee for the assignment. Some also retained a certain elusiveness by having no set place where they could be located by a prospective complainant. One notable exception was in New Village, Warren County, where one of the town constables was a bartender, although the pursuit of wrongdoers was presumably put aside until the completion of his primary duty of dispensing liquids to the locals. Most of the constables had no formal training and little if any experience. Generally, they tended to clog the system of justice rather than expedite it. As for the sheriff himself, opinions were many and varied. A State Chamber of Commerce survey reported that sixteen of the twenty-one sheriffs did not take seriously the duty of apprehending criminals. One sheriff reported that in all of his experience, he was never called upon to make an arrest. Another sheriff felt that the office was not to perform police duties except in the case of a riot. It is to their credit that most of them realized the shortcomings of the system and were anxious to improve it, either by increasing their own forces or aiding a state force if one were created. Most prosecutors of the time were of the same opinion and condemned the system rather than the sheriffs as individuals. T h e system was fairly judged by New Republic magazine in 1916, when it commented, In the matter o f rural policing w e are in the Dark A g e s or beyond. O u r local institutions f o r detecting crime and a p p r e h e n d i n g criminals are about in the same stage o f d e v e l o p m e n t as under the A n g e v i n kings o f England. I n emergency, there are special deputies, most frequently useless, occasionally highly mischievous.

So it was the efficiency and effectiveness of the sheriff and his methods which became the hinge pin of a continuing and acrimonious debate, with the emphasis on rural crime on one side,

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the alleged repression of labor on the other, and the problem of "foreigners" as a common irritant to both. The debate began in earnest in the years preceding World War I. As the popularity of the automobile increased, the American habit of "going for a drive" brought the city people out into the farm country. The motorist, after a stint of handcranking, would climb into his high, open car and head out of town, to see and be seen. That he was seen is evident in the reports of holdups and robberies on the country roads. In prose somewhat reminiscent of Dumas, the daily press detailed the latest "depredations of dastardly highwaymen." Their activity caused the New York Times to comment that the policing of all the roads was admittedly a task of such magnitude that the complete prevention of holdups was not foreseeable. The Times's remedy was "relentless pursuit" of the "pest of these public enemies" which had appeared on New Jersey roads. Highway holdups were the most common complaint in rural South Jersey, as were the actions of the "riff-rafF" elements and tramps during certain seasons. Burlington County, which spans the state from the Delaware River to the Atlantic Ocean, was typical of the area. Though its smaller towns had some form of police force, the major portion of the criminal work in the county was handled by the county detective, Ellis Parker, who had managed to make himself something of a legendary figure. Mr. Parker expressed particular annoyance with the activities of those criminals who made it a practice to roam from one county to another. He was also plagued by thieves who came into the county via the Delaware River, and after their forays against the local farmers sailed their produce-laden craft off into the night before a proper pursuit could be organized. Another typical response to rural crime was found in Cumberland County where all the detective work was also the job of one man, Frank J. Lore, a private detective who worked for the prosecutor on a daily fee basis. This arrangment was further strengthened by the fact that Lore was also a Justice of the Peace, and theoretically could hear charges against those he arrested

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or hold them for the Grand Jury. In his bid for the "legendary" stature accorded his counterpart, Ellis Parker, Lore kept two powerful automobiles so he could speed to any location in his county. He himself felt that his strong point was his ability to play on the emotions of his suspects and get confessions. As a result, he claimed that everyone charged with murder gave a full confession, which allowed the cases to be tried in one day and thence worked out to be "the cheapest cases in the country." Despite these Sherlock Holmes endeavors, criminal activity in the rural sections continued to increase. A rural crime problem peculiar to New Jersey was that of the "Pineys." These inhabitants of the uncharted pine wilderness of South Jersey lived off the land without title, hunted without license, bought and sold wives, and their general wining and wenching caused one social worker from a charitable agency to fearfully inquire, "Shall we allow them to pollute a whole neighborhood?" The Pineys cowed the neighborhood by occasional arson jobs on the barns of those who sought the services of any law officer to control them. The Central Jersey counterparts of the Pineys were the residents of the Sourland Mountains of Hunterdon County. That area had a reputation as a hideout for city criminals and a place of unreported murders and other crimes. Throughout its early years, the State Police would find more resistance in these two areas than in any other rural section. While the country people coped with bucolic banditry, the attention of others was centered on the urban and manufacturing districts. The issue here was labor disputes, and a secondary consideration was the "foreign" element, who were referred to in the most derogatory tones as "those Italians, Jews, Hunkies, and Polacks." As with all minorities, society took little notice of crime or disorder when it remained confined within the minority enclave. But when their way of life, their working conditions, their language, their exploitation by labor or employer disturbed the status quo, time and time again ending in violent confrontations, person against person, group against group, the foreigners were

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forced to center stage. The actions of labor organizers and the employer response led to abuses on both sides. The general illiteracy of the immigrant worker made him the perfect target for the exploiters. Easily led or intimidated, he became the expendable factor in strike activity. Although the state had mobilized the National Guard for riot duty during strikes at Paterson and Perth Amboy in 1902 and 1908, succeeding governors had shown a marked reluctance to do so in subsequent strikes. This lack of strong executive action did not go unnoticed by the labor organizers or the employer groups. The results were predictably violent. During the period 1910-1915, there were 473 strikes in New Jersey. As a result of riots at thirty-one strike scenes, there were twenty-two lives lost, hundreds injured, and uncountable property damage. Upon request, it was incumbent upon the sheriff of the county to provide protection for life and property during a strike. This was usually accomplished by swearing in company guards and private guards as special deputies. In most cases, the employment and deputization of these persons increased the level of violence and lessened the chance of a settlement. At times it was obvious that the special deputies antagonized the strikers into violence, apparently in the hope of prolonging their own employment. Firearms and bombs were freely used. The activity of both sides brought this comment from the Perth Amboy Evening News, "Is it not time to find out where we are, when mobs of angry men can rush through the streets? The time has come for thoughtful men to pause and ask, what are we coming to?" T h e pattern was established: a strike called; special deputies hired; violence and bloodshed until the futility of it all would be recognized and a temporary peace declared. Pious pronouncements were made of the right of the workers to strike; pious promises that such strikes would continue in a lawful manner without violence; secret vows on both sides to be more firm or more activist, with the state remaining aloof, keeping a wary political eye on the parties and making no move to intervene or in any way alleviate the situation.

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As if to add strength to the argument that a state police would be an anti-labor force, it is ironic that major labor disturbances were the reason for the introduction of the first legislation. These strikes all encompassed the issues of special deputies, foreign workers, and violence resulting in death. The silk industry in Paterson was struck for seven months in 1915. This strike brought national attention to the Industrial Workers of the World, commonly known as the "Wobblies." The I.W.W., led by "Big Bill" Haywood, appeared in Paterson and began a strong campaign among the predominantly Italian and Jewish workers. Haywood and his assistants made no secret of their radicalism and main purpose of stirring class consciousness. They met with notable success in enlisting support, for they were all magnetic and spellbinding speakers. Their oratory was supplemented by pamphlets and broadsides in which the city police were described as "Cossacks" and "Brass Button Bandits." The strikers were led into the streets to challenge the special deputies hired as plant guards. In several confrontations pistols were used, and one man who was neither a striker nor guard was killed. Still the strikers followed the "Wobblies" again and again to challenge the deputies and city police. As the I.W.W. influence waned the violence tapered off, but more than passing comment was made on the failure of the state to take action. Another strike at the mines in Wharton was escalated with the use of firearms and dynamite and the sheriff was called to the scene with 200 special deputies. The strikers reacted with such aggressiveness that the special deputies retreated from the scene. As the sheriff began the process of summoning the state militia, the strikers ceased their violence on his promise that the special deputies would not return. These negotiations caused one newspaper to comment that the incident gave more evidence of the need for a state constabulary which would allow the state to dictate the peace terms while enforcing compliance with the laws. In 1912 and 1913 strikes in Middlesex County followed the same pattern of violence and four persons died. In the 1913 strikes a force of 400 deputies and private guards was unable

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to prevent disorder. The Adjutant General of the National Guard visited the scene, but no militia were used. In response to public outcry in his county, Senator William E. Ramsey, Middlesex Democrat, in 1914 introduced the first formal legislation calling for establishment of a state constabulary. The bill was referred to committee and expired at the end of the session without further action. Though this first attempt went relatively unnoticed, the Senator had found support and determined to introduce the bill at the next session. This determination was reinforced by a bitter strike at Roosevelt early in 1915, which embodied all of the worst features of such encounters. This strike, at a chemical processing plant, was set off when the laborers' wages were lowered. These workers, all of them foreign born, non-English-speaking, and in the country for only a short time, were fertile ground for the radical seeding of the "Wobblies." Though the wages had been lowered in October 1914, it was not until January 1915 that the radicals succeeded in leading the workers out. They were quickly formed into a mob and led through the area to stone the homes of nonstrikers. As the local police force assembled, a shot was fired, narrowly missing the police chief. On the next day, workers in other plants joined the original strikers, bringing the total to about 800. T h e sheriff arrived with some deputies and succeeded in dispersing the mob. Within seven days some of the employers capitulated and their employees went back to work. At two other plants the employers remained adamant and posted notices that the strikers would be replaced if they did not return. Three days later, when some 200 strikebreakers arrived by train, they were greeted with a volley of stones and other missiles. T h e companies reacted by increasing the force of special deputies hired to protect the plants. On January 19, 1915, a group of strikers boarded a train approaching the struck plants and began to search for strikebreakers. Others of the group succeeded in halting the train near the factories. At this point, the special deputies charged from the plants and began to fire into the crowd of strikers. More than 200 shots were fired and

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the strikers took cover in a nearby swamp. Two of them died of bullet wounds, and the prosecutor began an investigation of the deaths. His actions caused the arrest of twenty-eight of the deputies. The grand jury met on February 6th and returned two murder indictments and nineteen atrocious assault indictments against the special deputies. Two days later Senator Ramsey introduced Senate Bill 163 which provided for a department of state police consisting of 114 men. On February 9th, the Assembly passed a resolution empowering a committee of that house to investigate the strikes and shootings in Middlesex County. Opposition rose to a climax. One of the early voices raised was that of the Jersey Journal of Jersey City which felt that the small counties had no need for a constabulary and that the Roosevelt murders would not have been possible except for the "stupidity, or worse of the local authorities." The New York World disagreed by noting, In undisputed control of police power, most American states refuse to assert it. They refuse to restrain the violence of misguided labor and protect the rights of peaceable labor. They permit employers to proclaim sieges, embargoes and war. They do not act until blood is shed, property destroyed and whole communities terrorized.

On March 31, 1915, Senate Bill 163, the so-called State Police Bill, was passed in the Senate. Received in the Assembly, it was duly referred to the Committee on the Judiciary, where it remained until the end of the session. It then quietly entered oblivion, there to join Michael Backy and Santo Cessitore, the two murdered strikers. Meanwhile, there was some action taken to make the rural residents feel safer. Witness the course of the Sussex County Freeholders who voted to attach bells to the necks and wrists of convicts working on road gangs, thereby eliminating the need for armed guards. They further stipulated that anyone who returned an escaped convict would be paid a reward of twentyfive cents. In keeping with the do-it-yourself approach, Job Lippincott, the Commissioner of Motor Vehicles, announced plans

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to establish a rogues' gallery of auto thieves and invited New Jersey motorists to contribute any information they might have. There is no tabulation of the number of local auto thieves who received a mention from the home folks. These efforts, though notable, were certainly not the answer. As the New Republic saw it, " T o forego the services of a well organized system of rural police merely because of their possible employment to quell strikers appears to be a heavy cost, from whatever point of view." Efforts continued in the legislature with each bill moving a little further through the mill. A bill introduced in 1917 by Senator Carlton B. Pierce of Union County advanced to a brief public hearing and that was the nearest it came to legislation. At that hearing, the Master of the New Jersey State Grange placed his organization solidly in favor of the bill. Another new argument was advanced for the creation of a state police. T h e Army Board had recommended to Congress that the National Guard be relieved of all police duties in their respective states, and that the states be required to provide other forms of police protection. It was commonly agreed that the use of the Guard in labor disputes was inhibiting recruitment. Workingmen did not relish the idea of being used to police their fellows at bayonet point and then return to work at their sides. The entry of the United States into the "Great War" added another factor. Appeals to patriotism and idealism were made to advance any cause, however remote from the national goals. Advocates of a state police, as well as opponents, were not averse to draping their cause in the comfortable folds of Old Glory. T h e federalizing of the New Jersey National Guard in 1917 gave new life to the advocates of a state police to replace them. Governor Walter E. Edge became the first chief executive to publicly endorse a state police force in New Jersey. In his annual message to the legislature in January 1918, he declared it to be the duty of the legislature to provide some practical method of rural police protection under state control. With the National Guard gone from the scene, there came into existence the Home Defense League, whose president declared that the men of his group were willing to act as a comple-

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ment to a state police force and he urged the creation of such a force. There was also the argument that the departure of the young men from the countryside to the camps, to the munitions plants, and to the front, and their replacement with "irresponsible aliens," would not contribute to the safety of the country women and children. So, it would be an assemblyman from one of the rural counties who would next introduce a state police bill to contribute to the well-being of his constituents. Assemblyman Philip S. Wilson of Sussex County had the proper credentials. Born in a small town in Maine, the laconic down-easterner devoted himself to the instilling of the gentlemanly attributes in his students at Newton Preparatory School, where he was headmaster. Aware of all the odds against his bill, he was unimpressed. After all, hadn't he, a Republican, been elected from a strongly Democratic County? True, his margin of victory had been only nine votes in his first try at any political office. He had been reelected by more than 400 votes. Rallying to support his bill were more than 300 organizations. Among them were familiar names; the Granges, automobile clubs, parent-teacher associations, womens' clubs, chambers of commerce and others, whose names were not exactly household words, but were a testimonial to the interest generated in the legislation, and a testimonial to the American fondness for intriguing organizational names, to wit: Book and Needle Club, Porch Club, Open Hand Club, Fortnightly Jaunts Club, and so on. Mr. Wilson's bill differed from the previous bills in its inclusion of stipulations which limited the use of the state police as a "posse" in cities, except when ordered by the Governor upon the request of local authorities. T h e backers of the bill felt that this provision would effectively overcome the objections of organized labor. The stage was now set for a full-dress public hearing on January 29, 1918. One of the stars of the performance was the Honorable Frank Hague, mayor of Jersey City, who would speak for the opposition. T h e former custodian of City Hall had learned early in his career that control of the police force was the key to success. As

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Director o f Public Safety, he strongly asserted his authority over the force in his city. Attacking the acknowledged general inefficiency o f the department, Hague cleaned house with much fanfare. This public exposure of incompetents gave Hague the aura o f a crusader and allowed him to replace the rascals with the good guys, the prime requirement for the latter category being absolute loyalty to the new boss. It was this control that Hague saw endangered by a state police force, although his public opposition was based on the concept of home rule, that concept as dear to politicians as motherhood and apple pie. T o buttress his position, Hague also found it convenient to pose as a friend of labor. Despite his tortured syntax, he spoke with the sure voice o f a man who controlled some of the votes and could make alliances to control the others. At the hearing, Hague confined his arguments to those two public postures. We are asking you to give us home rule. I do not want the state police in the city to browbeat and beat up the labor people of our city. If I permitted thugs to enter our city with rifles, do you think those men would go on about their business in a peaceful manner, or if we imported thugs such as a state police?

Hague also inquired if it was home rule to send into Jersey City ninety mounted police, because some corporation had hired armed guards. T h e n he inquired of the recruitment policies, " T h e law provides that they must be a resident o f the United States. From where? Who are they? These men sit here thinking they will be protected by men o f that character." Pretty strong stuff. Hague had managed to paint the state police as thugs or worse, before a single man was hired. Other opposition speakers followed with more of the same, their appeals directed toward the protection o f labor and patriots. Arthur Quinn, president o f the State Federation o f Labor, offered his opinion that when the troops in France heard o f the law, there would be a "feeling of discontent." George Record, a Jersey City lawyer, wondered if there would be a provision for

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the state police, "who are appointed to watch the chickens and pumpkins on the vines," never to be used in any strike. Mr. Record got himself on the side of the patriots by avowing that his was a fight for the co'mmon man, and the common man "is waging the fight in the trenches." John Matthews, representing the railroad unions, also took the side of the consumer with his question, "Are you going to say, pay so much money towards protecting the peaches and potatoes of the gentleman of some other county? God knows spuds are high enough now. Gentlemen, are you going to send them all the higher?" Henry Hilfers, secretary of the labor federation, got the argument back to wartime conditions by stating that except for the autocratic forces wearing "the uniform of the German Kaiser," there was no uniformed force more hated than the Pennsylvania State Constabulary. Those speaking in favor of the bill confined themselves to the expected arguments. They, too, wanted the world safe for democracy, but in the absence of the young men in the rural districts, they invoked the specter of stretches of lonely country with unprotected women and children left behind on the farms to till the soil to provide food for the soldiers and workers; all of them, together, patriots in every sense of the word. If Frank Hague was the star of the opposition, those in favor of the bill had a made-to-order speaker, whose story appealed to the emotions with a first-person account of a rural crime, a dastardly murder. A. D. Rider, a well-known South Jersey farmer who was known as the "cranberry king," arose and covered all the problems in his story: rural crime, foreigners, and the breakdown of the prevailing system of law enforcement. He had been on his way to town to pick up a payroll, accompanied by his daughter, his visiting brother, and a hired man. After picking up the money and driving on the country road, they were ambushed by ten men, who began shooting into the Rider car. His brother was killed, he and his daughter were wounded, but the assailants were driven off by the hired man, who fired back at them. Rider told how, after being treated at the hospital, he

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drove back to the scene and found the sheriff and the county detective, Ellis Parker. T h e coroners were there also, to lend their special knowledge. According to Rider, however, no attempt was made to find the murderers. In fact, the county detective left the scene to go the Mount Holly Fair. H e explained to Rider that there were a lot of "fakirs" there and he had to watch them. How were the criminals brought to justice? One of Rider's friends came to see him when he heard of the crime, and he found information on the license number of the bandit's car and phoned the Philadelphia police who quickly arrested four of the men. This sad tale aided the bill's sponsors in getting the bill reported out of committee and to the floor f o r a vote. That vote was finally taken after more debate set for an extraordinary night session of the legislature. Before that session, the state labor federation at its convention in Trenton had passed a resolution opposing the bill, offering their opinion that the "agriculturists of the commonwealth are being hoodwinked." February 11, 1918, was a night to be long remembered by legislators and veteran legislature watchers. T h e State Gazette described the scene, " N o t in many years has the house witnessed such a staging of verbal pyrotechnics. T h e gallery has never been alive with such an interested audience; the floor has never held so many men of various standings in the commonwealth." Henry Hilfers of the labor group passed out red, white, and blue flowers so that opponents of the bill might be more easily identified by the partisans in the crowded gallery, who cheered any reference to labor and groaned at every mention of the State Chamber of Commerce. Many amendments to the bill were offered. All failed, with the exception of Assemblyman George Hobart's, which further restricted the Governor to calling out the state police only in case of actual riot, tumult, or disorder. T h e n the debate began anew. Assemblyman John Gill of Mercer felt that labor should be conciliated to aid in the war effort. Therefore, as "a patriot," he was opposed. Further, he felt that New Jersey would soon be a "dry" state and a state police force would not be needed, as experience in other "dry" states

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had shown. Assemblyman George Yarrow of Essex felt that the object of the bill was to keep the workingman down, so that if he struck when his wages were lowered the state police would be brought in. These oratorical endeavors seemed lackluster in comparison with the efforts of the minority leader, Alexander Simpson of Hudson County. Mr. Simpson needed no boutonniere to identify him. Dean of his delegation in service, graduate of Columbia University and law school in France, loyal Hague man, he inclined toward the dramatic and added to that image by wearing his hair in long, wavy locks in the style of actors of an earlier era. A n effective orator, he was well aware that he led a minority on the floor, but commanded a majority of the gallery. All his previous attempts to kill the bill having failed, he played to his audience as he strode down the aisle to the speaker's rostrum and cried, "Beware, if you sow dragon's teeth, that you do not reap armed men." Then, perhaps feeling that the meaning of this fable by Hyginus might be too obscure, he turned to the gallery and quickly updated his allegory, "Pass this bill, a slap at labor, and you would not be surprised if George Washington left his grave, sought out Benedict Arnold and commended him for being a patriot." Unsure of fables they might be, but the crowd knew that much history, and this final riposte drew loud applause. Less than an hour before midnight, the bill passed the lower house and its jubilant backers sent it to the Senate, where two similar bills initiated in that chamber had passed handily, and where fifteen of the senators came from rural counties and were expected to be in favor. When the state police bill was brought up in the Senate it was again debated with the same arguments: that it was a camouflaged move against labor; that it would interfere with the war effort and therefore was an unpatriotic measure. Verbal pictures in delicate sarcasm delineated scenes of mounted men in the role of protectors of pea pods, pumpkins, and country bumpkins. Brought to voting position twice, the bill failed to gain a ma-

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jority, in the second vote failing by only two votes. Here was the end of oratory and emotion. Faced with the facts of political life, the sponsors withdrew. The aristocratic Samuel Whitaker Pennypacker, the Governor of Pennsylvania, had "made" a State Police. It was not to be that easy in New Jersey.

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Struggle T h r o u g h the Legislature T h e "Great War" to make the world "safe f o r democracy" was over. President Wilson presided over the ceremonies of the final days of idealism. New Jersey followed the example of the rest of the country. T h e r e t u r n i n g soldiers were greeted with p r o p e r parades; bodies of their dead comrades were met with p r o p e r solemnity. Farm boys and city boys were back f r o m a great adventure which had changed them, their state and their country. They noticed the changes about them before noticing the changes in themselves. In July 1919, the so-called Wartime Prohibition Act took effect. Designed to combat the use of alcohol, which was an obvious menace to the war effort, or so said the Prohibitionists, the law was not signed until after the Armistice. T h e people were still filled with the Spartan fervor of the war years and displayed an innocent receptiveness to the idea of total prohibition. This wartime state of mind which could create genuine hate for an idea, then translate the idea to a physical embodiment, i.e., the Kaiser, had m a d e the people capable of summary action. It was a habit not easily put aside. This habit would revive old ideas and problems.

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Labor had been encouraged to wartime cooperation by a government which wanted no hindrance to the war effort, and had won pay raises which were reluctantly granted by some employers, who now would attempt to extract their pound of flesh. Labor, now no longer prohibited from striking, would see to it that the "profiteering" companies were taught a lesson. Now again, the prewar pattern of strikes and lockouts. Now again, the issue of foreigners and radicals. Now again, the issue of law and order. New Jersey had its fair share of these problems, all tending to reinforce the arguments for a state police. As in the rest of the country, the activities of radicals commanded major attention. It was the time of the "red scare." Anarchists were depicted in editorial cartoons wearing long, disheveled hair and beards, usually with a bomb in each hand. It was a situation made to order for headline-hunting men. T h e United States Attorney General, A. Mitchell Palmer, made plans for a series of nationwide raids on suspected radicals January 2, 1920. In New Jersey, raids took place in Newark, New Brunswick, Paterson, and Passaic. Federal agents made more than 500 arrests, many of them on the slimmest evidence, many without warrants. One man was arrested as he walked along a Newark street because "he looked like a radical." Another was seized as he stopped to inquire into that commotion. In New Brunswick, the zealous raiders seized blueprints which they thought depicted the inner workings of a bomb. T h e bomb experts were consulted and reported that the "bomb" drawings depicted the inner workings of a phonograph. So it went throughout the state. T h e hysteria was no more than a reflection of the times and the attitude of the average citizen. Though the courts eventually freed most of those arrested, the handy label of "red" or "Bolsheviki" was easily applied to those who advocated change. Nowhere were the labels applied more freely than to those immigrant groups who constituted the major portion of the work force in the manufacturing areas of North Jersey. T h e antiradicalism and activities of vigilante groups of the Right opened the "roaring 20's" on a

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wave of violence that would continue, feeding on Prohibition and increased public cynicism. Though the fear of "reds" slowly abated, the problem of increased criminal activity continued. Again, the most attention was paid to the metropolitan area near New York City, where efforts in combating criminals within the city became a matter of personal concern to North Jersey residents when the New York City police commissioner announced a drive to rid the city of criminals. T o back up his intention, he increased auto patrols and equipped them with shotguns. These actions caused concern in North Jersey, not necessarily as to the number of criminals who might be shot, but as to the number who might safely escape to New Jersey, which was experiencing an increase in holdups in the cities and on the highways. Public alarm over such a consequence brought renewed demands for police protection. In response, the Governor called a crime prevention conference and invited state and local government officials, municipal police chiefs, and various veterans' organizations. The purpose was to consolidate all the forces available and coordinate their activities and ideas to prevent an influx of the criminals from New York. Governor Edward I. Edwards was the first chief executive to take steps to directly involve the state in efforts to halt crime on the roads and in the rural areas. He was to have a far-reaching effect on the New Jersey State Police, and he deserves more than passing mention in this story. Edwards was born and raised in Jersey City, the son of immigrant English parents. He had worked for a local bank as an office boy and eventually became its president. He was a selfmade man and proud of his accomplishments. His first state political office was that of Comptroller of the Treasury. It was here that he earned his first measure of fame, and showed his inclination to be a political maverick. While Comptroller, he deducted part of the salary from Governor Woodrow Wilson's paycheck for the time spent outside the state while campaigning for the Presidency. Edwards paid the salary to the acting governors, who in every instance, endorsed the checks over to

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Wilson. Understandably, when Edwards ran for State Treasurer, Wilson opposed him and he was defeated. After another term as Comptroller, he was then appointed to the New Jersey Senate to fill an unexpired term. Edwards was a Protestant, Mason, Moose, Eagle, a member of the State Militia and all those other groups that politicians feel obligated to join. He was a loyal Hague man, loyal Democrat, and against Prohibition. As such, he was tapped by the party to run for Governor in 1919. No great orator, he pledged himself to fight by "every lawful" means the enforcement of Prohibition. He is best remembered for his anti-Prohibition vow to make "New Jersey wetter than the Atlantic Ocean." Edwards was the first Hague man elected governor, but Hague could not provide a friendly legislature, and Edwards was continually vexed by the opposition. Now, to head off further criticism, he moved the state into the fight against crime. T h e statewide conference took place on December 27, 1920. Attending were prosecutors and police chiefs and other organizations not directly concerned with law enforcement, but who had responded to the invitation. The main speaker was the New York City police commissioner whose stepped-up activities precipitated the situation. Commissioner Enright suggested that New Jersey adopt a law to control the possession of hand weapons. He further urged that the courts set higher bail for known criminals. New Jersey Attorney General Thomas F. McCran agreed with the idea of high bail, but he advocated that every honest citizen ought to be armed to kill any person who attempted to rob him. He thought that no citizen should go on a dark road at night unarmed, and that the use of force was the best means of combating crime. Governor Edwards was quite confident that the cities could continue to effectively protect themselves. It was the "country towns" that would need aid. He therefore proposed the activation of the Home Guard to patrol the rural roads. He also called on the American Legion to assist in the fight against criminals, an activity that group had shown some predilection for in other parts of the country, especially during the "red scare." The

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Governor also wanted some system of checking all cars entering or leaving the state, so that movements of the criminals would be traceable. Since labor representatives present were vocal in their opposition to a state police, and Edwards, as a loyal Hague man, was also opposed, he announced that he would appoint Motor Vehicle Commissioner William Dill to supervise these activities and coordinate them with the sheriffs and prosecutors. Commissioner Dill then briefly outlined his plan to have the railroad companies make a list of all automobiles using the Hudson and Delaware River ferries. He further proposed that the entrance roads to each town be watched from midnight to dawn and that drivers be stopped, have their licenses checked, and be interrogated as to their destinations, etc. Several mayors and prosecutors proposed a border-to-border "rabbit hunt" to round up all the criminals in the state. On this naive note, the conference passed a resolution urging strong action and closed with plans to meet later to activate some of the ideas advanced. Noble ideas, but the ostrich-like view of most of the conferees did not augur much success. Before the conference could reconvene, Senator Clarence E. Case of Somerset County introduced Senate Bill Number 74 on January 24, 1921, which provided for the creation of a Department of State Police. This was identical to earlier bills and was quickly moved along in a friendlier house and posted for a public hearing on February 7, 1921. T h e public's attitude was changing, as the Newark Evening News noted, "that the rural crime situation is much more serious than it was during the years when state police bills went down to defeat." So the same cast of characters, with some new faces on both sides, moved to Trenton for another debate. Perhaps the Senate chamber invokes a different attitude, for even with the presence of Alexander Simpson, now Senator from Hudson County, there were none of the verbal pyrotechnics of earlier debates. Chief spokesman for the opposition was Senator William H. Parry of Essex County, who invoked the familiar argument that

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a state police would be used to crush organized labor. H e harked back to the war years with his argument that the bill was "Hohenzollernism," and would be the first step toward the "Prussianization" of New Jersey. T h e main speaker for the bill was Major George Chandler of the New York State Police. H e reminded the senators that all the sheriffs in New York state had originally opposed the State Police, but now all of them were supporters. As the bill moved along through the legislature, the Governor's crime conference met once again. Prosecutor E d m u n d Gaskill of Atlantic County unveiled his plan to deputize all bridge tenders, and to place turnstiles in the road to force an examination of everyone trying to leave. H e proposed also to name special constables in each hamlet to be alerted to the presence of criminals in the area. Other conferees advocated a state secret service, motorcycle road patrol, state detective and intelligence bureaus, and passage of strong gun laws. Meanwhile, on March 7, 1921, the State Police bill passed the Senate. On March 8, the bill passed the Assembly under suspended rules and was sent to the Governor for his signature. T h e New York Times was moved to editorial congratulations to the women of New Jersey for overcoming organized opposition. "Trusting to human nature when there are no policemen doesn't pay," they felt. On March 21, 1921, the bill was returned to the Senate with the Governor's veto message. Governor Edwards observed that various labor organizations had opposed the measure as a vehicle for oppressing labor and he was inclined to accept that view. In his j u d g m e n t , ample power and authority existed with various peace officers and the State Militia to control disorders resulting from strikes. T h e legislature remained adamant. On March 22, the bill passed the Senate over the veto. One week later, the Assembly followed suit, and on March 29, 1921, after two months of sustained effort, which followed seven years of agitation and debate, the creation of the New Jersey State Police was recorded in Chapter 102, Laws of New Jersey.

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A nine-month period followed before the new law enforcement agency would be on public view. T h e most intriguing part of the process was the search for someone to recruit, train, and supervise it. Governor Edwards again f o u n d himself in the spotlight. T h o u g h not the author, he would cast the chief character. H e would find no lack of advice to guide him in his choice for the role. Typical of his advisors was the Jersey Journal, which had unequivocally opposed the state police as an antilabor g r o u p as an unnecessary expense, as a violation of h o m e rule, and as an affront to Mayor Hague. This newspaper now felt it necessary to remind Governor Edwards that he was a local boy and had a duty to his home town. T h e law provided that the Governor appoint the Superintendent for a term of five years. T h e law f u r t h e r provided that the Superintendent set the standards and make the selection of all the members of the new force. T o the Jersey Journal, that meant over one h u n d r e d jobs —political jobs — and with unabashed directness it front-paged the choice of the H a g u e machine for the top job. Hague and Alexander Simpson could not stop the formation of the State Police, so they boldly tried to install their own man as its head. T h e Jersey Journal dutifully r e p o r t e d all the moves and the expected reasons for quick confirmation of the choice. T h e Journal's first story advised the readers that Lt. T h o m a s Broadhurst of the H u d s o n County Boulevard Police would be the new State Police head. Since the position was one of great power, the paper felt that confirmation of the man could be brought about provided Republican senators were assured of representation for their counties. T h e paper admitted that the Republicans were fearful of a Hague man in the job, but they would be placated by a p r o p e r division of the appointments. Governor Edwards meanwhile released the news that he had received forty applications f o r the position, and that he was interested in the record of one m a n f r o m Newark. T h e Jersey City native was beginning to show signs of his maverick tendency. T h e signs proved true when the home-town paper reported with ill-concealed dismay on J u n e 2, 1921, that the Governor had

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selected H. Norman Schwarzkopf to be the first Superintendent. Reporting that Hague's man had been turned down, and that Senator Simpson did not try to hide his surprise, the paper also chronicled the shock of other Hudson Democrats who did not mince words over their keen disappointment. Searching for a reason, they reported that the new chief had served with the Governor's son in France and they were still on friendly terms. They were horrified when Schwarzkopf's politics were not announced and opined that he might even be an independent. T h e y lamented over the consequences: "What power can be exercised by such an office can be better imagined than described." Senator Case, the bill's author, commented that the Governor had made a very good selection and Senator Parry, who had worried about the "Prussianization" of New Jersey stated that the appointee was a military man of the aggressive type whose record was "excellent." It was only coincidence that he was also from Senator Parry's county. Still the Jersey Journal kept the appointment as front page news. T h e y reported that Mayor Hague had left the city for the cool breezes at the shore, while attempts of the Governor to appease the wrath of his home county Democrats were being spurned. It felt that the Republicans were breathing easier, now that a Hague man did not get the appointment. It reserved one bit of outstanding reasoning in examining the ramifications for labor: the law provided for a guarantee against any state policeman going on strike or quitting in the event he was called into a labor dispute, quoting that section of the law which read, "Any voluntary withdrawal without the consent of the Superintendent shall be a misdemeanor." Continuing its political dirge, the paper felt that the Chamber of Commerce would have great influence with Schwarzkopf as to who would fill the other posts. T h e Journal was further alarmed by a statement attributed to the head of the railroad police who gave his opinion that Schwarzkopf would pay no attention to the politicians, but act regardless of them by going after anarchists, professional labor

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agitators, and "political derelicts." Such political independence posed a real threat. T h e newspaper was not yet ready to give up. Reporting on the confirmation of "Henry" Schwarzkopf, "without a hitch," they speculated on the choice of the man to serve as Deputy Superintendent. Though Lt. Broadhurst "does not want" the place, he would accept it out of loyalty to the Hague organization. Whistling in the dark, it reminded itself and its loyal readers that the appointment would be made by Schwarzkopf and not by the Governor. T h e new superintendent had not announced any choices for the other positions, but did announce that he had been giving much thought to organizing the force and was about to set out on a tour of the Pennsylvania and New York State Police establishments and then would examine the operations of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Rumors persisted that more appointments would be made on his return. On J u n e 30, 1921, it became apparent that Schwarzkopf had every intention of remaining politically independent. Though the Journal half-heartedly noted that reports of Broadhurst's appointment were still in circulation, the editorial comment for that date reflected the true opinion, and was closer to the mark. Reporting that Schwarzkopf was back in Trenton and ready to begin selection of the new force, it concluded, "This is one department in which letters of introduction will count very little. T h e new State Police will be organized along Schwarzkopfian lines." T h e next day, July 1, 1921, was the first official day of the New Jersey State Police. Happily, the pages of the Journal were devoted to full coverage of the coming Dempsey-Carpentier prize fight. T h e crowd of 75,000 that flocked to the site in Jersey City gave the paper its biggest story of the year. T h e State Police and Schwarzkopf could be forgotten for a while, no doubt with a mutual sigh of relief. But in its astonishment, the Jersey Journal had never really answered its own questions about the appointment. H. Norman Schwarzkopf. Who? Why?

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Well, why not? Schwarzkopf had military training and a good war record; he lived in the state and had experience in private business. He was tied to no political party and, in fact, was relatively unknown. More precisely, he was a complete unknown, which f o r inscrutable political reasons made him the perfect appointee for those involved. Did the Republicans feel that he could be influenced? Did the Democratic Governor hope that he would make a mess of the whole plan and thereby justify the Governor's veto of the law? What about him, really? Herbert Norman Schwarzkopf was born at 80 West Kinney St., Newark, New Jersey, on August 28, 1895, the only child of Julius and Agnes Schwarzkopf, second generation Americans and lifelong residents of that city. T h e elder Schwarzkopf, a jewelry designer, had dropped the use of his first name and was known in the business world as J. George Schwarzkopf. T h e son also used only the initial of his first name in emulation of his father and also as a rejection of the nickname "Bertie" which his friends had used and which he despised. Norman was a devoted son, indulged to the same degree as other children, yet disciplined in the no-nonsense manner of his European heritage. H e attended neighborhood schools and he received a taste of military life during a short tenure at the N e w Jersey Military Academy. After graduation from Barringer High School in Newark, he was granted an appointment to the United States Military Academy and reported there on June 14, 1913. After surviving the traditional hazing of plebes in "Beast Barracks," he plunged into the Academy life. A n average student, he managed to receive notice through his involvement in sports. H e also earned an eye-popping notoriety whenever he sat at the football training table and made a direct assault on the daily rations. His trencherman tactics caused his classmates to liken his shape to a beer keg, but a hearty appetite was normal for one who was involved in football, swimming, boxing, polo, handball, basketball, was a sharpshooter, managed the handball team, various Y M C A committees, and still found time to sing in the choir for three years. H e acquired the nickname "Schwarzie," which none but his

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classmates used. He was also known at the Point as the "genial German gink," an epithet not readily applied by those who were to serve under him, for the genial German had a healthy respect for rules and regulations, a respect nurtured during those solitary moments available while "walking the area" on punishment tours. This respect for rules remained as much a part of him as did his ramrod appearance and his firm belief in the code of honor and duty. This latter belief was one of his strengths, but his naive assumption that others held the same belief would be one of his weaknesses. He gained other convictions and strength through practical experience, for on April 6, 1917, at three o'clock in the morning, the nation went to war. Fourteen days later, ranked number 88 in a class of 136, Second Lieutenant Schwarzkopf and his classmates were graduated from West Point to embark on their great adventure. Woodrow Wilson's ringing phrase of making the world "safe for democracy" earned him a great ovation, yet he remarked that it was a "message of death for our young men." Such thoughts did not enter the minds of Schwarzkopf and his classmates; they were caught up in the national fervor and were eager for their appointed task. Schwarzkopf was commissioned in the Cavalry, where his joy in horsemanship could be indulged. Posted to the Second Cavalry at Fort Ethan Allen in Vermont, the regiment was bolstered by National Guard troops and settled down to the training of a proposed army of a million men. It soon became apparent that cavalry regiments were an anachronism on the Western Front, so the regiment was converted to the 76th Field Artillery and sent to Camp Shelby for training in its new assignment. Here they fired the obsolete American fieldpieces and simulated others with telegraph poles. Not until they arrived in France did the regiment have any extensive practice in the use of heavy field weapons. These early lessons in improvisation and later instruction in the soldierly art of "scrounging" as taught by the masters in the American Expeditionary Force were not lost on Schwarzkopf. T h e regiment arrived in France in May 1918 and became part

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of the newly formed American Third Division. Schwarzkopf was assigned as athletic officer of the regiment and he kept busy at this j o b as the regiment was sent to the Vosges Mountains for training. Here he took command of D Battery, which used the French 75 fieldpiece, there being no American weapon as equal. T h e Yank artillerymen were more than equal, however, and the furious rate of fire they soon developed made their French instructors wring their hands at the thought of possible burnout of the tubes, yet -still shake their heads in admiring wonder. They quickly learned their trade; at this stage in the war there was no longer time to develop it as an art. Their training completed, the regiment joined the division along the Marne River in J u n e 1918. Now the genial "German gink" and his fellows waited to be blooded as soldiers. Waiting with him were Sgt. Charles Schoeffel, F Battery; Cpl. Victor Kondrup, D Battery, and Cpl. William Marshall, E Battery. All were later to serve with Schwarzkopf when he formed the State Police. Now they would find their wait a short one. They were under the command of Major General Joseph T. Dickman, a portly cavalryman with the habit of standing on the ground and surveying it from the infantrymen's viewpoint. Dickman made his dispositions, listened diplomatically to the French opinion of how they should have been made, and kept to his original plans. In Dickman's setup, the artillery was right up with the infantry in close support, with orders to fight their guns to the death. Their commander made it clear that the Division was there to stay. Stay they did. On July 15, 1918, they received their baptism at the hands of crack German grenadiers who assaulted their positions with great skill and courage. T h e Americans responded with the vigor of veterans. In a vicious exchange of counter-battery fire, the American guns were smashed by the German gunners. Undaunted, they raced to the positions vacated by the retreating French and by sheer brawn, manhandled the abandoned fieldpieces back to support their infantry. This resourcefulness, plus individual and unit actions of bravery, marked the first

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engagement. They would thereafter be known as the "Rock of the Marne." Having proved themselves as defenders, they assumed the role of attackers and crossed the Marne in pursuit. T h e fighting continued in a series of short, bitter engagements. It was during these encounters that Schwarzkopf fell victim to that insidious weapon, poison gas. T h o u g h a gas mask was common equipment, the mustard gas contained enough skin irritant to incapacitate a man, and Schwarzkopf was put out of action. A f t e r nearly fifty days at the front, he had become a soldier. He would be in other engagements, but none equaled the ferocity and direct involvement of that first experience. While he was out of action, Schwarzkopf had time to reflect on the principles instilled in him at West Point, and their application by the American commanders. As with all the other soldiers of that force, Schwarzkopf was strongly influenced by General John J. Pershing. Pershing demanded that the high standards of the Corps of Cadets be applied throughout the A.E.F. T h o u g h rarely seen in person by the majority of troops, his presence was always felt. T h e troops might curse him, but they would go forward and do their job, and that was what mattered. T o a lesser degree, this was Schwarzkopf's measure for his soldiers and state troopers. Pershing's cintinued fight with the politicians and generals of the Allied Armies to retain control of his own soldiers was later remembered by Schwarzkopf, who displayed a dogged tenacity to do the same with the state police. Now there was more time for reflection, as the Armistice was declared. Shortly thereafter, Schwarzkopf entered the homeland of his forebears, with the Army of Occupation. Here his command of the language led to his assignment as Provost Marshal in one of the farm centers. T h e farmers of the town clung to the medieval custom of working the fields nearby and returning to the town enclave at the end of the day. T h e y also clung to the custom of disposing of human waste by carting it out of town in wooden barrels. Schwarzkopf, who also functioned as mayor and civil judge, paid particular attention to the sanitary problem inherent in this method and developed a local reputation as an eagleeye lookout for leaky barrels. T h o u g h it was a time of revolution

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and strife in the major cities, none of that atmosphere reached out to those pastoral surroundings and Schwarzkopf completed his first police experience without incident. He then continued in assignments which broadened his Army education and turned his path toward home. Three months with the Army Transport Service taught him the intricacies of logistics and rear-echelon bureaucracy. Two months with the Graves Registration Service tested his imperturbable exterior and increased his resolve that proper obsequies should attend the honored dead. Finally, after an absence of two years, he returned home for a short leave before crossing the country to his next assignment with the 7th Cavalry at Fort Bliss, Texas. Once again a horse soldier in a famous regiment, his other abilities were recognized and he was appointed Assistant Provost Marshal for the El Paso district. Here, serving as j u d g e and police official, he was remembered for being firm but fair. It was his unwritten rule that a man was allowed one mistake, but a recurrence of a similar offense might be considered intentional. His troops appreciated this forthright policy. While serving at Fort Bliss, his temporary promotion of three years became permanent, and he was now officially a captain of Cavalry. Along with the title came a new j o b as Border Patrol commander. This unit of regular Army troops was outposted along the border as a show of force to the followers of Pancho Villa, who remained active in the area. Before he could assume this command, Schwarzkopf was affected by a personal tragedy. His father suffered a disabling illness, which would permanently invalid him. Schwarzkopf, the professional soldier, was two thousand miles from home, with the chance of further transfer. Schwarzkopf, the devoted son, made the decision. He resigned from the Army on July 15, 1920, and returned home. There he quickly found employment. He was closer to home if needed, but it was an about-face from his accustomed life. While aware of the discussion and controversy over the State Police bill, he expressed no special interest in the outcome. When the bill was passed, he was urged to make application for the position of Superintendent. T h e encouragement came from

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a f r i e n d and fellow officer in France, Captain Irving Edwards, the Governor's son. Arrangements were made, and the Governor agreed to interview Schwarzkopf, who never having voted in an election, remained of uncertain political identity. T h e interview went smoothly enough, with Schwarzkopf relating his training and varied duties in the Army and thereafter. Things warmed u p somewhat when Schwarzkopf brought u p the subject of politics and control of the State Police and impudently suggested that if he were to head the State Police it would be u n d e r his control and command, alone. Governor Edwards was visibly annoyed when the subject was broached, especially by a nonpolitician, and he e n d e d the interview without commitment. Perhaps it was this display of independence in this "political virgin" that he f o u n d admirable and in line with his own maverick feelings. Perhaps it was the present controversy he was embroiled in over his selection for command of the National Guard. In any case, it did not take him long to make Schwarzkopf his choice for the new position. T h e Governor's choice might not please his home county, but it received praise f r o m other sources. T h e State Gazette commented, " T h e Governor ignored considerations of locality and party politics. T h e appointment of Captain Schwarzkopf augurs for its success." O n a more personal level, the Newark Star-Eagle addressed its editorial: T o Captain Schwarzkopf. W h e n the state begins to size you up, the state will be pleased, f o r like Newark, it feared that the trust would be c o n f e r r e d on some mere politician unfit for the job, and in relief in finding that we are to have an army-trained man of your type is sufficient reason f o r rejoicing.

On July 1, 1921, Herbert N o r m a n Schwarzkopf, West Point graduate, combat veteran, f o r m e r cavalryman, artilleryman, provost marshal, mayor, j u d g e , police chief, salvage officer, business executive, and administrator, was sworn in as the first Superintendent of the New Jersey State Police. He was twentyfive years old.

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Enter Schwarzkopf The surveys were completed. T h e other police departments had been cooperative. Now Schwarzkopf began to mold his own force, taking bits and pieces of the others and blending them with his own ideas and ideals, imagination and improvisations. Though cast in somewhat the same mold as its predecessors, the New Jersey State Police would be unique. More precisely, as the Jersey Journal prophesied, it would be "Schwarzkopfian." For as the other state police leaders had done, he would put his mark on the force at the outset: he made it work, by the sheer force of his personality at the beginning and a deep personal involvement thereafter. First, to find his men. The recruiting of police applicants in those days being a rudimentary process at best, he devised a simple test of general intelligence, reasoning, and elementary mathematics. On the premise that all would be taught the techniques, there were no "police" questions. T h e purpose of the test was set forth in simple terms: to test memory, comprehension, judgment, and reasoning. T h e second part of the test was of the essay type and was pure Schwarzkopf. Some sample questions: What should be the highest aim of every member of

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the State Police? When in the performance of duty does "honor" not apply? What in your opinion constitutes success? T h e answers would indicate how closely the applicant approached the idealistic standards Schwarzkopf set for himself. T h e West Point influence on the judging of men was evident in the question, "In a few words, describe what constitutes a 'mollycoddle'; a hero; a coward." Schwarzkopf believed that particular circumstances might make the difference between a hero and a coward, but the inference was clear that the State Police life was not to be an easy one, and no "mollycoddles" need apply. In one series of questions, the cavalryman's admiration for a good mount is ill-concealed in his query, "What five qualities impress you most about a horse?" How easy it is to look back over the years to this basic test, comparing it to the more complicated exercises of today and scoffing in the comparison. Who is to say that the results achieved fell short of those sought? In those times, one captain of Texas Rangers asked only three questions: Can you ride? Can you cook? Can you shoot? Who shall say then, that in their simplicity, both tests had not virtue? Schwarzkopf's test was later succeeded by another which was professionally prepared, but even that test was subordinate to a personal interview of each applicant conducted by the Superintendent. This interview, a thorough medical examination, and a test of physical strength and agility devised by the former regimental athletic officer became the criteria for appointment to the State Police Academy. Further, appointment was no guarantee of a position on the force. T h e recruit must successfully complete the training before being sworn as a trooper, a system still in effect in the present-day Academy. T h e law gave the Superintendent the authority to appoint all personnel with the sole restriction that the officers selected were to have served as commissioned Army officers for a period of at least two years. This provision was unique to New Jersey. No other state had such a standard. T h e summer of 1921 was devoted to the testing and selection of personnel. It was a lengthy process, heightened by a sense of urgency in the newspaper accounts of armed guards accom-

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panying truck convoys on the highway between New York and Philadelphia, where the exploits of "resolute Jersey highwaymen" were too vivid for motorists to shake off a sense of nervousness. A familiar theme, but Schwarzkopf had seen the results of inadequate training and was determined that the force would evolve normally. He set his own pace; he had more at stake than the editorialists. He sought the aid of the Army in the assignment of personnel to assist him in the training. When informed that the law prohibited such assignments, he put in a bid for surplus Army equipment and was assured that enough was available to meet his needs. Turning to his friend the Governor's son, he engineered permission to use the National Guard training site at Sea Girt, more familiarly known as Camp Edwards. T h e name was changed with each administration in honor of the Governor, the idea of some anonymous staff officer with a gift for ingratiation. U p to this point, only Schwarzkopf and a clerk occupied an office at the State House. They had received more than one thousand applications. Schwarzkopf's primary interest was in selecting the first commissioned officers who would be responsible for the military aspects of the training. T h e four he chose all had some cavalry experience, but aside from this, they were as diverse as the rest of the men chosen for the first training class. Mark O. Kimberling, destined to be the first adjutant and Deputy Superintendent, was a Kansas native. He had served in the Army as a weapons instructor and advanced to the rank of captain. Having no combat experience, he commanded a special detail which apprehended draft resisters and deserters. As a merchant in the small town of Kingston, he had been moderately successful. His Army record was excellent and it was his experience as an instructor and administrator that caught Schwarzkopf's eye. He quickly became second in command; he was to serve the longest of the original officers and eventually succeed to the Superintendent's office. Charles H. Bell of Newark had been a lieutenant of Cavalry. He had the happy-go-lucky outlook and attitude of a playboy, a

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role he enjoyed and an image he delighted in fostering. He was an accomplished motorcycle rider and supervised that portion of the training. His playboy image eventually was his undoing, for Schwarzkopf had to ask for his resignation for failing to answer a traffic summons in New York City. T h e ticket had been received months before Bell became a trooper, but Schwarzkopf felt he had been betrayed in his judgment. It was a bitter though valuable lesson for him. J o h n C. Weinmann of Trenton had served as a noncom in Cavalry and attained the rank of captain of Infantry in the War. His service as a supply officer was a factor in his appointment. Of the original officers, he was openly political, which did not save him, for in two years he resigned when Schwarzkopf decided he did not measure up to his original assessment. If military experience was to be considered an asset, Othel Baxter was the living example of the "old soldier." He left the plains of Kansas in 1898 to serve as private in the 8th Cavalry. After Cuban service in the Spanish-American War, he did a stint in the Philippines. Reaching the grade of corporal, he resigned and reenlisted as a private in the Field Signal Corps. In 1908, he bought his discharge and took a position with the Railway Mail Service. While so employed, he found time to enlist in the Utah National Guard, resigning in 1911 as a lieutenant. Next, he devoted his part-time military avocation to service as a member of the New York Naval Militia, with several training tours on a battleship. With the advent of the World War, he entered training at the Officer Candidate School at Plattsburg and was commissioned in the Infantry. From the Infantry, he transferred as a captain to the Quartermaster Corps, where he served until his release from active duty. After all that service, which must have left him with a trunkload of uniforms, he applied to the State Police. In that application he first displayed a gift for language that was totally foreign to the "officialese" he had constantly lived with. His reply to the routine question of his United States citizenship was that he was, "born that way, thank God!" As to the care and use of motorcycles, he stated that he "never cared for the contraptions, but can handle them." Schwarzkopf appointed Baxter commandant of the Training

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School where he served for one year before moving on to other employment. His extravagant phraseology brightens the early record. Some "Baxterisms": In reporting on some of the recruits, he observed that one man's major weakness was "devotion to rest." Another's "initiative is not as conspicuous as the Statue of Liberty." Describing a mounted trooper assigned to an Army camp function, "he remained in place, steady and confident; a radiant monument of credit to the force." Baxter could also reverse his style to brevity in the extreme, as in his report, "Recruit Lowe was accidentally shot in the leg. Separate report went into Headquarters." With all these comments, he found "the esprit de corps among recruits something beautiful." Better summations have not been made. These officers and ten other ranks were sent to Sea Girt in August 1921 to set up tentage for the first class, who arrived on September 1, 1921. The previous occupations of that first class read like a page from the classified ads. In addition to clerks, chauffeurs, machinists, railroad workers, postmen, and policemen, there was an accountant, cigarmaker, fishmonger, masseur, master mariner, taxi driver, horse trainer, circus rider, cowboy, balloonist, and a dynamiter. Most were veterans and their medals ranged from the Distinguished Service Cross, Navy Cross, Croix de Guerre, to various divisional citations. They quickly settled into camp and prepared to become troopers. The beginning did not go unnoticed. Two days after training began, in an editorial entitled "State Police Suspense," the Jersey Journal dropped the reminder that "Henry" N. Schwarzkopf was taking a long time about making public the names of the 120 men picked to comprise "his State Constabulary." It was Schwarzkopf's contention that he and his officers were "too busy" to sit down and make up a press release giving the names of all the men in camp. After receiving some advice from his more politically astute friends, he invited the press to visit the training camp, and on the same day released the names of the trainees. Following the press visit, the Journal showed indications of becoming a believer. It commented that Colonel Schwarzkopf's school "is a hard one, but out of it will come men to measure up

Colonel H. Norman Schwarzkopf

C a m p Edwards, Sea Girt. An advance party erects tents for mess hall, classrooms, and living quarters, and the first class of the State Police Academy is u n d e r way.

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Visiting instructors from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police offer practical advice to the new troopers. to the high standards of their calling." In an accompanying story, its r e p o r t e r described it as the most u n u s u a l e n c a m p m e n t ever witnessed at the state reservation. Writing that the h a r d s h i p of soldiering in France would be trifling in comparison with t h r e e m o n t h s training u n d e r Schwarzkopf, the r e p o r t e r catalogued the time spent in bareback riding, long-distance r u n n i n g , recitations, horse g r o o m i n g a n d o t h e r c a m p duties, with time o u t only f o r meals. H e observed that o n Sundays t h e r e was n o t h i n g to d o b u t g u a r d duty, care of horses, cleaning of e q u i p m e n t , a n d get ready f o r a n o t h e r week of work. It was an u n u s u a l e n c a m p m e n t . Schwarzkopf, g u i d e d by the training p r o g r a m s of o t h e r police agencies, mixed in liberal doses of West Point discipline a n d procedures. Reveille s o u n d e d at 6:00 A.M., followed by some calisthenics to waken the muscles a n d appetite. A f t e r breakfast, watering the horses, a n d policing the g r o u n d s , the balance of the m o r n i n g was spent in classroom studies. L u n c h was p r e c e d e d by a short r u n a n d the a f t e r n o o n h o u r s were devoted to military drill, h o r s e m a n s h i p a n d the

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cleaning o f equipment and stables. More class work, watering the horses, and then to the mess hall, where William Thorpe, veteran chief cook of many encampments, filled the platters. Schwarzkopf made certain that there were three good meals to provide burnable energy in the aspirants. Evenings were given to compulsory study periods or lectures, followed by a forty-fiveminute free period before taps. Schwarzkopf's idea for the crammed schedule was that men who were anxious to make good would "find recreation in their work." T h e daily drills and the entire routine were planned to train the men in the elements of dignity and courtesy and a thorough knowledge of where their authority began and ended. Remembering his own position, Schwarzkopf added, "I must be personally assured that they will not go out and make fools o f themselves." He placed great emphasis on training in military discipline so that the men could function as a unit and still display enough individual initiative and confidence to function alone as representative of the state. It would be a modification of the soldierly manner expressed in those lines o f Gilbert and Sullivan: His foot should stomp, and his throat should growl, His hair should twirl, and his face should scowl, His eyes should flash, and his breast protrude, And this should be his customary attitude.

During the early part of the training, the identity and home addresses of the recruits again became of interest to Schwarzkopf's old nemesis, the Jersey Journal. It implied that the addresses were being kept secret so that labor men would not become familiar with the troopers. Now theJournal made this a new issue, so that the "people o f the state" could satisfy their interest in the new force. A little pressure on the Governor's office resulted in a front page story and headline that, "28 Hudson County Men" were on the new State Police. T h e paper revealed' the names and addresses over which Schwarzkopf has been throwing his cloak of secrecy. Perusal of the list seems to indicate that the Hague organization failed to

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land any formidable number of men on the new force, the program calling for the exclusion of all Hague men from places of authority. T h e n e w s p a p e r p r e d i c t e d that the f o r c e w o u l d not g o into service until a f t e r the N o v e m b e r elections, f o r labor voters m i g h t be alienated by " p a r a d i n g the state police b e f o r e the public." W i t h that c o n j e c t u r e , the p a p e r t e m p o r a r i l y ceased its analysis o f S c h w a r z k o p f a n d his m e t h o d s . Meanwhile, the training continued. Sergeant M c D o n o u g h , the e x - c o w b o y , a n d C o r p o r a l D o n o v a n , the f o r m e r horse trainer, w o r k e d at m a k i n g the recruits at ease in the saddle. T h e s e exercises, k n o w n as " m o n k e y drills," f e a t u r e d b a r e b a c k r i d i n g , m o u n t i n g f r o m either side a n d v a u l t i n g o v e r the h a u n c h e s in t h e Cossack style. T h e r e w e r e displays o f R o m a n r i d i n g , with the r i d e r s t a n d i n g o n two o r t h r e e m o u n t s abreast a n d h u r d l i n g small obstacles. Recruits w e r e p y r a m i d e d o n e a c h other's shoulders a n d sent o f f o n c a n t e r i n g horses. A t times, it was not easy to d e t e r m i n e w h o was h a v i n g the h a r d e r time o f it, the horses or the riders. H o w e v e r , the horses h a d a c h a n c e to r e l a x in the stables as the recruits tried their luck o n motorcycles. T h e survival rate a f t e r m a n y spectacular tumbles in b o t h these phases was a testimonial to S c h w a r z k o p f ' s insistence o n a t o u g h physical c o n d i t i o n i n g p r o g r a m . Recruits w e r e also e x p e c t e d to bec o m e a d e p t at h o r s e s h o e i n g , d i a g n o s i n g diseases o f the h o r s e , a n d the care a n d r e p a i r o f cycles. A l o n g with m a n y h o u r s o n the pistol a n d rifle r a n g e s , t h e r e w e r e classroom h o u r s d e v o t e d to the study o f the N e w J e r s e y laws, courses in f o r e s t r y , map-sketching, first aid a n d lifesaving. T i m e was g i v e n to familiarizing the m e n with the A r m y Non-Commissioned Officer's Manual, w h i c h was the g u i d e to c o n d u c t a n d the disciplinary s t a n d a r d s o f the f o r c e . O f f i c e r s f r o m the Royal C a n a d i a n M o u n t e d Police visited the c a m p a n d o f f e r e d suggestions a n d h e l p f u l advice. T h e Pennsylvania State Police sent an officer w h o l e c t u r e d at l e n g t h o n patrol p r o c e d u r e s a n d t h e o r d i n a r y duties o f a t r o o p e r . O v e r s e e i n g t h e w h o l e o p e r a t i o n , S c h w a r z k o p f was o n the scene every day to exert his personal i n f l u e n c e o n the c a m p . T h o s e recruits w h o w e r e f o u n d to b e below s t a n d a r d w e r e allowed to r e s i g n or w e r e dis-

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missed. The rate of attrition was about at the level predicted by the Superintendent. Of the 116 men in camp at the start, the training ended with sixty-six troopers and fifteen other ranks. As the end of training approached, Schwarzkopf busied himself outfitting his men in a distinctive uniform. They had trained in olive-drab denims, courtesy of the Army surplus store. Now each was fitted with a tailored uniform of the Superintendent's design. Olive breeches, tan boots and leather belt were topped with a dark blue, fitted blouse. Having suffered with his fellow soldiers in the neck-choker Army blouse, he mercifully picked a roll-collar design for his men. He adopted the Sam Browne belt which Pershing had encouraged his officers to wear as a symbol of rank. This belt forced the wearer to "brace" like a West Pointer, a fact which did not escape Pershing or Schwarzkopf, who chose it exactly for that purpose. Mounted troopers wore the campaign hat of the cavalry, and motorcycle men and all other ranks wore a stiff-crowned cap, with the peak raked sharply over the eye. This cap design forced the wearer to tuck in his chin and hold his head erect, another ingenious Schwarzkopf aid to "bracing." The motto for the new force was a paraphrase of that at West Point. "Honor —Duty— Fidelity" were the words, and the distinctive triangular badge and shoulder patch are based on those three points. Schwarzkopf now detailed the officers to various locations throughout the state to arrange for quarters for the men and horses. Troop headquarters were set up in Netcong and Hammonton with other stations to serve as outposts. Lieutenants Bell and Weinmann assumed command of the two troops and Captain Kimberling began his duty as adjutant. Though the law provided for the rank of captain for the troop commanders, the Superintendent wished the troops to be functioning before he conferred the rank. The law was silent on the rank of the Superintendent and Deputy, but the cavalry designation of "troops" was used to detail the structure. Using this idiom, the state police could be considered as analogous to a cavalry regiment, with headquarters, troops, and auxiliary forces. Cavalry regiments were commanded by a colonel, so Schwarzkopf, always

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the cavalryman, chose that rank for himself. When he later appointed Kimberling as his deputy, he ranked him as a major, rather than a lieutenant-colonel, in accord with the French army practice, where only one officer of the regiment was addressed as "Colonel." Having satisfied himself that the force was ready, Colonel Schwarzkopf and his troopers broke camp on December 5, 1921, and officially began operations. T h e r e were no special ceremonies, and bad weather prevented the photographer taking an official class picture. T h e mounted m e n began their long overland ride to their various stations. T h e motorcycle m e n drove their machines t h r o u g h a raging snowstorm to be ready for their official debut at the State House. T h e auspiciousness of their arrival was somewhat d a m p e n e d when some of them were r e p r i m a n d e d by the T r e n t o n police for operating their cycles without headlights d u r i n g the storm.

Motorcycle unit of the first class starting out f r o m the State House, T r e n t o n , to begin official patrol duty, December 5, 1921.

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T h e general feeling was s u m m e d u p by the New York Herald's best wishes, " T h e y j o i n an honorable c o m p a n y , f o r the state constabularies have won splendid reputations f o r integrity, resourcefulness and courage." H o w were they expected to act as members o f this "honorable c o m p a n y " ? O n e writer in World's Work likened the respect which a t r o o p e r c o m m a n d s as "that o f a stranger with mysterious power." T h i s respect came because they had "no vote to win, no local friends to consider, no enemies to fear." Scribner's editorialist listed those primary qualifications expected by the taxpayers as the necessary physical strength, sufficient intelligence and self reliance, incorruptibility, and finally, "he should be tactful, courteous, patient and l o n g suffering, even w h e n a n n o y e d by i m p r o p e r d e m a n d s on his time and services." For a professional opinion, they could follow the advice o f the Superintendent of the N e w Y o r k State Police, " A trooper must be absolutely honest, o f g o o d morals, a soldier and a gentleman." T h e s e sentiments would serve well e n o u g h , but each N e w Jersey trooper would also receive the "Gospel" according to Schwarzkopf. A s yet, there were no f o r m a l rules or regulations. T h e discipline was military and the Superintendent issued orders and instructions as the situation warranted. It was to be a time o f trial and error f o r the c o m m a n d e r s and their troops. T h e policy o f the department was outlined in General O r d e r No. 1. T h i s all-encompassing o r d e r was designed to i n f o r m , instruct, exhort, and restrict the men of the department. It was unmistakably "Schwarzkopfian." T h e o r d e r b e g a n routinely e n o u g h with the enumeration of the duties o f the New Jersey State Police: to be police officers of the state; to prevent crime; to pursue and a p p r e h e n d violators; to execute any lawful warrant or o r d e r o f arrest; to give first aid to the injured; to act as wardens in the protection o f fish and game; to have the powers of motor vehicle inspectors; to be subject to the call of the G o v e r n o r and to preserve law and o r d e r t h r o u g h o u t the state. H a v i n g disposed of the ordinary, the o r d e r directed itself to things more specific and in which the Colonel indicated more

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than general interest. T h e members of the force were reminded that the prevention of crime is of greater importance than the punishment of criminals. T h e men were advised that they should individually and collectively cultivate and maintain the good opinion of the people of the state by prompt obedience to all commands, by a steady and impartial line of conduct and a "respectful bearing to all classes." One section of the order reminded the troopers that failure to consult with the Superintendent before getting married was cause f o r immediate dismissal. Though this rule remained in effect f o r some years, the record indicates only a few refusals of permission, usually on the grounds that the trooper had not completed his first two-year enlistment. Schwarzkopf's insistence on this rule was based on his desire to protect his men f r o m the conflicts between a j o b of long hours and a home life of short duration. Leaves of absence were granted at the rate of three days per month, so that every ten days each trooper had a twenty-four hour leave, "if possible." Since most troopers relied on public transport to get about the state while off duty, this schedule insured that no married couple would tire of seeing each other. T h e rule was also based on Schwarzkopf's experience with soldiers who married in haste, and then caused their comrades and themselves to suffer through the subsequent repentance. One of the sterner portions of the order reiterated the rule that any member of the force who was absent for more than ten days without leave was considered to be a deserter and liable to prosecution in the courts for a misdemeanor. It was this provision of the law that its opponents believed would be used to insure that recalcitrant troopers would perform duty during labor disputes; a point made moot in actual practice. As to his feelings about politics, Schwarzkopf advised that any member known to have used outside influence "will be considered as acknowledging his incompetence." H e then addressed himself to more worldly matters, as in his instructions concerning the care of equipment: "Repairs on all boots will be made at the State Prison, except when a T r o o p e r

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wants to have his boots repaired by a first class cobbler at his own expense." Motorcycle men were to keep their machines in perfect running order, and horsemen were to pay strict attention to the care of their mounts and the cleanliness of stables. As for new equipment, "Any member of the force entrusted with the care and driving of the new Fords must thoroughly understand and bear in mind, that a Ford, if properly taken care of, will give as good service as any car." T h e phrasing of that endorsement, while not exactly giving Henry Ford cause for rejoicing, was high praise indeed f r o m Schwarzkopf. T o further public relations, he directed the men to mail all favorable newspaper clippings to headquarters. Commanders were instructed to have the men visit the justices of the peace, postmasters, and other prominent persons in the towns and other places along the patrol routes. Personal contact in the area was to be the base of popular support for the State Police in its formative years. Personal contact of a more familiar nature was made on December 14, 1921, when T r o o p e r Jim Kelly, a bantam Irishman, wheeled his big Harley-Davidson motorcycle alongside a truck driven by George Reilly of Trenton, and with a slight hand motion waved the truck to the roadside. A f t e r identifying himself and exchanging those pleasantries which are incidental in meeting another Irishman, Kelly advised Mr. Reilly that he was to receive a traffic ticket because of the overload on his truck. Both proceeded to the office of Justice of the Peace Hialand in Hightstown, where introductions were made, the circumstances explained and the justice found it necessary to levy a fine of ten dollars. Business completed, they went their separate ways. N o one made special note, no ceremonies were held and though it might be small comfort to him, Mr. Reilly had been the recipient of the first traffic ticket issued by a New Jersey state trooper, thereby assuring both of historical mention. T h e same day, in Lakewood, T r o o p e r Marion Castricum armed himself with a search warrant, arrested three men, and charged them with larceny and possession of stolen property. As in the case of T r o o p e r Kelly, some moments were spent in identifying himself to those arrested and to the justice of the

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peace. So they too joined in a historic first, the first criminal arrest made by the New Jersey State Police. That was the beginning. Soon the sight of a mounted trooper became a daily event of the life in the rural hamlets and villages. They had spent many years without seeing a lawman, now here was law and order in the saddle. No matter that a trooper might make an arrest out in the countryside and walk the prisoner back to town in front of the horse; an arrest had been made. If at times it seemed to be done in the romanticized manner of the Canadian Mounties, well, that made it an even more exciting subject for local discussion. Troopers and horses were located in rented quarters in towns nearest the rural areas. The landlord supplied meals and housing for the trooper and a stable for the horse. Prices for these services averaged twelve dollars weekly for the trooper and five dollars a month for the horse. T h e trooper purchased feed for the horse or gasoline for the motorcycle from local dealers. T h e landlord would answer the trooper's phone and relay messages through the telephone central offices, where the trooper stopped on his passage through town. T h e horseman was also directed to stop at the local post office and have the postmark stamped in his notebook to verify that he had been on patrol in the area. T h e system also included farmers who would take a message and then display a flag for the attention of the patrol. The horseman usually rode in a fifteen mile radius from his station, while the motorcycle men worked in a forty- or fifty-mile radius. Since the greatest portion of the paved roads were in the north and central parts of the state, the motorcycle men were primarily assigned in those areas. Occasional cycle patrols were made on the few improved roads of the southern counties. At the outset, these patrols were rather infrequent, as might be inferred by one assignment to Trooper Dan Dunn to patrol from Whippany in North Jersey to Bridgeton in South Jersey; a distance of more than one hundred air miles. Since Dunn and the other troopers were on duty for ten days before a day off, there was no great hurry to make the circuit. Their presence was usually a complete surprise to the local residents who sometimes found themselves receiving traffic tickets from the nomadic

Mounted troopers were assigned to the southern portion of the State, reaching remote farms and villages. Troop B, on motorcycles, crisscrossed North Jersey, where there were more paved roads.

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cyclists. Perhaps it was the memory of those long motorcycle rides over bumpy roads which led to Captain Dan Dunn's later idiosyncrasy of habitually carrying a pressure gauge to check the air in the tires of patrol vehicles. It was the mounted trooper who was glamorized by the local people. He was a novelty and inspiration to the more garrulous habitués of the country store, where the crowd around the potbellied stove made constant references to "our trooper." That possessive designation was sometimes adopted by the local officials. Correspondence from the town of Ringwood to the Superintendent requested that "our Trooper Dennis Walsh" be issued a motorcycle to aid him in patrolling. In that instance, funds were in short supply, so Dennis Walsh and his horse remained together in a common effort. Like other troopers of the time, Walsh could always manage to borrow a car and driver to assist in an arrest and transportation to jail. T o the citizen thus honored, it was an experience to be later recounted in detail and added to the new legends. T h e transfer of Trooper Bill Ryan from the town of Hampton led to an acrimonious exchange of letters between the town fathers and the Superintendent, which finally ended by establishing Ryan in another station in a nearby town. T h e transfer of two troopers from the town of Chatsworth in the South Jersey pine country also led to some indignant letters which described the area as one "which knows no law, especially on Saturday nights." In defending this action, the T r o o p commander made note of the fact that there were only two telephones in town; that neither was available during the night hours; the only available quarters for the troopers had no heat or bath; in fact, there was not a bathtub in all of Chatsworth, which meant that the troopers were forced to devote some of their patrol time to riding to another station to indulge in an occasional bath. Further, the food was poor, the price of horse feed exorbitant, and considering the general character and disposition of the majority of Chatsworth citizens, the conditions of lawlessness were greatly exaggerated. Adjustments of stations and patrol strength continued. Sta-

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tions were opened and closed according to season and demand, or in some instances, according to the compatibility of the trooper and his landlord. T h e force was getting to be a going concern, and now Schwarzkopf asked for funds to start a new training class and bring the force to its authorized strength. This second class reported to the new training school at Wilburtha, near Trenton Junction. As in the first class, much time was devoted to making ready the living and class quarters. Formerly a farm, the new center required work to convert it to its new purpose, and the recruits found themselves performing a variety o f chores. Roofs needed repair, gravel was spread in the stables and roadways, and all hands found themselves wielding paint brushes. In addition to the usual crammed training routine, there was a nice cross-country run included. Discipline and self-control continued to be desired qualities, and to emphasize the military life style, there was kitchen police duty for everyone. T h e training system was being adjusted to the routine it would follow in the early years. Progress would eventually end one of the more colorful duties of the staff, the care and training of the Department's mounts. In addition to breaking to saddle, the instructors trained the mounts to perform as expected. As with the human graduates, the equine students were checked and evaluated. One memorandum dealt with the return of horses to the school and directed that each man submit a report on the horse he had been riding so that steps could be taken to correct any faults. Thus it was that Prince, Jiggs, Rambles, Lanky, and other hayburners found themselves subjected to the ignominy o f more schooling in equestrian behavior. Sergeant Donovan, the relentless headmaster of that "school" was ably assisted by other troopers who had shown a gift for horsemanship. T r o o p e r Cy Dalton had first displayed his talents as a trick rider while serving in the Seventh Cavalry on the Mexican Border. His other talent for involvement in those minor escapades o f the soldier's life first brought him to the attention of Captain Schwarzkopf, his Provost Marshal. Time had erased the memory

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An outdoor lecture on the care and operation of the Harley-Davidson motorcycle.

of those earlier encounters when Colonel Schwarzkopf detailed him to mounted training. Dalton and the other "real horsemen" instilled discipline and confidence in horse and rider through virtuoso performances which oftentimes caused stomach flutters in the recruits. These displays delighted Schwarzkopf, who demonstrated his interest in horses by his appointment of a Department veterinary in April 1922, fully three months before the appointment of a medical attendant to care for the men! The feeling of second fiddle was eased when the men observed that their doctor was available for daily sick call and in addition was required to make house calls! The second class graduated in J u n e 1922 and was sent into the field to bolster the line. Though the State Police had officially been in existence for one year, half of that time had been spent in organizing and training. In the remainder of the period, the

"Monkey drill." Recruits were taught pyramid and Roman riding to develop confidence in themselves and their mounts.

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sight of a trooper on the road became more commonplace and resulted in increased requests for service. Personnel available to handle the requests and make the patrols had remained at an average of fifty troopers throughout the state. T h e second class would fill the gaps, but the original small force had made its presence known. At the end of six months of patrolling, the force had made 767 arrests for motor vehicle violations and 431 arrests for criminal violations. Traffic tickets were issued for offenses of speeding, no driver license, no lights, being under the influence of alcohol, and one citizen was ticketed for driving a lame horse. This active patrolling involved the Troopers in the quick testing of some old legends, for less than three weeks after they began work, Corporal Frank Campbell arrested a motorist for driving without a license and then made a further charge of attempted bribery. Arrests under the criminal law involved the usual number of drunk and disorderly cases, larcenies, burglaries, and receiving stolen property. More indicative of the times were the arrests for highway robbery, atrocious assault, rape, threats to kill, concealed weapons, and manslaughter and murder. Of the 431 criminal arrests, all in primarily rural areas, 128 arrests were made for crimes against persons. Though a small, widely dispersed force, the first months at their tasks gave a solid indication of what was to come. It was a time of revolution in manners and morals. Violence and lawbreaking dominated the front-page news. Speed, excitement, and passion pushed aside the old wartime idealism. T h e revolution was fueled on illegal alcohol delivered to speakeasies in high-speed cars, the same mode of transport favored by the customers. There was a national mood of near worship of the gangster and his exploits. T o satisfy the public demand and the needs of the tabloid editors, the activities of the bootleggers, their internecine wars and ill-begotten opulence were a staple item. Perhaps the "roaring 20's" did not roar as much as supposed, but the competition among the sensationalist press certainly made it seem so. Only a truly lurid story could startle the j a d e d readers.

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Just such a story would soon firmly establish the State Police. T h o u g h they would play only a small part, the sheer magnitude of the reporting of every angle, rumor, opinion, innuendo, and outright falsehood concerning the Hall-Mills murder case projected the participants into larger-than-life figures. For the first time, the "country cops" were recognized.

4

Trial and Error: T h e Early Years Murder was a common occurrence in the early 20's, duly reported and made part of the popular literature of the era. Uncommon murder was a saleable item for the press and the vicarious thrills of its readers. New Brunswick, a sleepy little city on the Raritan River, was noteworthy as the home of Rutgers University and as the site of the first intercollegiate football game. It furnished the dateline for the murder story of the decade, for on the 16th of September, 1922, the Reverend Edward Hall and Mrs. James Mills, a choir singer of his church, were found murdered in a lovers' lane near New Brunswick. Here indeed, was uncommon murder. The investigators were quickly joined by a swarm of reporters who descended on the area and industriously began to interview anyone who could comment on the case in any manner. Opinions and rumors were repeated with variations and embellishments until they often attained the stature of facts. The fact that the bodies had been found in Somerset County, near the Middlesex county line, involved the authorities in a minor jurisdictional wrangle, which was duly reported in the press. Investigators were followed by reporters who then inter-

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viewed those being investigated. Some enterprising newsmen gained exclusive interview rights to some of the cast of characters, who then refused to be further interviewed by the investigators. Relatives of both victims were questioned and released, with the press openly speculating on the guilt or innocence of each, the speculation sometimes accompanied by an almost verbatim transcript of the questioning. Minor political skirmishes developed between the coroner of one county and the county physician of the other. Without a quick settlement in sight, the press began to raise doubts as to the aggressiveness and the ability of the investigators. T h e daughter of the murdered woman wrote letters to the Governor charging that the case was being mishandled and requesting that he intervene. She also wrote a letter to Burlington County detective Ellis Parker, who visited the scene, and after surveying all the angles, announced that he was very busy with several hundred witnesses on various murder cases and therefore unavailable. H e gave his opinion that the case would soon be solved to everyone's satisfaction, an opinion not widely shared. Charges and criticism mounted and there were more requests for the Governor to step in and resolve the issue by appointing a special prosecutor to handle the investigation. Meanwhile, the high school couple who had reported the murder became the center of interest, with a jealous boy friend also introduced into the case. A f t e r all were held as material witnesses, the authorities announced that one of the youths had implicated the other in the slaying. T h e resulting tide of condemnation forced the Governor to act. H e ordered the State Police to enter the case and assist the authorities of both counties. T o add a touch of the dramatic to his own part, the Governor directed that the troopers were not to return until "the case is solved." With that formidable admonition in mind, Corporal John J. Lamb and T r o o p e r Henry Dickman arrived in New Brunswick to offer assistance. They soon found themselves in a maze of fact and fancy. As new faces in the case, they were the object of dogged pursuit by the reporters until the Governor

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further involved the state by the appointment of a special deputy attorney general to supervise the investigation. Wilbur A. Mott, the new man in charge, was a former Essex County assistant prosecutor who quickly put the lid on the release of any news concerning the case. His position was stated when in response to one of the usual questions of a reporter, Mott refused to answer the question and pointedly advised that he was not "working for a newspaper. I am working for the state." Mott also brought along an experienced Essex detective to act as his chief investigator and coordinate the work of the troopers and investigators from both counties. T h e investigation showed signs of renewed energy. Public interest was held by the publication of a series of love letters between the murdered couple. Now there entered the most bizarre of all the persons involved, the "pig woman." J a n e Gibson, a woman about fifty years of age, claimed to have witnessed the killing. T h e woman, who lived on a farm near the murder site, alleged that she was riding her mule, Jenny, in the lane checking her suspicions about the possibility of chicken thieves, when she heard voices and a shot. She related that she had ridden away in a hurry, but in her flight lost one of her slippers and when she came carefully back to the scene, came upon a woman in the lane. This woman, whom she identified as the widow of the minister, was weeping and wringing her hands. For all its worth, she told her story to the investigators. It might not be worth much to them, but she also told the story to the newspapers, to whom it was worth splashing all over the front page. From an obscure farm woman with forty-eight pigs, five dogs, five mules, and some chickens, she became an instant celebrity. No matter that her neighbors and her mother cast doubts on her credibility, here was an "almost eyewitness" for the amateur detectives. The clamor for a solution continued. Mrs. Hall, the widow, and her brothers, Henry and William Stevens especially the younger, Willie as he was called, became the star suspects. Willie was a perfect type for the role. Something of a recluse,

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he was alleged to be "half-witted," "dull-witted," "feebleminded," and there were broadly circulated hints that he was of dubious racial parentage. Inexorably, the build-up continued. Partly in desperation, the investigators appeared before the grand jury with all the facts they had at hand; all the rumors and suppositions of the case were added to these by the grand jury, the whole mess carefully weighed, and no indictments returned. That was that, at least for the time being. The reporters and their entourages left the scene. The special prosecutor resumed his regular employment, and the troopers returned to their ordinary duties. Their involvement occasioned the New Brunswick Daily Home News to suggest that in the wake of the confusion surrounding the case from the very beginning, perhaps the State Police should consider forming a squad of "murder experts" to assist local and county authorities at the outset of similar investigations. It was the first public indication that the State Police could assume a wider role, though the small size of the force at that time precluded the assignment of any such specialists. The case lay dormant for four years until it was returned to the public eye at the insistence of the New York Daily Mirror, a tabloid, which claimed to have discovered "new evidence." Once again, the Stevens family were suspected. Once again, the Governor appointed a special prosecutor. Governor A. Harry Moore turned to his home county of Hudson for his man, Senator Alexander Simpson. Simpson also brought his own police into the case; in this instance, from the Jersey City Police Department. He accentuated his complete dominance of the case by also installing his own Hudson County court stenographers for the trial. The State Police were requested to furnish any assistance requested by the special prosecutor, who answered allegations of friction among the investigators by especially citing the troopers assigned as "capable, intelligent, loyal and most discreet." Operating discreetly was not in Simpson's makeup, however, and the state and county investigators had little to do in the

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new investigation. T h e activity o f Simpson and his own staff was duly reported by the newspapers, and when things seemed to be slowing down, Simpson would generate some enigmatic item to keep the story going. As the date for the trial approached, the town of Somerville braced itself to handle the expected crowds. Houses were rented at large prices; quick-lunch shops suddenly opened near the courthouse; parking lines were painted in the streets, and 100 folding chairs were held in reserve for the courtroom's expected crush. Other preparations were made by those not directly involved. T h e telephone company assigned fifteen extra operators to maintain twenty-fourhour coverage of a giant switchboard and the telegraph companies reported that their arrangements were more elaborate than any previous setup, with the possible exception o f the Dempsey-Tunney fight. T h e trial opened. Simpson was opposed by Senator Clarence E. Case, as one of the defense counsel. In an air o f unreality, the case unfolded before a crowd of the curious and a large group o f news photographers who kept up a constant flashing barrage. This barrage reached the height of its brilliance with the appearance of the state's star witness, the "pig woman." Recently hospitalized because of Simpson's reported concern over her health, she appeared in court in a hospital bed with a nurse on one side and a doctor on the other. This worthy practitioner applied his stethoscope to the witness during breaks in the testimony. She told her "eye-witness" story, and at the end of three hours o f cross-examination, left the courtroom crying out, "I've told the truth, so help me God, I've told the truth." Now the prosecutor introduced his "new evidence" — a calling card which had been found propped against the foot o f the murdered minister, and which allegedly bore the fingerprint of the accused, Willie Stevens. On his arrest, Stevens had been taken to the Somerville State Police Station, where he was fingerprinted by the Jersey City officers. One of these officers took the stand and was asked to describe "the ceremony" in detail. These prints were compared to one on the calling card, and according to the "experts," matched those o f Willie Stevens. T h e identifi-

Courtesy ofJudge Arthur S. Meredith

State Senator Clarence E. Case, who in 1921 wrote the State Police bill, was one of the defense attorneys in the second Hall-Mills trial, 1926. Above, Senator Case cross-examines Mrs. Jane Gibson (the "pig woman"). Below, he is shown addressing the jury at Somerset County Court House.

Wide World Photos

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cation of fingerprints was an inexact science in those days, and this particular part of the state's case did not gain stature when it was revealed that the calling card had been held in the safe of the Newark fingerprint expert for four years, and did not come to light until it was "found" by the editor of the Daily Mirror! The defense countered by calling all of the accused to the stand in their own defense, with the major surprise of the trial being the appearance of Willie Stevens. Pictured as "crazy Willie, town character, an oddity and as a butt for all manner of jokes," he told his story in precise language, at times urbane, eluding the traps set for him by the prosecutor. So the trial came to a close. One private detective was quoted, "I've seen better murders, but never a better show." The jury apparently agreed, for all defendants were acquitted. It was later labeled the "trial of the decade." State Police involvement in the second investigation was minimal, their major duty being to guard witnesses and assist the local authorities in controlling the crowds and traffic. It was to be their first experience with a "Roman holiday." Along with the spectacular, the workaday world of the troopers continued. The public had learned to expect many services from the troopers and they often received some odd requests. The files show that Howard Hughes, librarian of the Trenton Free Public Library, asked for assistance in the return of a book entitled Automobile Power Plants, which had been borrowed by an overly possessive Camden resident. Corporal Wilson was detailed to call on the gentleman, and in due course the book was returned through channels, accompanied by the usual bureaucratic correspondence. Troopers were requested by the Flemington Fair Committee to assist in controlling the spectators on auto racing days. The committee feared that many persons might be hurt on those days, "since the crowds seem to go batty when there is a slight accident." There were times when unbelievable results were obtained. Consider the complaint of a Mrs. Brown in Parsippany who was

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annoyed when the telephone company began to erect poles on her property in a location other than that previously agreed upon. Today such a situation would require teams of lawyers armed with writs and injunctions. Trooper C. A. Schlotz, a born mediator, reported that on 9:00 A.M., May 3, 1922, he investigated this complaint. His report tells it all: "When I arrived there, they agreed to put the poles where Mrs. Brown wanted them. No action taken." There were also times when a more personal service was provided. Early one morning, the Freehold station received an urgent request for help at a nearby farm. The caller would not state what kind of help he needed, but he wanted the troopers there as soon as possible. Troopers Glenn Paxton and James McCormick drove at high speed to the farm and were met there by the farmer, who stated, "It's alright now, Troopers. My son wouldn't get up, but as soon as I told him the Troopers were coming, he got up and dressed in a hurry." Both troopers solemnly stated that they left without a word! Other duties were many and varied. Troopers were assigned to protect state property when boxing matches were held at the State Armory; patrolled and guarded entrances to state parks; assisted the Agriculture Department in the enforcement of a Japanese beetle quarantine; checked cattle trucks entering the state during an epidemic of stomach disease; assisted the National Guard in apprehending deserters and furnished escorts of the payroll of those in training at the Sea Girt Camp. At the same location, they provided escort and guard services for the annual Governor's Day, when the politicians of the party in power arrived for a day in the seashore sun. During Prohibition, there was much activity against illegal alcohol sources near the Guard encampment, and in a show of impartiality, equal activity during the political gatherings there. Troopers checked road stands along the highways to assure compliance with the health laws, campaigned against unsightly signs, and checked boat licenses and arrested pirates. Pirates? Though not armed with the traditional cutlasses, a

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band of pirates operated on the Arthur Kill and the Raritan River near Perth Amboy in the early 20's. T h e object of their attention was the coal barges towed on both rivers. These barges would load coal in South Amboy and then were towed in tiers up the rivers to New York City. A typical encounter was described by Abraham Norin, master of the barge W. T. Lewis, who related that on November 19, 1924, while asleep in his cabin, he was awakened by the sound of the window breaking to see a pistol being thrust through the glass. An unknown man ordered him to remain quietly in his cabin if he valued his safety. Norin then looked out to see four motor boats made fast alongside his barge, and observed twelve men madly shoveling coal from the barge into these boats. This continued for about an hour, when another tug came alongside to assist the towboat, and its searchlight on the barges frightened off the pirates. T h e master estimated that he lost twenty tons of his cargo in that short period. Although the New York Harbor police offered protection farther up the river, the area in Middlesex County had no similar marine patrol. Trooper William Nicol enlisted the services of some local boat owners and made several impromptu cruises. These trips, plus some information from dry land sources resulted in the arrest of several pirates operating from the Perth Amboy area. When the Department provided assistance to other state agencies, it usually required the detailing of one or two men. T h e Commissioner of Motor Vehicles used troopers to assist during the year-end rush of vehicle registrations. T h e Department of Health regularly reported the existence of houses of prostitution and the incidence of venereal disease therein. These houses were raided, the inhabitants arrested, and their identities made known to the Health Department. T h e first occasion for the State Police to function as a small unit came at the request of the warden of the Trenton State Prison in August 1922. Prisoners there, protesting the lack of fresh peaches on the menu, began rioting. Thirty troopers were detailed to the scene, and when the warden made their presence

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known to the riot leaders, the prisoners returned to their cells. Similar requests from the other prisons produced the same result. T h e troopers' first involvement in civil disorder came within the next year, and was not so easily resolved. New Jersey had its fair share of the activity of the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, with well-organized "klaverns" in the central and southern sections. It was a time of intolerance throughout the land, and the less sophisticated citizens were ready for such an organization. Though its constitution purported, through an exalted ritualism, to "conserve, protect and maintain the distinctive institution, rights, privileges, principles, traditions and ideals of a pure Americanism," it was evident that "pure Americanism" did not encompass Catholics, Jews, or Negroes. T h e Klan organizers in New Jersey traded heavily on the fears of the small towners and their love of hocus-pocus, mummery, and preposterous secret signs and passwords. Here was the chance for the village bigot to dress up and parade in anonymity. Identities safely hidden, a group of Klansmen gathered for a "klonvocation" at the Odd Fellows Hall in Perth Amboy on the night of August 31, 1923. T h e kleagle who chose that community of mostly Middle European origin for the gathering would win the numbskull prize at the company picnic. As the white-robed and hooded figures entered the building, a small crowd of the curious gathered outside. Soon, as if by telepathy, the word spread and the inhabitants of Perth Amboy and its environs began to converge on the place. Without evident leaders or plans, these residents, primarily of Roman Catholic faith, surrounded the hall. T h e chief of police, who had anticipated such a gathering, called out the fire department to reinforce his police officers. T h e crowd, which numbered several thousand, began to push toward the police line. The chief called on the sheriff and the State Police for further aid, meanwhile advising the Klan members that they would be wise to terminate their meeting and depart. Some of the members removed their robes and attempted to leave by a rear entrance. As if on signal, the crowd rushed the

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hall. T h e police used clubs and some tear gas while the firemen turned water hoses into the mob. The line was overrun and Klansmen were punched and pummelled and their robes and other clothing torn from them. Some ran for a police wagon parked nearby. As the driver of the van started off, the mob surrounded the vehicle, broke open the doors and pulled the Klan members out and began to beat them. Some other Klansmen were taken in safe conduct to police headquarters. Part of the mob followed and stormed into the building to search for that group who had been safely concealed in the stables at the rear of the headquarters. One of the troopers near the meeting hall attempted to drive his motorcycle on the sidewalk to aid some trapped Klansmen. The mob removed him bodily from the cycle and forced him into a doorway, but the temporary distraction enabled the others to escape and the mob ran off in pursuit. Those Klansmen lucky enough to escape faced an uncertain fate at the hands of persons still en route to the city to join the mob. Troopers and police from nearby towns were attempting to hold this traffic. As more and more of the Klan members disengaged themselves, the mob began to dwindle away. Though there were no fatalities, many were injured. T h e exact number could not be determined, for the hospital refused to acknowledge that any injured Klansmen had been admitted, for fear that the mob might enter the hospital premises in search of them. Fourteen troopers remained on patrol with the local police through the next day to prevent further recurrence. T h e incident forced the Klan to be more discreet in its choice of meeting sites, and caused local officials to alert the troopers in advance. Meetings then were generally held in more friendly surroundings along the coast and in the hills of North Jersey without further reaction. One of the largest of the Klan gatherings was held near Trenton in September 1925. The crowd, which numbered close to 20,000, had been forewarned by Schwarzkopf that a detail of troopers would be there to prevent violence. Repeated references were made to the tear gas which would be on hand

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if the situation warranted it. The advance notice was sufficient, for with the exception of one Kluxer who was stabbed in the buttocks by the bayonet of a fellow Klansman, there were no injuries. T h e influence of the Klan slowly waned, and though there were some who viewed them with fear, their excesses and intimidation were not as great a threat in New Jersey as elsewhere. Oddly, their power of intimidation was felt by another group which was part of the phenomena of the era, the bootleggers. Faced with repeated threats that the Klan would concern itself with the activities of the rumrunners, those worthy gentlemen found it necessary to hold a conclave of their own to deal with the new threat. On January 14, 1924, a group of one hundred of these entrepreneurs met at Sea Bright and formed informal defense councils to handle any actions of the Kluxers designed to interfere with their enterprises. T h e word of that meeting evoked a mood of caution among the wearers of the white robes, and they confined themselves to more talk and less direct action, and eventually the talk itself faded with the Klan's influence. T h e Klan had been a minor problem for the State Police, whose availability to assist local police agencies further broadened the public awareness of the troopers. At times, this awareness was transferred to public support when most needed. Controversial from the start, the State Police continued to be a source of controversy. They were at times assailed by the Governor, legislature, prosecutors, newspapers and just plain J o h n Q. Public. Here was the test of Norman Schwarzkopf's training and background. Alternately tactful and arrogant, he met all comers in defending the organization and his policies. Governor Edwards had vetoed the creation of the State Police, had selected a nonpolitician to run the force, and had managed to get along well with Schwarzkopf; yet, in one of his last messages to the legislature he advocated the abolition of the force.

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At the request of the Burlington County prosecutor in 1922, Schwarzkopf had detailed a trooper to assist the county detective, Ellis Parker, in the investigation of a murder. The case caused something of a local sensation and Trooper Herman Bading came up with important evidence that caused the arrest of three men for the murder. After the arrests were made and while the trial was pending, Schwarzkopf ordered Bading to return to his normal duty. Ellis Parker, who found it handy to have another man in his office, went to the prosecutor and requested that Bading be continued on assignment to the county. The prosecutor wrote to the Superintendent with the request. Parker, meanwhile, appealed to his county senator, who in turn asked the help of Senator Case, the author of the State Police Bill. There then ensued a lengthy correspondence among all the parties, with Schwarzkopf compromising by sending Bading to the station at Moorestown for duty and advising the other parties that he would be available to give testimony at the trial. Schwarzkopf further emphasized that Bading was still under State Police command and not that of the prosecutor or his detective. Parker countered by having the county grand jury consider a resolution of censure of the State Police Superintendent. This encounter was the first of many clashes between the two men, with Ellis Parker remaining one of the characters on the fringe of this history for some years. In March 1925 the mayor of Bridgeton sent a request for a "rigid investigation" into the presence of two plainclothes troopers at a lewd performance by nude women in the nearby town of Clayton. It seems that the show had originally been scheduled in his town, but his diligence had forced the performers to change their location. The mayor released the contents of the letter to the local press at the same time it was forwarded. He was somewhat embarrassed when the facts were given that the two troopers were there in response to a tip; that none of the women had disrobed and that he and his fellow mayor of Clayton had only observed the women in the nude, when both mayors forced their way into the dressing room. And so it went.

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O n e of S c h w a r z k o p f ' s policies that c a u s e d the most heat was his absolute r e f u s a l to issue "courtesy c a r d s , " " h o n o r a r y State Police b a d g e s " a n d other similar instruments of " s a f e c o n d u c t . " A typical r e s p o n s e to such a request is contained in a letter f r o m the D e p u t y S u p e r i n t e n d e n t to a n applicant f o r an h o n o r a r y m e m b e r s h i p . C o u c h e d in the f o r m a l p h r a s i n g of the period, Permit me to acknowledge receipt of your esteemed communication of recent date, and with reference thereto, would state, that in the history of this Organization, there has never been issued an honorary membership to anyone. This policy was set by the Superintendent in the beginning and has never been changed. T h e only persons entitled to a badge of any kind in the New Jersey State Police, are those who have gone through our Training School and have successfully passed the examinations and have been appointed to the Regular Force. In substance, the s a m e reply was dutifully r e p e a t e d to everyone who s o u g h t that type of special favor. T h e policy e a r n e d the enmity o f s o m e in political life, but the policy stuck a n d it remains so to this day. In his efforts to preserve the esprit de corps, S c h w a r z k o p f h a d at times to d e f e n d the actions of s o m e overzealous t r o o p e r s , but it was in the political a r e n a that he f a c e d his h a r d e s t tests. It was no secret that he f o u g h t party control of the force. It was also no secret that there were constant efforts to exert m o r e political control, as evidenced in this story in the Newark Sunday Call, J a n u a r y 10, 1926: Attack upon the New Jersey State Police is predicted in some official quarters as a feature of the legislative session. . . . The manner . . . has been diagnosed as taking the form of a bill changing the manner of administering state police affairs. This would provide . . . a desirable extension and expansion of the department's affairs, but would be aimed at the present control of the department and Colonel H. Norman Schwarzkopf in particular. The objection to the State Police has been that the body has been remote from the usual line of influence of a political sort. This has raised the customary group of enemies, and this group now feels itself strong enough to invade the department for its own purposes.

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In these sallies into the political world, Schwarzkopf and the State Police received support from many quarters. Commenting on the reports that the State Police were due for a "shaking up," the Atlantic City Gazette-Review offered the opinion that no body o f men was ever 100 per cent efficient . . . but if there is any weakness, by all means let it be r e m e d i e d , but o n the other hand restrain the activity o f the overzealous reorganizing committee. For unless the work is d o n e wisely, m o r e harm than g o o d will be the outcome.

T h e group might have felt strong enough, but Schwarzkopf proved stronger, and no significant changes were made. On occasion it was necessary to engage in minor jousts with the occupant of the Governor's office. Governor A. Harry Moore offered a little friendly political intercession on behalf of a resident of Kingston, who adorns that bucolic section o f our sovereign State because he is a Justice o f the Peace. His j o y in life, however, would be greatly enhanced if the troopers o f your admirable organization would give him "his share o f the business." I f an o d d murderer or chicken thief would occasionally be given an opportunity to gaze upon his magisterial countenance, he feels that he would be encouraged in his work, both financially and spiritually.

In this instance, Schwarzkopf's polite demurrer was accompanied by an abstract of the record of the justice, who before becoming a resident of "that bucolic section," had been arrested for gambling and liquor violations. T h e Superintendent also came under attack from closer range. In 1924, the Governor directed the Attorney General to investigate a complaint from an ex-trooper, who had been dismissed, that the men were deprived of every personal right and subjected to a "militarism second only to Prussia." It was also his claim that one man had been fired because he did not smile enough; another because he smiled too much. T h e Attorney

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General interviewed the smiler and the nonsmiler and found no cause to continue the investigation. While Schwarzkopf fought off efforts to encroach upon his leadership, he attempted to maintain firm discipline in the ranks. Despite his endeavors, those early years found him sometimes in an awkward position because of breaches of that discipline. T h e incidents ranged from the zany to the serious. Charges of the "third degree" or bribery, when substantiated, were met with the summary dismissal of those responsible. Dismissal or suspension was the punishment for other violations. In one notable incident in North Jersey, one of the troopers was spending an afternoon off duty in a casual game of pool. While engaging in a discussion of his ability with a revolver, one of the hangers-on dared him to prove his ability and offered his hat as a target. Without further ado, the trooper obliged by shooting the hat off the gentleman's head and then offered to buy another to replace it. Sportsmanlike, the hat owner refused. His magnanimity faded overnight, however, and the incident was brought to the attention of the Superintendent, who although a devoted admirer of prowess with the pistol, nevertheless dismissed the sharpshooter. Serious criticism resulted from one singular case, which thereafter entered the local lore as the "Battle of Jutland." Starting as a minor incident, the actions of the troopers and the general animus of the local citizens turned it into a cause célèbre. On December 21, 1926, S.P.C.A. agents requested that a trooper accompany them to the farm of Timothy Meaney on the outskirts of Jutland in Hunterdon County. Their purpose was to serve a warrant on Meaney, charging him with mistreating his cattle. T h e agents did not bother to relate that the warrant was issued on a neighbor's complaint, and that they had made no attempt to investigate the allegations before seeking the warrant; nor did they remind anyone that half of the fine imposed on conviction would go to the complainant. Under these dubious circumstances, the agents, accompanied by Trooper A. Larsen, set out in the private auto of a citizen of

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Clinton who had offered his vehicle for the trip. When they arrived at the farm, they were met by Tim Meaney who ordered them off the premises. His brother James Meaney backed him up with a shotgun. The group left the farm to consider their next move. They were met by Corporal Matthew Daly and again returned to the farm. In the gathering darkness, a man stepped out with a club in his hand and Larsen reached out and struck it to the ground. James Meaney again appeared and fired one round from his shotgun, with some of the pellets striking Daly in the face and neck. Larsen fired his revolver and wounded James in the leg. All the parties retreated and as Daly was taken for medical aid, the incident was reported to troop headquarters. More troopers were sent to the scene and Lieutenant Dan Rogers arrived to take charge. Demands were made that the farm occupants emerge and surrender. There being no response, Rogers ordered that the windows be shot out and tear gas employed. At 4:00 A.M. the first gas grenades were thrown into the house. This continued until eight grenades had been used. At daylight, eight troopers broke down the rear door and entered the house and arrested the brothers. In a closet off the kitchen they found Beatrice Meaney, the sister. She had been shot in the side and lay on the floor unable to speak. She was removed to Somerset Hospital and shortly died there. The allegedly mistreated cattle were examined and all were found in "fair condition." Demands were made for an inquiry into the whole matter. All the unspoken resentment of the local people came out in cries for the arrest of all the troopers, at once. Coroner William Charles ordered an inquest and subpoenaed the troopers and their officers. The Meaneys retained a former state senator and county judge, George H. Large, as counsel. He set the tone for the proceeding by characterizing the affair as a "brutal and dastardly murder." As the inquest opened, the hostility of the spectators was obvious in their reaction to the testimony. When evidence unfavorable to the police was introduced, it was greeted with applause and foot-stomping. Evidence that was favorable to the

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troopers was met with loud groans. After four days in that atmosphere, to no one's surprise, the jury returned a finding against the troopers. The county prosecutor, conveniently forgetting the grand jury, announced that he would oppose bail, and the coroner vowed that no bail would be granted. Major Kimberling advised both officials that all the troopers would remain on duty until such time as a grand jury returned a bill of indictment, and he was backed up by Governor Moore. The men were released in bail, over the strenuous objections of Mr. Large, who appeared in court to argue on behalf of the prosecutor. Fourteen troopers and the two S.P.C.A. agents were indicted and went to trial in June 1927. Though the hostile atmosphere did not diminish, the trial judge kept a tight rein on the proceedings. The state contended that the complexion of the case changed when the farmers offered armed resistance to the service of a minor warrant; that the troopers followed the orders of their officer and that the Meaneys could have ended the affair at any time they chose. Attorney Large argued that the State Police were not a military organization and were not bound to follow orders to shoot, an argument that would later be disputed by a higher court. He then brought the sheriff and a county detective to the stand to give their estimate of the number of shots fired. These estimates were triple the number given in the state's testimony. Tim Meaney took the stand to tell his story of having a large amount of money in the house and his feeling that the first men on the scene were bandits in search of that cash. On cross examination he sprinkled his answers with the phrases that he "could not recall" or "did not know." After several days, the matter went to the jury, who deliberated all day and returned the next day with a verdict. Rogers was found guilty of manslaughter, and Larsen and Daly were found guilty of atrocious assault and battery. The spectators showed their approval by loud applause. All three were sentenced to prison terms, and though after several years Rogers was granted a full pardon, it was a harsh experience.

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In response to the vindictiveness of the country people, and to prevent a similar experience, Colonel Schwarzkopf tightened up the internal control and attempted to lessen the insular attitude of the Department. He personally made greater efforts to win support among the rural residents and encouraged the men to do the same. They took the criticism and followed his lead, but pride in "the Outfit" would still set them apart.

5

"The Outfit" "The Outfit." That was their own name —the horse, cycles, cars, the troopers, "Honor, Duty and Fidelity." All of i t - " t h e Outfit." There was a high rate of turnover in personnel but those who remained developed a morale and sense of duty that would see "the Outfit" safely through its hardest times. They showed respect and honor for the traditions they were establishing, and with a privilege of service, responded to the problems of their times. In 1905, Edward Carpenter observed that the duties and trials of a police constable are really bewildering —to regulate traffic, nuisances, public health, obstructions, hawkers, beggars, women, meetings, drunkenness, brawls, assaults, larcenies, burglaries, accidents, riots, fires —to endure rain, fog, snow, heat and cold; to retain presence of mind amid crowds, in solitude, dangers, insults, and violence, through all to remain calm yet firm. All this demands a character of extraordinary strength. Another early police expert felt that "the temper of our communities contains a strong strain of violence. We condone violence and shirk its punishment." The Chicago Tribune, Paris edition, in 1919 advised its European readers, "There is prob-

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ably more undisciplined, egotistic, mischievous force in the United States than in any country of first rank in the world." That mischievous force would be "the Outfit's" concern. Here was their crucible. Special Order Number 120, December 13, 1923. "It is with the feeling of deepest regret in the realization of a great loss that it becomes necessary to announce the demise of Trooper William Henry Marshall." Bill Marshall; fellow soldier in the same regiment with Colonel Schwarzkopf, was killed in a motorcycle accident, the first trooper to die in line of duty. Schwarzkopf set the standard for the future by according full military honors to a departed comrade. Within one year, another special order "with the feeling of deepest regret" announced the death of Trooper Robert Coyle. Robert Coyle had previously served one enlistment with the Pennsylvania State Police, and had been in the New Jersey State Police for eight months. On December 18, 1924, he and Trooper John Gregovesir were detailed to escort the manager of the Bound Brook Crushed Stone Company, who was to pick up a $6,000 payroll. While en route to the bank, the manager had been stopped by two men who asked a series of questions, and although the manager was himself armed, he stopped and called the barracks for assistance. The troopers met him at the bank and followed him to the quarry without incident. As they started back to their barracks, they observed a man answering the description given by the quarry manager. Coyle got out of the car to question the man, and not being satisfied, ordered him to get in the car after making a cursory search. The troopers decided to check the general area for the other man described by the manager. As they started off, the suspect in the rear seat ordered them to raise their hands and stop the car. As Coyle turned his head, he was shot in the face and slumped over. Gregovesir, who was driving, applied the brakes and at the same time drew his weapon and fired over his shoulder at the suspect. As he did so, the troop car struck a pole, the suspect grabbed for Gregovesir's revolver as the trooper fell out of the car. Coyle was then shot two more times by his assailant, who ran from the scene. He was picked up by another man

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in a red touring car which drove off at a fast rate. Gregovesir gave short pursuit and then drove to a hospital, where Coyle was pronounced dead. H e had obtained a possible license number of the other car and gave the information to his barracks. T h e r e were no police radio stations, and no teletype system, so T r o o p B Headquarters began to spread the alarm by phone to the other departments and to other State Police barracks. Troopers on cycle and horse assembled in the area of the crime and began a search of the hill country. T h e license number of the wanted car proved erroneous, so they began a continuing check of all cars that resembled the wanted car. Gregovesir spent hours viewing police pictures of suspects, and finally in Jersey City made an identification of David Genese of West New York as the murderer. Governor George Silzer requested the Jersey City Police to assist in the investigation and Lieutenants Harry Walsh and Charles Wilson were detailed. Genese was traced from Bayonne to Plainfield, where Walsh and Wilson, posing as census takers, obtained an address from the suspect's mother-in-law. On February 9, 1925, the suspect was arrested in the hamlet of Mount Horeb, a short distance from Bound Brook. At his trial he admitted that he had gone to the area with the intention of robbing the quarry manager. His companion, John Anderson, was to do the driving, and was not involved in the shooting. Genese claimed that he fired a blank cartridge to attempt to free himself from the troopers, but denied firing any other shots. T h e jury took three hours to determine that Genese was guilty of Coyle's murder, and he received the death penalty. For their work on the case, Lieutenants Walsh and Wilson of the Jersey City Police were awarded the State Police Distinguished Service Medal. They were the first persons to receive that award, which is the highest honor bestowed by the State Police. Walsh and Wilson worked on other cases with the troopers, both formally and informally, and served as on-the-job instructors in the practical aspects of detective work. T h e r e were some troopers who had a natural talent, which when combined with pride and devotion to duty resulted in a

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tenacity that made the phrase, "Get your man," a reality. Trooper Gus Albrecht had that attribute and fully displayed it in his investigation into the death of Edward Raser in September 1925. Raser, who worked as a woodcutter, was found dead in the woods near Layton in Sussex County. His saw and hatchet were near his body, and his shirt was covered with blood. The local coroner went to the scene and viewed the body. Having heard that the deceased had heart trouble, he gave that as a cause of death and ordered the body removed to a local funeral home. Here the undertaker undressed the victim and found a hole in the chest. He notified the family. They observed the hole, and after a conference, felt that a heart attack was the cause of death and came to the conclusion that the victim had probably fallen onto a stick and caused the puncture. The undertaker said no more, stuffed the hole with cotton so that the embalming fluid would be retained and laid the victim to rest. But stories and theories about the death were not laid to rest, and about six months later, Albrecht began to hear rumors and pick up bits of information from the "close-mouthed mountain folk." T h e victim's widow had since moved away, and coincidentally a former male roomer of the Rasers also departed the area. Albrecht interviewed the coroner, who still attributed the death to heart failure. The undertaker, having a little more experience in these matters, and mindful of the wad of cotton, doubted that theory but reminded Albrecht that the coroner's good graces are a financial necessity to an undertaker, so he advised Albrecht to seek another opinion. T h e town doctor thought it would be a medical marvel if a heart attack could be determined by the expression on the face of the deceased, and that really was the extent of the coroner's evidence. Albrecht notified the prosecutor and requested that the body be exhumed and the investigation reopened. The prosecutor advised him that more evidence would be needed. Undaunted, the trooper began to check further. Riding his horse on the trails "over the mountain," he talked, listened and surmised. He also picked up the clothing worn by the victim on the day of

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his death. Examining the bloody shirt, he found a hole near the collar. He tore off a piece of the shirttail, fastened it to a sandbag, and fired one shot from his revolver through the material. Comparing the two holes, he determined that the hole near the collar had apparently been made by a .38 calibre bullet. Information was obtained that the victim's former boarder, Frank Van Sickle, had at one time owned a .38 rifle. Now the gossipers began to loosen up under Albrecht's prodding. T h e boarder, Van Sickle, had originally paid court to the victim's daughter and then found the mother more attractive. Being a resourceful fellow, he found a nice young man to court the daughter while he pursued his course with the wife of the victim. Rumor was that the widow and the boarder had gone to live on a farm in New York. Albrecht again approached the prosecutor, who still felt that more evidence was needed, although he said he would not interfere if the coroner wished to reopen the case. Confronted with the possibility of a gross error which would be attributed to him, this worthy official quickly acceded to an exhumation. Albrecht made the arrangements and found a pathologist to do the autopsy, convinced the freeholders that they should pay the bill, and sat close at hand while the medical detectives did their stint. He was rewarded when a rifle slug was found deep under the left arm in a direct path from the cottonplugged hole in the chest. Pocketing the piece of lead, Albrecht returned to his barracks and set up his own little ballistics laboratory. Borrowing a druggist's scales, he weighed and measured the slug and further examined it. He determined that it was of .38 calibre, weighed 136 grains, had one lubricant band and six lands and six grooves, and was from a rifle with a barrel having right-hand twist. There were only two American rifles made with righthand twist, and Albrecht wrote to both manufacturers asking for more information. Meanwhile, he saddled up and rode out to check further on the rifle allegedly owned by Van Sickle. While following the travels of this weapon, he learned from the local hardware store that Van Sickle had been a purchaser of arsenic and other poisons. This bit of information was further

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confirmed by the sheriff, who then suggested that he and Albrecht take a ride to visit Van Sickle at his new residence in New York. Nothing came of that visit, and Van Sickle was not interested in returning to New Jersey for further conversation. The victim's widow was living nearby under a different name, and the New York country people evidenced no interest in discussing the couple with strangers. The prosecutor still showed no interest in the matter and that is where it stood for about one year, when Van Sickle was involved in a traffic accident while on an unannounced visit to North Jersey. Trooper Dennis Walsh managed to detain him in the area until a murder charge could be lodged against him. A check of his mail revealed the new name for the Raser widow and she returned voluntarily to New Jersey and confessed to attempts to poison her husband, and detailed the plan her lover had for the murder. A guilty plea earned her a thirty-fiveyear sentence. Her lover was found guilty of murder, after a one day trial, and sentenced to life imprisonment. Gus Albrecht stayed on the j o b for many years and worked on many cases, but it was this role as a "man on horseback" that truly personified "the Outfit." "Untiring efforts, loyalty and devotion to duty." These words stood out in the Certificate of Merit issued to Trooper Walter Simpson in July 1925. Simpson added to the legend of "the Outfit" when he answered a complaint that the neighborhood of Englishtown was being terrorized. He arrived in the area and accosted the suspect, who responded by drawing a pistol and firing at the trooper. Simpson was shot through the left hand and the bullet lodged in his clothing over the chest. The trooper drew his weapon and shot and killed his assailant. He then went to the hospital, had his wound dressed and returned to his station at Freehold and assisted in taking statements from witnesses to the day's events. At the end of the day, he was sent on sick leave, but returned of his own will to assist in other investigations. Trooper Peter Gladys was a young man of twenty-three, still with the newness of the recruit about him, and he was not to

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be that lucky. In answer to a routine complaint from one of the migrant labor camps near Hightstown, he was transporting Pansy Keaton to the local Justice of the Peace so she could sign a disorderly person complaint against her boy friend, David Ware. She had been punched by David during one of their frequent quarrels, and determined to teach him a lesson. Gladys decided to save himself a return trip and picked up the boy friend at the same time and was taking him along. While only a short distance from the camp, the quarrel began anew and Trooper Gladys attempted to placate them. Ware drew a straight razor from his clothes and in one motion reached for the trooper and fatally slashed him across the throat. Escaping from the scene he avoided a massive search, including the use of a Navy dirigible. He was arrested shortly after by the Carteret police and confessed to the murder. Sentence of death was the penalty for this senseless crime. T h e shooting of Trooper Charles Ullrich in February 1926 set off one of the longest hunts in State Police history. Ullrich and his partner, Trooper Charles McManus, had been detailed to investigate reports of criminal activity at a roadhouse near Paterson, known as the French Hill Inn. There were reports of gambling, prostitution, and illegal drinking on the premises. T h e place was owned by Samuel and Anthony Alessi, who were engaged in their second venture into the business. Their previous attempt in another location had met with an untimely raid by the prosecutor and State Police. Trooper Ullrich had been a member of that raiding party, but the risk of his being recognized in civilian clothing was felt to be negligible. T h e troopers arrived at the building early in the evening, passed a small gatehouse manned by a guard, and entered the premises. It was an elaborate layout complete with a watchtower on the roof, an internal buzzer warning system, and secret doors and closets for a hasty exit. T h e bar was in the basement, and the main rooms for the public were on the first floor. It was here that Ullrich and McManus went to observe the customers. Several of them were engaged in a card game at one of the tables; some

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couples eating and drinking filled the other places. Ullrich and McManus ordered food and beer and observed the interior layout. They had been there for several hours, when one of the waitresses recognized McManus and spread the word to her bosses. The bouncer "Slam B a n g " DeLuccia was sent upstairs from the bar room to handle the situation. As he approached the troopers, they realized his intentions and both j u m p e d up and identified themselves. T h e customers began a wild scramble toward the exit stairway. Ullrich raced there to halt them, and McManus began to line them up against a wall. Ullrich bounded down the stairs toward the public phone. As he reached the lower floor, he was met by Sam Alessi who was armed with a pistol. Ullrich made a grab for the gun as Alessi pulled the trigger. T h e bullet crashed into Ullrich's mouth, but as he staggered he reached into his coat and fired his own pistol three times through the pocket. All three shots struck Sam Alessi, who returned two more shots as Ullrich lay on the floor. Both these shots found their mark, mortally wounding the trooper. Meanwhile, upstairs in the public room, McManus began to move toward the sound of the shooting. DeLuccia intervened and slugged McManus with a baseball bat. Staggered by the blow, he continued to the staircase, but repeated blows to the head drove him to his knees and into unconsciousness. When McManus recovered consciousness, the place was dark and deserted. Stumbling down the stairs, he came across Ullrich, motionless in a pool of blood. He managed to get to the phone and call the barracks before collapsing in the telephone booth. Sergeant Carl Fuchs and other troopers responded. T h e complete desertion of the place increased their forebodings as they crashed through the locked doors. While trying to orient themselves, they heard McManus calling. A quick examination of Ullrich indicated that his condition was desperate, and he was placed in a troop car and sped to the hospital. T h e building was searched thoroughly, but no one other than McManus was found. Though badly battered, he gave a quick account of the situation, and then also was transported to the hospital. At the hospital, Ullrich was dead, but the whims of fate had

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sent Sam Alessi to the same hospital and he was quickly arrested and placed under guard. "Slam Bang" DeLuccia, with more bravado than brains, slipped into the hospital to visit Alessi, and right into the arms of the police guards. Still missing was Anthony Alessi, and a tight search of the Paterson area was made. T h e unwritten code of silence prevailed in that community, and T o n y Alessi was still at large when the trial against the other two began. DeLuccia denied that he had beaten McManus or that he had any part in the death of Ullrich. Alibi witnesses attempted to convince the jury that DeLuccia was not in the Inn when the shooting took place. Sam Alessi admitted that he had shot Ullrich with one bullet, but had done so only in self-defense. That the Alessi brothers were well prepared for "self-defense" was made evident, when a local gun dealer testified that they had purchased nine handguns within a six-month period, and had capped off the order by buying an army surplus machine gun. Other testimony was given that preparations had been started to install this machine gun in a watchtower which overlooked the entrance driveway to the Inn. T h e coupling of this story with architect's sketches of the secret passages, panels, closets, and alarm systems indicated that retreat was considered a part of the whole idea of "self-defense." Ullrich's blood-covered coat was introduced and a dramatic re-creation of the firing of his pistol through the pocket demolished the remaining thread of the self-defense theory. A f t e r four hours, the jury determined that Sam Alessi was guilty of second-degree murder, and the bouncer, DeLuccia, was found guilty of manslaughter. As both started prison terms, there was still a reckoning to be made with Tony Alessi, now embarked on an odyssey which was to be traced by several troopers for five years. Wanted circulars with Alessi's distinctive likeness were sent to police departments throughout the country. Information was also received that Alessi had returned to Italy, and the aid of the Italian police was sought through the American Embassy. Reports of his arrest in other cities were checked; reports of his

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death were without foundation. T h e one convincing identifier was not available, Alessi's fingerprints. In those times, not many police departments fingerprinted arrested persons and the state and federal records bureaus were barely started. Alessi had served in the Army, however, and that service was requested to send a copy of his fingerprints and other identifying marks. This simple inquiry initiated a maddening correspondence with the Adjutant General, who with typical Army efficiency demanded document upon document, notarization and authorization, etc., citing regulation after regulation. When furnished a copy of the indictment, he demanded the original for his files, which he managed to keep for several years until he received a curt reminder. T h e acquisition of Alessi's fingerprint record now made the search somewhat less aimless and the identification of looka-likes more certain. A new ploy was tried. Convinced that the local clannishness could be cracked by a common kinship among thieves, Detective Nick DeGaetano was sent into the Paterson area. Using the name of "Thomas Romano," he began to build an elaborate cover as a fugitive from Florida. Renting a hotel room, he received his mail through the Paterson General Delivery. For this mail, he used the alias, "W. M. Peterson"; unaccountably so, for he looked about as Scandinavian as Garibaldi. He soon found that his mail was being read when he left it in his hotel room. T h e secret readers, apparently convinced by the phony mail, which told of lurid fragments of "Romano's" life outside the law, invited him to join the Jerry B. Lazzara Association, ostensibly a political club, but mainly functioning as a speakeasy. DeGaetano was accepted slowly until his presence was not thought out of the ordinary. Casual references to the French Hill Inn and the shooting were made freely in his presence, but no hint of Tony Alessi's present whereabouts was given. He decided that Alessi was occasionally in the Paterson area and so the detective began to roam the section, both to be alert for a chance confrontation and to broaden his contacts in the area. While boarding a bus to Newark, he observed one of the passengers who strongly resembled the wanted man. As the bus entered the

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city, the suspect left the bus and DeGaetano followed. After a short walk, the suspect and the detective almost simultaneously arrived at a street corner where a policeman was on traffic duty. T h e detective identified himself to the patrolman and requested assistance in detaining the man until his identity could be established. T h e patrolman refused unless the trooper produced a warrant. T h e suspect, hearing this debate, felt free to depart and boarded the next bus; presumably back to Paterson to reveal "Romano's" true identity. T h a t the presumption was well taken was further proved when "Romano" appeared in his usual haunts, and found that he was as welcome as a leper. His cover had been blown and he quickly left the area. Had the suspect been the wanted man? No hint was ever given and the silence surrounding the Alessi name deepened. Undercover operatives lend a certain glamour to the solving o f a crime, but the ordinary routine o f pursuit, with its constant checking of unrewarding leads, routine inquiry, and plain leg work lead to the solution in most cases. T h e search for Alessi followed this pattern. A mail watch indicated that he was living under an alias in a small town in Canada. Inquiries to the Canadian police were made. They reported that he had apparently been at the given address, but had since returned to the United States. Alessi had relatives in the Pennsylvania coal country, and the search was concentrated in that area. A good "bird dog" was needed to cover the ground, and he came ready-made in the person o f Detective Andrew Zapolsky of T r o o p A. Zapolsky had formerly been a state trooper in Pennsylvania and knew his way around the coal areas. He was detached from his regular duties and given the simple instruction, "Find Alessi." Off he went to Harrisburg by train to advise the Pennsylvania authorities of his quest. They, in turn, offered whatever assistance possible, but it was Zapolsky alone in most instances. Alessi was known to be a skilled auto mechanic and the search centered on any place having any connection with that trade. So Zapolsky visited auto assembly plants, engine repair shops, dealers, and parts stores. Distant relatives, friends and enemies,

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in and out of prison, were interviewed. Back and forth from the cities into the hills; that Alessi was nearby was intuitively understood. Finally, on May 23, 1931, Zapolsky arrived in Berwick, Pennsylvania, to check on a mechanic at Fitch Culver's garage using the name of James Noble. Comparing this man with the 1926 picture of Alessi on the wanted circular showed that "Noble" was heavier, had longer hair, and a mustache. Weight and hair could not conceal a slight cast in the right eye, and Zapolsky knew that his search was ended. He hurried off to find the local police chief to assist in the arrest. When the chief learned "Noble's" true identity, he was surprised and somewhat disappointed. Surprised, since the man had an excellent reputation locally; disappointed, since "Noble" was the best auto mechanic in the town and the chief had made arrangements to have his own car repaired on the very next day. The arrest was made, and after eight months on the trail, Zapolsky could end his report, "Investigation completed." That was not the end of the case, however. After Alessi was extradited and released in bail, the process of bringing him to trial began. This process ended eighteen months later, when the prosecutor decided that no case could be made against the suspect. State witnesses at the earlier trial of Sam Alessi were now reluctant to testify at another trial; and those who had been patrons of the Inn on the fateful night now tried to deny the transcripts of their testimony in that first trial. The supreme irony was that Trooper McManus, the key witness, had been retired due to the injuries he had incurred, and now, five years later, because of those injuries, his mental condition had deteriorated to the point that he could not be a competent witness. The final lines in the case were to be written within a few years, when he too, mercifully, would die a quiet death. The deaths of Ullrich and McManus could be construed as an indirect result of the Prohibition era. Roadhouses and speakeasies existed to fill the needs of the populace in that "Alice-inWonderland" time. Those years and those laws would further

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test the strength of the State Police. Dealing with the laws, their advocates, detractors, and violators, made for a "curiouser and curiouser" existence. Herbert Hoover said of Prohibition that it was "a great social and economic experiment, noble in motive and far-reaching in purpose." So the expression, "the Noble Experiment" entered the language. Hundreds of years earlier, the whole futility of these ideas had been expressed by St. J o h n Chrysostum who said that if wine was to be banned because of drunkards, then knives should be banned because of murders and women should be banned because of adultery. T h e innate logic of that argument was lost over the years, and New Jersey joined the Federal Volstead Act with its own Van Ness Act to ban alcohol. T h e Volstead Act had been drafted with the assistance of the attorneys for the Anti-Saloon League, and if the opposition had written the law, they could not have done a better job of loophole design. T h e author of the New Jersey Law, Assemblywoman Jennie Van Ness, was rewarded by being defeated in her bid for reelection, and then her law was declared unconstitutional. Before the cheers had died away, the antisalooners passed the Hobart Act to fill the breech. Governor Edwards signed that bill into law, while personally opposing all such legislation. T h e whole idea began to assume the desirability of a Christmas necktie —not wanted, but to be displayed when necessary. On Christmas Eve, 1921, Corporal Frank Campbell and Trooper William Nicol paid an uninvited holiday call on a resident of Ten-Mile Run. Armed with a search warrant and a keen sense of smell, they came across a still and 200 gallons of illegal alcohol. That first arrest put the State Police in the prohibition business and earned them a slot on the mailing list of the AntiSaloon League, who thereafter freely forwarded opinions, advice, and criticism of the Department's further efforts. T h e troopers received similar attention from the New Jersey office of the Federal Prohibition Director, who commanded a mixed bag of Coast Guard and land-based agents. T h e federal

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men wanted all violators turned over to them for prosecution under the Volstead Act, while the county prosecutors desired to have all cases referred to them. By nimble footwork, both sides were kept reasonably happy with the State Police efforts, which at times were joint ventures with both groups. T h e r e was certainly enough work for everyone. T o completely seal off the New Jersey coast from rum runners would have required a small army standing shoulder to shoulder on the sands. It was off the New Jersey coast that the importers assembled in a variety of ships, collectively known as "Rum Row." Rolling in the ground swells outside the twelve-mile limit, they made no secret of their presence. At one time before the holiday season one enterprising captain flew a large pennant with the message, "Come and Get It." In response to that and similar invitations, the seasoned sailors of the Jersey coast made daily runs to the fleet. These trips were made in small, fast boats of local construction based on designs proved eminently seaworthy by years of use. T h e speed and reliability of the Jersey sea skiff was arrogantly displayed to the chagrin of the operators of the slower federal patrol craft. Bad weather or the presence of agents and troopers in the area would sometimes stop the activities of the runners, but on one occasion as the weather cleared, one observer commented that "it looked like the start of a speed boat race, as small boats head out to the rum fleet." That fleet at times was so large that one ship's captain of the Scandinavian Line publicly complained that it was a menace to navigation. T h e federal patrols soon decided that one of the better methods of halting onshore delivery was by shooting holes in the faster boats, and if necessary, shooting holes in the operators. A typical encounter occurred in Raritan Bay off Keyport when a patrol boat fired on a rum runner, struck its gasoline tanks, and the boat exploded. T h e four occupants j u m p e d overboard and were arrested. T h e indiscriminate use of firearms caused other men to think; and it then became the custom for pirates to lie in wait in the rivers and coves and hijack the cargoes of the rum runners, who at times were caught in a crossfire between the federal patrols and the hijackers. After running that gaunt-

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let, there was still the possibility of being apprehended on the beach, dock, or highway. The troopers, who had no boats, were more active on shore. During the last week of November 1923, troopers watching the beaches near Atlantic Highlands seized 325 cases of illegal whiskey. In one nighttime encounter, one man was shot in the leg as he and his companions fled from the beach, leaving behind forty cases of contraband. Ingenuity and intuition offset the small numbers of troopers but more often the contest was resolved by luck or the hairraising operation of vehicles by both sides. On one occasion, Trooper Arthur Keaten halted an automobile for a routine check and found several cases of whiskey concealed under the rear seat. He ordered the driver to follow him to the barracks and returned to start his motorcycle and lead the way. Whether it was the thought of his impending arrest, or the fact that he had another man's wife as his companion, the driver determined to leave the scene in a great hurry. Keaten pursued for a short distance, and then made a hurried stop to phone a description and direction of flight to his barracks. The word was passed on and the vehicle was next heard of as it roared through the town of Penns Grove, where the local officer bravely stepped out into the street to halt it, and was knocked aside without serious injury, except to his dignity. Arrested shortly thereafter by another trooper, the driver was charged with a variety of violations, which were capped by the cuckolded husband tossing in a white slavery charge! The practice of having a woman passenger to avert suspicion was a common one, with the going rate of $25.00 making the ride a little more pleasant for the comely companions. The females were not above being more directly involved, as one trooper found in a raid on a home in Belvidere where he seized two modern stills. The woman operator was arrested, but was allowed to remain at home to care for her sick daughter. Then there was the case of the girl bootlegger, Bertha Johnson, aged eighteen, who sold whiskey at her mother's store to raise money for her school clothing.

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The professionals in the business, taking note of the increased activity against them, decided to hold a meeting and adjust their prices to compensate for their losses. So as not to create the image of being price raisers solely for the sake of profit, and not being able to take paid ads to explain to their consumers, they held their conference on August 15, 1924, at the Rock Hotel in Sea Bright. As the more than 200 conferees debated the new prices, they made certain that the newspaper reporters took notes of the reasons, which were dutifully reported in the next day's editions. Also reported were the police raids which were proving so costly to the bootleggers. Troopers at Mays Landing seized one auto with 120 quarts of whiskey under the seat; and in one night halted two limousines with twenty-two cases of whiskey in the area reserved for chauffeured passengers. Troopers at Boonton halted a truck heaped high with household furniture and after some probing found twelve barrels of alcohol among the tables and chairs. Troopers and the Middlesex County sheriff met a boat at a dock in Sayreville, and with open arms welcomed the unloading of 306 cases of whiskey. The bootleggers on the dock glumly loaded the stuff into three trucks which were seized along with the six Cadillacs and one Packard of the entourage. If there was one instance which illustrated the disparity of forces, it was the Rancocas Creek raid. On October 2, 1925, Lieutenant William Nicol and three troopers, acting on reliable information, checked along that creek in Burlington County and located a large barge, allegedly carrying a cargo of sand. As they emerged from the wooded area, it was a toss-up as to which side was the more astonished. The barge was being unloaded of its liquor cargo by fifty-five industrious men, most of them armed. Six trucks and four autos stood by to receive the load. With much fanfare, Nicol and his tiny raiding party descended on the group, who were quickly rounded up before they realized the exact number of raiders. The raiders herded some of the men into one of the vans to transport them to jail. Twenty prisoners were locked in the barge cabin and left under guard of one of the troopers, until the van could return for

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them. These twenty attempted to escape by setting the cabin on fire, but were quickly persuaded to extinguish the blaze, when the trooper advised them that he was not about to unlock the door. T h e other raiders returned and all the prisoners were brought before a justice of the peace and charged with violating the New Jersey liquor law. Bail was set between $200 and $500 for each man, though the troopers protested that the approximate value of the cases of assorted liquor on the barge would be $300,000. T h e justice of the peace was advised that the total cash in the pockets of several of the apparent leaders amounted to $125,000. He was adamant in the amount set, and one of the leaders sat at the justice's desk and calmly counted out $14,500 to cover the bail for the whole group; and off they all went to the sounds of the troopers grinding their teeth in frustration. Trooper Andrew (Zap) Zapolsky acting on a tip, waited along Shore Road near Wildwood in September 1929. Shortly after midnight, along came a truck carrying barrels of fish. This truck was followed by a sedan, with five men; then another fish truck, followed by another sedan with five men. Undeterred, Zapolsky halted the caravan at gunpoint. One sedan sped off, and three occupants of the other jumped out and ran away. The remaining six were arrested, and Zapolsky called the Cape May barracks for assistance. He and Nick DeGaetano hauled the prisoners to jail, confiscated the trucks and then hurried to a nearby farm, where the caravan began its trip. It took some time to total the night's haul from the trucks and barns, but the 538 cases of champagne, wine, and whiskey they seized was a respectable night's work. T h e Burlington County incident was an example of the power of money, but the business of bootlegging also included some others with a flair for real-life scenarios. The estate in the Highlands, formerly owned by Oscar Hammerstein, was the setting in October 1929, when a raiding party of federal agents and twenty troopers made their entrance. Six months previously, the federal agents had picked up radio code messages to incoming liquor ships from Bermuda, arranging to meet the speedboat couriers off the Jersey coast. T h e code had been broken, and

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now the radio station was the object of the raid. More than a Marconi wireless was found, though. An observation tower with telescopes and gun emplacements guarded the entrance road. A cave cut into the hillside was the storage area for the contraband until it was trucked off to the customers. Further search turned up a fully equipped armory with machine guns, : shotguns, and a large number of pistols. T o persuade the occupants not to avail themselves of this equipment, the raiders fired several fusillades around the grounds. Then to complete the Hollywood touch, federal wireless operators slid into the chairs and began to send phony messages to the big ships offshore. So it went through those years. "Repeal" was now the new word; but until it became more than a word, the troopers still had to spend many manhours supporting an unpopular law. Some would yield to temptation and overlook the law. As quickly as their new allegiance was discovered, Schwarzkopf took action against them. In one instance, he decided to close some stations and then reshuffle the personnel among the troops. This drastic step led to rumors of wholesale resignations being contemplated, to which he replied that he would receive the resignation of anyone or everyone in the department. He, however, intended to remain. His point was made; there were no wholesale resignations. Although Prohibition arrests kept them in the public eye throughout the 20's, the troopers performed many other duties which established them as a true state police service. The formation of a fingerprint bureau in 1925 eventually led to a complete bureau for records and identification to serve all the police agencies of the state with records of fingerprints, stolen cars, and missing and wanted persons. School safety patrols were started in the rural areas, and the monthly visit of the trooper was an occasion looked forward to by the youngsters, who took their roles seriously and established an enviable safety record. T h e troopers also became involved in the training field, when in 1929 the New Jersey Police Academy was established and staffed by the State Police. Sixty municipal police officers were

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instructed in two schools of one month each, and this training increased the requests for more of the same. T h e approach of the Depression years and the curtailment of men and money ended these early activities. T h e State Police were not fully committed again to training others until after World War II. Individual members were called upon to perform services of various kinds for the state and other local police agencies. Some troopers resigned to accept more lucrative jobs in municipal police departments. It is the mark of the calibre of these men that most of them became chiefs of police. Other men were released from their duties at the request of some municipalities to serve as temporary leaders of police agencies. Sergeant Jack Wallace, given six months leave in 1929 to serve as acting chief in Hackensack made a favorable impression on the local people and governing board, primarily by natural ability and the habit of working the usual State Police hours of duty, which meant that he was usually at his desk or on the street whenever any incident of note occurred. T h e beginning of a statewide teletype system, with the main stations operated by the State Police, further diminished the "horse-patrol" image. Now alarms could be quickly given without reliance on the telephone, a source of relief to those troopers so often frustrated by the vagaries of rural party lines. In 1930, the Detective Bureau was officially organized, with Lieutenant Arthur Keaten as its first supervisor. A living example of the axiom that good detectives are born, not made, he was known more familiarly as "Buster" Keaten, more for his reputation as a fighter than in recognition of the then current silent screen star of a similar name. T h e same year saw the official birth of the State Bureau of Identification. This new bureau's first supervisor was Lieutenant Russell Snook who combined the fragmented scientific services into one unit. More and more requests were being made for services of this type and the concept of being solely a keeper of records was being subordinated in other performances. One other sign of admiration and recognition eventually

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proved to be something of an irritant. As more and more calls were made for their services, the sight of troopers in uniform became more commonplace in areas not normally covered by the patrols. Their appearances were often required in the courthouses of the larger municipalities, and the distinctive uniform caught the eye. It followed then that some other police agencies adopted the same uniform. In time it became an administrative problem to determine the validity of letters of complaint against troopers. The complainant usually based his identification on the uniform, and the proliferation of departments wearing that same style complicated matters. There was also the matter of pride and distinctiveness which Schwarzkopf instilled in the troopers while in training school and which was embodied in their uniform. Eventually he solved the problem with characteristic directness. Calling a conference of his staff, the matter was thoroughly discussed and argued. The simple solution was to change the uniform. There is a fable that the famous Broadway producer Florenz Ziegfeld was asked to design a new outfit. Of such stuff are legends made, but in this case the new uniform was designed by the headquarters staff far from the bright lights of the theatre. This uniform of French blue and gold is still in use, and to prevent its being copied, a law was passed in 1929 which makes it a misdemeanor to wear any uniform similar in style or color to that of the State Police. T h e first ten years were over. Norman Schwarzkopf and a handful of those who started with him remained. Mark Kimberling had resigned to accept a position in the state prison system. Replacing him as Deputy Superintendent was Charles Schoeffel. He was one of the group who had erected the tents for the first training class, and could claim almost as much seniority as the Superintendent. Deaths, dismissals, and resignations had changed the faces, but not the ideals and objectives. Services offered altered their primary role of a rural police force. The continued demand for other services would broaden their base, create more duties, and increase their personnel and financial

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needs. It was a rosy outlook, but the drab grayness of Depression ended that view. It had been a hard ten years for them all. Considering the tempo and morals of the times, they had been remarkably lucky in escaping controversy and criticism. Considering Schwarzkopf's characteristically blunt insistence on freedom from political influences and meddling, he was probably luckiest of them all. All that immunity would soon vanish in a swirling controversy of rumor and fact. Lies and truths were to be subordinate to the personal and political ambitions of those who would turn tragedy to their advantage, with callous disregard of those involved. Charles A. Lindbergh, " T h e Lone Eagle," had served as the vehicle of ambition for many in his hour of triumph. Now in his hour of tragedy, his son kidnapped, his shock and sorrow denied respect, he was again to be the victim of ambitious and unscrupulous men.

6

T h e Lindbergh Kidnapping The Atlantic Ocean had been spanned by men in aircraft. Charles Lindbergh was not the first. The adulation and exultation in his feat dimmed the earlier exploits of others. Here was an authentic folk hero. The people wanted a new hero; perhaps unconsciously needed one. "Lindy" was theirs. He had departed from Roosevelt Field on May 20, 1927. The rain and mist at the time of take-off did not obscure the event. A carefully built suspense had been maintained by the New York press. Which of the three airplanes at the field would take off first? At the other end lay Paris and a prize of $25,000 for the pilot. Lindbergh was the choice of the reporters. He was good copy. A boyish reticence and modesty intrigued the public who were fully informed of the dangers in the long trip. Here was a mere lad daring the Atlantic alone! He was made a hero as he left the last sight of land behind and continued on into the void. The nation held its collective breath. Prayers were said, some in the most unlikely places. Forty thousand persons at a prizefight stood in a moment of silence for "Lindy." There were other voices raised as if the sum total of all the prayers would keep the small plane safely aloft.

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Thirty-three hours after take-off, he landed at Le Bourget airport in Paris. The huge mob on hand to welcome him proved to be the most dangerous part of the trip. He barely escaped unscathed, though the same could not be said for his tiny monoplane, The Spirit of St. Louis. Souvenir hunters were making a determined assault on its fuselage and wings when a group of French pilots dragged the plane to safety inside a hangar. The mob hysteria in France was prophetic of what was to come for the former farm boy and ex-mail pilot. He was firmly established in history, with all its honors. He was now famous, with all its perils. Accorded all the pomp reserved for royalty, Lindbergh was received by the presidents and crowned heads of Europe. President Calvin Coolidge dispatched the naval cruiser Memphis to return the hero and his plane to the United States. Minor skirmishing commenced between New York and Washington as to which city would offer the official welcome. T h e honor went to the President and the capital. Not to be outdone, New York would show how heroes were properly welcomed. A ticker-tape parade up lower Broadway dumped more than a thousand tons of paper into the streets. More receptions followed. Jobs and financial offers of almost insane magnitude were proposed, the sponsors taking care that the press releases linked their names with that of Lindbergh. Pressed from all sides by such demands, Lindbergh escaped by departing in his plane on a good-will flight to Mexico. There he met and courted Anne Morrow, the daughter of the wealthy United States Ambassador. The marriage of the boy of modest background to this gentle, classic beauty of high social position added to the legend. The insatiable demands of the public and press for news continued and reached a new height when a son was born to the story-book couple. It was seventeen days before even the child's name was released. No pictures were offered, and a rumor circulated among photographers that the first photo of the child would be worth $10,000 to anyone enterprising enough to produce one for certain newspapers.

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This attitude, this harassment, and all the other aggravations brought out Lindbergh's determination to seek privacy. His few public displays of annoyance at the intrusions had further enhanced his reputation for modesty. Behind the public Lindbergh dwelled the strong will which had driven him to triumph and now drove him even harder on a new quest. T h e search brought him to the Sourland Mountains of Hunterdon County, that forbidding bastion that had discouraged others from entering the area, even for nefarious purposes. Now Lindbergh could use the natural surroundings to insure seclusion. Construction began on a hilltop near Hopewell and an airstrip was graded near the house. Lindbergh proposed to fly to and from New York whenever possible. The airplane, his vehicle to fame, would provide the means for escaping it. Though the house was not completed and the grounds only partially cleared, the family began to seek its seclusion as soon as possible. So it was that on the windy, dreary night of March 1, 1932, fate would find them there. They had come to their new home for the weekend, attended by Oliver and Elsie Whately as their only servants. T h e baby's nurse, Betty Gow, had remained at the Morrow estate in Englewood, as was her custom at that time. Anne Lindbergh enjoyed having the baby to herself on weekends, and the nurse enjoyed having the free weekends for social activity. She was an attractive girl and lately had been keeping fairly steady company with Henry Johnson, a crew member on the yacht of Thomas Lamont. On that March afternoon, she had received a message from the mother that the baby was not feeling well because of a slight cold. The poor prospects of improvement in the weather made their return to Englewood unlikely, so Betty was requested to come to Hopewell to resume her normal duty, and was driven there by one of the Morrow chauffeurs. Colonel Lindbergh arrived at the house about 8:30 P.M. He was scheduled to address a New York University alumni dinner that evening, but in the course of the day's business, he had completely forgotten his commitment. Shortly after his arrival, Betty Gow received a phone call from her friend Henry John-

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son. He was calling in answer to her message canceling their date for that evening, and the girl explained the circumstances. After dinner, the Lindberghs went into the living room and the servants retired to their sitting room off the kitchen. Shortly after nine o'clock, Lindbergh heard a sound which he would later describe as similar to a crate breaking. Remarking on the sound to his wife, and her observation that she heard nothing, they continued conversation until Mrs. Lindbergh left to prepare for bed. T h e Colonel went to his study to continue his paper work. About ten o'clock, the nurse went to the baby's room, as was her habit, to take him to the bathroom before finally bedding him down. Earlier he had been fussy and spilled a dose of laxative on his nightclothes. When she undressed him then, the nurse and mother agreed that an extra garment might be advisable, and Betty quickly stitched up a flannel nightshirt. Under this he was dressed in a sleeveless wool shirt, diapers, rubber pants, and a woolen sleeper. Metal thumbguards were attached to his hands to discourage his tendency to thumbsucking. Now the nurse stood quietly in the room after turning on a small heater to ward off the chill. Realizing that she could not hear the baby's breathing, she switched on the light and found the crib empty. Going in to the mother, she inquired if she had the boy. Not finding him, she set off for the study to see if the father had taken him there. Her inquiry to him met with surprise, and they both rushed up to the nursery. Here they met the mother, and as the realization set in, he turned and said, "Anne, they have stolen our baby." He sent the nurse off to find the butler. Upon Oliver's arrival, he was instructed to phone the police, as Lindbergh went to a closet and got a rifle. T h e house was in East Amwell Township, and the nearest town was Hopewell. Whately phoned the local police officer, Harry Wolfe. Lindbergh went to his study and phoned his attorney, Henry Breckenridge, in New York, who set off for the estate at once. Lindbergh then phoned the State Police Headquarters and requested that troopers be sent to the house. T h a t call resulted in the first teletype message with the

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simple statement, "Colonel Lindbergh's baby was kidnapped from the Lindbergh home in Hopewell N J sometime between 7:30 PM and 10:00 PM this date. Baby is 19 months old and is a boy. Is dressed in sleeping suit. Request that all cars be investigated by police patrols." Those meager details were the first notice to the world that the world's most famous baby was missing. At the time of his birth, the columnist Heywood Broun had written, "I am already moved with compassion. He cannot possibly realize yet the price he must pay for being a front page boy." That tragic prophesy had come true. The first phone call resulted in the dispatching of Trooper Joseph Wolf from Wilburtha, who arrived there shortly before Detectives Lewis Bornmann and Nick DeGaetano. Major Schoeffel and Lieutenant Keaten came shortly thereafter and took charge. Trooper Wolf met the Hopewell police chief and his constable and was advised that they had located portions of a ladder near the house. He made mental note of the location and entered the house. In the nursery he was directed to an envelope which lay on the windowsill. He picked it up on the blade of a knife and placed it on the mantelpiece for safekeeping. Outside, DeGaetano had come across a footprint near the house. Cursory examination showed that the shoe had apparently been covered with a heavy sock or similar material. A woman's footprint found under the nursery window was later accounted for as the print of the mother, who while standing there, had tossed some pebbles at the window earlier in the day to attract the nurse's attention. Further search of the grounds turned up another section of the ladder which lay apart from the first portion. Bornmann took all three sections into the house for closer examination, which showed that all were designed to nest together with the length of the lower section, and that the two sections which were joined were held together with a dowel pin. One of the rails of the lower section was split, and the investigators surmised that this was the sound that Lindbergh heard earlier in the evening. With the arrival of Trooper Frank Kelly, the

fingerprint

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man, attention was now directed to the nursery. The room was dusted for fingerprints without success. Now Kelly turned his eye toward the envelope found near the window. The traces of mud smudges on the sill and floor indicated that someone had entered the room from the outside and placed the envelope in the nursery. Dusting of the paper showed only one valueless smudge and now it was slit open and the note was read by Lindbergh, SchoefFel, and Keaten. Written in ink on a single sheet of notepaper, the misspelling of words and the scrawl of the author made it difficult to decipher. They finally read it: Dear Sir! Have 50.000 $ redy 25 000 in 20 $ bills 1.5000 $ in 10 $ bills and 10000 $ in 5 $ bills. After 2-4 days we will inform you were to deliver the Mony. We warn you for making anyding public or for notify the Police the child is in gute care. Indication for all letters are Singnature and 3 holds. At the end of this note was a curious symbol, two interlocking circles in blue ink, each about the size of a quarter. Within the oval of the interlock there was a solid ball of red ink, and the symbol was pierced by three holes spaced apart on the same line. This mark was to appear in the rest of the notes received, and it identified those legitimate messages from the kidnapper. That this was important became evident within a few days when the first flood of mail arrived at the Lindbergh home, with the usual crank letters accompanied by hundreds of letters allegedly from the kidnappers. The symbol was carefully guarded from circulation to prevent its counterfeiting by those bent on extortion for their own purposes.

Above, the Lindbergh residence near Hopewell. Below, the ladder as left by the kidnapper.

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As dawn came, the troopers had three tangible pieces of evidence: the note, the ladder, and a chisel found near the house. The chisel was of an ordinary type available anywhere. The ladder was obviously constructed for only one purpose, and the note revealed that purpose. On the face of it, there was not

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T h e original ransom note left in the nursery. Later notes with the distinctive mark and punched holes were identified as genuine among the thousand of fake and crank letters received.

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much to work with, but time and the efforts of many people would eventually build a wall of insurmountable evidence on that small foundation. Colonel Schwarzkopf arrived on the scene during the night and conferred with Lindbergh and Breckinridge. Without discussion, it was understood that the safety of the child was the paramount interest, and further action proceeded with that interest as the guideline. Although the note had warned against making anything public, the teletype alarm had been transmitted before the contents of the note were known, and the message was picked up and broadcast over all the police networks and almost simultaneously transmitted throughout the world by the commercial and press networks. T h e news brought a horde of reporters to the house and grounds. T h e first arrivals were greeted cordially by Lindbergh and he extended the hospitality of his home to them. As the night wore on, the stream of people continued until they flooded the entire area, and as more troopers arrived at the scene, the first order of business was an attempt to control the aimless wandering of this mob. T h e only solution was to order everyone from the scene, and this order was enforced with some difficulty. Early morning brought more assistance from the police departments of Newark and Jersey City, responding to the request of Governor A. Harry Moore. T h e first light saw all this force set out and begin a search of the immediate area. They faced a formidable task, for the surrounding territory was such a topographical jumble that Army pilots regularly used the terrain for practice in mapping rough territory. No less formidable was the task of those assigned to knock on the doors of the area residents and make the standard inquiries for information. T h e usual reticence of the country people was reinforced by the sight of all those police uniforms in the neighborhood. Other men examined the entire house, with emphasis on the nursery. Here they found that the window used for access had a warped shutter which could not be securely fastened. As in the other rooms throughout, there were no curtains or shades on

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the windows, and the men inside could look out and see the search teams at work. They quickly surmised that anyone who watched the house at night could easily observe the movements of the occupants in the lighted rooms. T h e inquiry was now directed to the ladder, and the hypothesis continued. T h e kidnapper had used only the two lower portions of the ladder, which reached a point about thirty inches below the nursery window. Using another ladder from the garage, an examination of the wall showed marks in the paint which matched the width of the top point of the middle section of the ladder found on the ground. T h e r e were faint paint marks on the side rails at the top of that ladder section. T h o u g h somewhat crudely constructed, the ladder was cleverly designed so that all three sections would nest within the length of first and lower section, and could be easily carried by hand or in an automobile. T h e broken rail was apparently caused by the added weight when the kidnapper descended the ladder, and the sound of its breaking was probably the sound heard earlier by Lindbergh when in his study. T h e ladder could have been built by anyone. Where to start the search? Someone recalled that Skillman, a state institution, was nearby and that lumber similar to the ladder rails was used at that institution. Men were sent there to follow this lead. Others were dispatched to interview hardware and lumber dealers throughout the area to attempt to learn the origin of the chisel. Although there were no marks which would distinguish this chisel from thousands just like it, the slim possibility that it might have been purchased nearby, and the purchaser remembered, could not be left unchecked. All this was only routine investigative work, but there was no other course to follow at the time. It was precious little to start with, but it was a start. Captain John Lamb and Lieutenant Keaten took over the direction of the field activities. Lindbergh had appealed to Schwarzkopf for a free hand in any negotiations with the note writer. T h e note found in the nursery indicated that further communications would be received. T h e important thing was

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the return of the child; so the police effort continued at a subdued level. Not so with the reporters. These men had established headquarters in the general store in nearby Hopewell and made daily trips throughout the area. Under pressure from their editors and the general public, they soberly interviewed doddering old men and other local characters in a game that might have been labeled "Today's Best Clue." Though Lindbergh would often consent to listen to someone with even the vaguest theory, the press had made itself unwelcome at the estate. T h e reaction was predictable. T h e news media had created the legend of "Lindy" and its members still felt that he was their personal property. Schwarzkopf's dealings with them did nothing to further their happiness. He required that they submit written questions daily, and they would receive written answers. T h e ground rules were set at one of the few press conferences held at the beginning of the investigation. He stipulated that all members of the press would be treated equally; there would be no "scoops." T h e State Police would give out no opinions and no predictions. Further, "matters dealing with the Lindbergh family, their habits, their health, any private negotiations" would not be released. Colonel Schwarzkopf strongly implied that those matters were no concern of the police, and no concern of the press. It was a firm stance, and a proper one. Responsible journalists could realize the Superintendent's position. Others would vent their anger and frustration in articles of condemnation, criticism of the entire police effort, and out-and-out falsehoods that would plague the case until its conclusion. Every amateur cop, crackpot, fortune teller, and publicity-seeking official managed to add fuel to the controversy. When their opinions were not dignified by instantaneous police response, they found sympathetic reporters to listen to and broadcast their complaints. This climate of opinion would eventually affect Schwarzkopf's career. For the moment it was accepted as an annoying hindrance. T h e investigation continued, with detectives from the Jersey

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City and Newark departments assigned to work in teams with State Police detectives. A temporary headquarters was set up in the garage at the rear of the house. Many telephone lines and teletype machines were installed. Troopers were assigned to man these facilities around the clock. More troopers were assigned to open, read, and classify the tons of mail which began to arrive. O f itself, this task was so large that before the case was closed, the total number of letters received reached 72,652. This figure did not include mail received and investigated by other police agencies, who were bombarded with similar communications. T h r e e days after the crime, another letter arrived from the kidnapper. T h e same symbol appeared to identify it as genuine. Using the same foreign-language construction, the note chided the parents for notifying the police and now boldly raised the amount of ransom demanded from $50,000 to $70,000. Another letter sent to Breckinridge's office was brought to Hopewell. Neither letter gave further instructions, but both indicated the baby was in good health. T h e letter to Breckinridge advised against marking the bills or making a record of the serial numbers o f the ransom money. It also stated that the kidnapper would not accept any go-between; he would make that arrangement himself. Nevertheless, Lindbergh and Breckinridge decided that having an underworld contact might be worthwhile. Against the advice of Schwarzkopf, they announced that Morris Rosner, a convicted peddler of fraudulent stock, had been engaged by them to open some communication with any "gang" that might have been involved. Rosner found himself two assistants; Salvatore Spitale and Irving Bitz. These two worthies installed headquarters in a speakeasy near the Daily News building in New York City and announced they were ready to negotiate for the baby's return. For their own interests, it was necessary that they foster the idea that an organized gang had committed the crime. This idea was scoffed at both by the police and the criminal element. No one could believe that a professional would risk so much to kidnap such a famous child, and then demand such

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a paltry ransom. Meanwhile, the comings and goings of the "negotiators" were duly detailed by the reporters, who were the speakeasy's best customers. Another approach was tried at the suggestion of Governor A. Harry Moore, who invited law enforcement people from all over the country to attend a conference in Trenton on March 5, 1932. Reporters were barred from the meeting, which included the chiefs or representatives from New York City, Pittsburgh, Boston, St. Louis, and Chicago, and state police from New York and Pennsylvania and J . Edgar Hoover of the U. S. Department of Justice. Also attending was Mayor Frank Hague of Jersey City, whose major contribution, according to the transcript, was to invite the participants to lunch, as guests of the Governor, of course. There were some vague suggestions made, but all the conferees agreed that a central authority should be created to coordinate the information received by all their departments. Given the climate of opinion at the time, the person placed in authority would have the opportunity not only to solve the case, but to receive much personal fame. Personal ambition or not, Schwarzkopf quickly asserted his role as Superintendent and assured the State Police the position of central authority. Had he not done so he would have been derelict in his duty. T h e crime had occurred in East Amwell, where the State Police were the only law enforcement agency. They had gathered the evidence and made the initial investigation. They had the assistance of experienced detectives from two major cities, and teams of men were then checking leads and conducting interviews. T h e conferees agreed that the State Police would receive whatever information and assistance was available in their respective agencies. On that note, the group left, some after examining the ladder and having further discussion with Colonel Schwarzkopf. T h e case was now centered on interviews of area residents and the household staffs at Hopewell and the Morrow estate. From these interviews would emerge the first hint of a possible suspect. T h e nurse, Betty Gow, had received a phone call from her

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boyfriend, Henry (Red) Johnson, on the night of the crime. She had explained why it was necessary to cancel their date for the evening. Innocent enough, but the word was out to find Red Johnson and interview him, a routine request. Johnson was found in Hartford, Connecticut. He was on his way to visit a relative, he told the police. A search of his car turned up an empty milk bottle. He always liked to drink milk when he was driving, he told his questioners. T h e suspicious Hartford police would not buy a story about a sailor who liked to drink milk, so they quickly relayed their suspicions to New Jersey. Johnson voluntarily came back to New Jersey and his story was checked and double checked until he was cleared of any involvement. He had jumped ship to enter the country illegally, though, so he was placed in federal detention for that offense. His presence there bolstered the opinion of some that he had been involved, and that he was being held on a pretext until he confessed his involvement. Those seekers of a quick solution felt that it was only a matter of time until he made that admission. Meanwhile, Schwarzkopf, Lamb, Keaten, Inspector Harry Walsh of Jersey City, and agents of the Treasury Department began to hold daily conferences to direct work on the case. In this initial stage, the greatest amount of time and manpower were used in the sifting of a mountain of tips, leads, alleged sightings of the child, etc. Except for this, the investigators were in the untenable position of not being free to do much investigating. T h e child's safety took precedence over the apprehension of the criminal. Routine procedures continued. The majority of the group marked time while awaiting a signal from the other side. That signal came soon, from an unlikely source, and thrust another unlikely character onstage. Dr. John F. Condon, at seventy-two, was a semiretired educator. He lived in the Bronx, where he had taught many of the residents over the years, and was known and respected in the community. His physical appearance was imposing and he was known to take pride in his ability to retain an air of vitality. He was admired for some of his eccentricities, too, one of which was his boast that the Bronx was the "most beautiful borough in the

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world." As a self-appointed home-town booster, he regularly wrote letters to the editor of the Bronx Home News. These letters covered a variety of topics, so it was no surprise to the editor when he received a latter from Dr. Condon offering to add $1,000 of his own savings to the ransom payment, and then offering to go anywhere to negotiate for the return of the child. The letter was printed on the front page, with the editor's comment that Condon was acting on his own and was responsible to no one for any information he might obtain. Outside the immediate area, litde notice was taken of the offer. In the Bronx, the skeptics and critics phoned Condon or offered their theories by mail. One letter, addressed to "Mr. Doctor John F. Condon," seemed to be an answer to his offer. He was directed to follow instructions, without telling anyone or notifying the press or police. Within the envelope was another, which he was to hand personally to Colonel Lindbergh. When Condon received the money from Lindbergh, he was to place an ad in the New York American with the words, "Mony is Redy." The writer also told him that the offer of his own cash was not necessary. He would receive further instructions and was to remain home between six and twelve o'clock each evening to await messages. Condon phoned the Lindbergh home, and after much skepticism on the other end, he was finally placed in contact with Lindbergh. Describing his letter and offer to the newspaper, he read the reply. Lindbergh asked him to open the other letter and read it over the phone. This letter approved Condon as gobetween and directed that a box of certain dimensions be made to hold the ransom money. The wording, demands, and instructions at first seemed no different from thousands of similar letters. But, Condon explained, there were some curious circles and holes at the bottom of the note addressed to Lindbergh. That was it! Condon was asked to bring the letters to the Lindbergh home, and he arrived there in a few hours. There was no doubt of the authenticity of the notes: the carefully guarded "singnature" [sic] proved that. Now arrangements were made to construct the box, place the ad, and assemble the money. Dr. Condon had been warned not to notify the press, so his

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name must be kept secret. How to sign the ad? Condon had the solution in his own initials, JFC. Spoken quickly, they were a perfect acronym. "JAFSIE." On March 11, the prescribed ad was placed in the paper. The next night, the doorbell rang at Condon's home and John Perrone, a taxi driver, handed Condon new instructions. He was to go to a vacant frankfurter stand, and on the porch would be another note with further instructions. The last instruction, "bring mony with you" was impossible. The money had not been assembled and the box not yet built. Still, the instructions must be followed, so Condon set off in a car with a friend, A1 Reich, a former boxer. They found the second note, which directed Condon to cross the street and go to Woodlawn Cemetery where he would be met. Following the instructions, he crossed the street and stood near the cemetery. After a short wait, a figure appeared and asked, "Did you got it, the money?" As Condon began his reply, the man heard the sound of the cemetery guard and began to run away. Here was the time for the older man to call upon his physical stamina and pursue the other man. He was up to the task and soon caught up with the shadowy figure. Now ensued a strange encounter. Condon and the kidnapper sat and chatted on a park bench. Condon made assurances that he would not betray him to the police. The other man felt it was dangerous. "It might be twenty years. Or burn. Would I burn if the baby is dead?" Condon demanded to know of the baby's health. He was told that the baby was being well cared for and was in good health. Now the old man asked the other's name. "John," was the reply. "John" claimed that he was but one member of a gang. Then to offer further proof, "John" offered to send a token; the baby's sleeping suit. When Condon received it, he was to insert another "money is ready" ad in the newspaper. Then he departed into the dark of the park. Three days later, the sleeping suit arrived at the Condon home. It had been freshly cleaned. There was a note attached, which gave further instructions. Following these instructions, another ad was placed with the "Jafsie" signature. More letters

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were received from "John." More ads were placed by "Jafsie." Time passed. Time for others to enter the scene. In Norfolk, Virginia, John H. Curtis, a boat builder, had sought out the rector of an Episcopal Church and told him that he, Curtis, had been approached by the kidnappers to negotiate the return of the baby. The Reverend Harold Dobson-Peacock found the story believable. Why had Curtis been picked? He had built boats for rum runners and repaired boats for others, so it was conceivable that his name was known to persons of ill repute. For his part, Dobson-Peacock had known Anne Morrow Lindbergh when his church had assigned him to Mexico City. The minister felt that he was a well-known person, and surely if the baby could be returned through his efforts, that would be an extra garnish. His initial attempts to reach Colonel Lindbergh at Hopewell were blocked by the troopers there. Dobson-Peacock and Curtis decided to enlist the aid of retired Admiral Guy Burrage, who had commanded the cruiser Memphis when that ship returned the hero Lindbergh and his plane to America. Burrage interceded for them and a meeting was arranged at the estate. Lindbergh and Colonel Schwarzkopf listened to their story, but the father advised them that more proof was needed and only the kidnapper could furnish that proof. There the matter rested for several days, until a Norfolk reporter asked Dobson-Peacock for verification of a report that he was in contact with the kidnappers. The story made front page news and was followed the next day by a reply from Schwarzkopf. Couched in the politest terms, he made it clear that the Norfolk story was not worthy of belief. The secret negotiations continued between "Jafsie" and "John" and culminated in instructions to have the money ready on Saturday evening, April 2. Contact would be made that night with further delivery instructions. Lindbergh gave Dr. Condon written authority to pay the ransom and decided that he would drive him to the rendezvous. It had been a long, heart-rending month for the parents and they were eager for a quick and happy conclusion.

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Schwarzkopf and his investigators had been rebuffed in their plan to follow Lindbergh and Condon to any meeting. They acceded to the father's wishes that no obstacle, however remote, be allowed to interfere with the arrangements. Each of the investigators, as parents, could feel the personal pressures involved. Duty and a complete sense of professional frustration made them insistent that the serial numbers of the ransom money be recorded. The men from the Treasury further suggested that the bulk of the money be gold certificates. The father resisted at first, but finally gave in to the advice. There was no time to be lost, and Agents Frank Wilson and Arthur Madden laboriously hand recorded the serial number of each bill in the ransom package. They prepared one package of fifty thousand dollars, and a smaller package of twenty thousand dollars, mostly gold certificates of fifty-dollar denomination, which would make them more noticeable when passed in commerce. On the night of April 2, another taxi driver arrived at the Condon home with a note. Following its directions, Condon and Lindbergh drove off with the ransom money to a greenhouse several miles away. There another note under a stone directed them to a rendezvous at nearby St. Raymond's Cemetery. At the cemetery, Condon alighted and stood near the gates. After a wait of several minutes, a voice called, "Hey, Doctor!" Again in a louder tone, "Hey, Doctor. Over here!" Lindbergh, waiting in the car, could hear the calls. Dr. Condon started toward the sound of the voice in the graveyard. There he met "John," but before handing over the money, he demanded written instructions about the baby's whereabouts. For some unaccountable reason, he also began with "John" a bargaining session over the amount of the ransom to be paid. After brief negotiations, this supposed member of a "gang" agreed to reduce the ransom to $50,000, the amount originally demanded. He told Condon to get the money and he would give him written directions to find the baby. Condon returned to the car and told Lindbergh of his success in the negotiations. Then he removed the smaller of the two money packages. This was the pack of large denomination gold certificates, which the Treasury agents had carefully

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prepared for easier tracing. Unfortunately, they had no time to impress this fact on Dr. Condon. The rest of the money, in the carefully constructed box, was handed to "John." After a brief examination of the package, he gave Condon a letter and cautioned him against opening it for six hours. The transaction was complete. Two strangers, in a dark graveyard, with the only other person aware of the episode out of sight. All that remained now was to read the note. Though "John" had cautioned against opening it for six hours, that was too long a time, and Lindbergh and Condon opened it in the car: "the boy is on the Boad Nelly." The boat was described and its location was given between Horseneck Beach and Gay Head in Vineyard Sound. T h e father and Condon returned to the Condon home and Breckinridge made arrangements to use an airplane at daybreak. The three men took off with Lindbergh at the controls, and began low searching sweeps over any boat in the Sound. Coast Guard cutters were pressed into service. The air and sea search went on for several days, until it became obvious, even to those who desperately wanted to believe, that there was no "Boad Nelly." Slowly, the police began to move. Someone had fifty thousand dollars, and he either had the baby or had some knowledge of it. The Coast Guard and Customs Service were asked to check their files for any boat matching the "Nelly." Several were found and the owners quietly checked. Nothing came of these inquiries. The hope now was that the ransom money would be the key to unlock the mystery. The serial numbers, neatly typed on fifty-seven pages, were sent to banks throughout the world with instructions to inform the U. S. Treasury if any of the bills turned up. As yet they were not identified as Lindbergh ransom money, but the inference was clear. Meanwhile, John Hughes Curtis of Norfolk was still busy. He began to find more sympathetic ears for his stories, which became more elaborate in detail. The U. S. Navy made an airplane

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and crew available for his use in trips between Norfolk and New Jersey. Private yacht owners offered their craft for search purposes whenever necessary. Colonel Lindbergh joined him on some of these searching voyages. So it was that he was at sea on May 12 when his son was found. T h e search ended in a pitifully small grave along the road near Mount Hope, several miles from the estate. T h e body was discovered by William Allen, a timber cutter. Trooper Andrew Zapolsky was the first of the State Police to arrive at the scene, and he made the initial identification, using a photo of the child for comparison. Inspector Walsh arrived with samples of the material used to make up the nightshirt worn by the baby on the night of the abduction. T h e cloth and thread matched the remnants of clothing still on the body. T h e body was removed to the morgue and further identified by the nurse, Betty Gow. An examination by a doctor who had treated the boy left no doubt; Charles A. Lindbergh, Jr., was dead. Now without fear of harm to the child, the police could move. Schwarzkopf, Lamb, Keaten, and Walsh were particularly interested in J o h n Curtis and Dr. Condon, both of whom claimed to have been in contact with the kidnapper. Curtis was the first to be questioned. He repeated his long tale of meetings, phone calls, boats and ships, seeing the ransom money, etc. Two troopers were assigned to take him to Cape May where he allegedly had met with some of the "kidnap gang." Two days of searching for the house were fruitless. Next he was taken to Newark to attempt to find another house where another meeting supposedly was held. No results. Brought back to Hopewell, he was given the freedom of the estate, but always in view of one of the troopers. Walsh and Keaten began to interview him in earnest. Finally, he admitted that the entire tale was a cruel hoax. He was charged with giving false reports. Unable to post bail, he was remanded to the Hunterdon County Jail to await trial. His motive was unclear, perhaps even to himself. Curtis absolved Admiral Burrage of any complicity other than calling Lindbergh and arranging a meeting. He was not as gen-

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erous with the Reverend Mr. Dobson-Peacock. That gentleman refused to come to N e w Jersey to cast any light on his role in the matter. In fact, he indignantly advised that he was available in Norfolk and would grant an interview to the State Police whenever it might be convenient f o r them to come. Curtis came to trial, received a suspended sentence, paid a fine, and departed as he had arrived, unworthy of belief. Dr. Condon had also been subjected to sharp questions. At first he was asked to give every scrap of information, no matter how unrelated it might seem. T h e questions became more specific as to his exact movements, statements, and motive for entering the affair. T h e Bronx grand jury had him appear to answer their questions about the money payment. H e was shown rogues' gallery pictures by the hundreds. Still, the troopers made it plain that he was considered a suspect. They had no choice. H e alone had seen "John." H e alone had handled the ransom money. H e had removed the package containing the most identifiable bills. Thoroughly questioned and thoroughly investigated, the old man seemed to be guilty only of his own eccentricity. From the beginning of the investigation, the servants of both households had been checked. Major Schoeffel was detailed to England and Scotland to obtain background information on all. They had been interviewed as to prior employment, friends, finances, etc. Out of this series of investigations came another strange and tragic turn of events. Violet Sharpe, a maid at the Morrow home in Englewood, had told conflicting stories and was scheduled for further questioning. H e r story was that on the night of the kidnapping she had gone to a movie with a young man she had met two days previously. They had gone with another couple, whose name she did not recall. It also seemed that Violet could not recall the name of the young man she had dated; nor could she recall the name of the movie they had seen; further she could not remember what the movie had been about. T h e fact that she was the maid who had initially received the call from Mrs. Lindbergh

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which gave notice that the family would be staying on at Hopewell had not been lost on the investigators. Her apparent loss of memory made further checking mandatory. A m o n g her personal effects, the detectives had found a business card for a Bronx taxi company. T h e company, now out of business, had been operated by an Ernest Brinkert, who was not held in great esteem by those who knew of him. Further questioning of the maid elicited the statement that her date had been named "Ernie." T h e investigators had obtained a photo of Brinkert and Violet identified him as her date of that night. She also said that they had not gone to a movie, but instead visited a roadhouse. A n alarm was sent out f o r Brinkert, and when he was located in White Plains, he denied ever having known Violet Sharpe. Brinkert was in a bad position, for now there was no way of arranging a confrontation between him and the. girl. A f t e r the session in which she had identified his picture, Violet had vowed that she would not be questioned again. She made good her vow by taking cyanide, a suicide without further words or a note. Why would she take her own life if she were not implicated? Inspector Walsh was of the opinion that she and Brinkert were involved. T h e r e had been stories of a woman holding a small baby, acting in a nervous manner, who had left a luncheonette in Newark late on the night of the crime. She had departed in a taxi of unknown origin. A d d that to other similar stories, and the theory of those who were of the opinion that it was "an inside j o b " took on more credence. Those suppositions ended when a young man visited the Alpine Barracks and told Walsh that he was "Ernie" Miller. H e had dated Violet on the night of the crime and could produce the other couple as witnesses. Further, Violet had known his name from the day they met. H e could offer no reason why she would identify Brinkert as her date, and he certainly had no opinion as to why she would commit suicide. T h e r e were opinions aplenty when this new development was revealed. T h e headline, "Punish Cops W h o Drove Morrow Maid to Suicide" was fairly typical of the reaction of the Ameri-

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can press. Members of the British Parliament demanded an investigation. It was conducted and the questions of the British Consul were satisfactorily answered. Other questioners were reminded that each time the girl was interrogated, the interview had taken place at the family residence, and a member of the family or household staff had been present, so the charge of "third degree" was patently absurd. The floodgates were open now, and Schwarzkopf was kept busy answering other criticisms. The State Police were held responsible for not apprehending the kidnapper when he received the ransom money, Schwarzkopf answered that the police were in no way involved in the transaction and had remained clear of the area so that the life of the child would not be endangered. What of their inability to find the body then? Hundreds of searchers, including troopers, city police, volunteers, fire wardens, and reporters had tramped the area for days. Errors had been made, but there had been progress, too. Troopers had located three people in the area who had described a car carrying a ladder. The driver and this car were seen in the area on two occasions before the crime. There were no other occupants but the driver. The ransom notes had been forwarded to Albert Osborne, a respected expert, for his analysis. Osborne reported that all of the notes had been written by the same person. At times, attempts at disguise appeared in the script, but the phrases, word and letter construction were of one origin. The writer was of German origin. The misspelling of the same words appeared throughout, as if the writer had consulted a foreign-language dictionary. From these conclusions, Osborne constructed two paragraphs using most of the words contained in the notes. These paragraphs were to be dictated to any suspects, and samples of these test writings analyzed by Osborne. State Police carpenters had built ladders identical to the kidnap ladder. When tested by men weighing 180 pounds, the ladders repeatedly split at the same place as the kidnap ladder. T h e assumption was then that a man weighing less than 180 pounds,

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of above average agility, possessing some knowledge of carpentry and ingenuity in design, was the ladder builder. At a conference on May 18, Schwarzkopf and his team discussed the case with agents of the Treasury and Justice Departments. The Federal men agreed that the Justice Department would co-ordinate all activity of the federal agencies and receive and forward reports between the state and Federal agencies. Copies of the first two ransom notes would be sent to police agencies, though the symbol-signature would not be included. The group knew that even the release of the wording of the two notes would result in a flood of more false information. The Justice agency printed 250,000 fliers with the serial numbers of the ransom money, and the State Police distributed them. Some of the money was now appearing and the Treasury men had traced the passers and cleared them of involvement. All agreed that the money was the main avenue of the case, and the Treasury agents had each of the bills, as it came to light, traced and examined in their laboratory. The search was for one man. His description from those who had seen him near Hopewell; from Condon who paid him the money; from the ransom notes; from the kidnap ladder; and from pure police deduction: male, German origin, 30's, 5'8"5'11", 150-175 lbs., thin face, athletic, carpenter, Bronx resident, previous criminal record, operator or owner of a dark green or blue coupé, make unknown. He would be found. It was a matter of time, money and manpower. On July 1, 1932, Colonel Schwarzkopf was forced by a reduction in the state's appropriation to curtail the size of the State Police force. Stations were closed and troopers whose enlistments were expiring were not re-enlisted. Others were placed on leave without pay. It was the first direct effect of the Depression. Ironically, the state had been saved from going into the red by the payment of over one million dollars in inheritance taxes on the estate of Dwight W. Morrow, late father-in-law of Charles A. Lindbergh.

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The investigation continued within the limits of the department's money and personnel. Schwarzkopf reached out to other agencies to assist in the routine which was followed while waiting for the one big break that could lead to a solution. The U. S. Forest Service provided assistance in the person of Arthur Koehler, an employee of the Service laboratory in Wisconsin. Koehler had earlier examined splinters from the kidnap ladder; now he took the whole ladder to seek out its secrets. Since the greater portion of the ladder was made of common southern pine, he looked for some distinguishing mark. In the top section, he found one side rail which contained four nail holes. T h e shading of the wood indicated that the piece had been used inside an enclosure, away from the weather. The nail holes showed that old-fashioned cut nails, which made a square rather than a round hole, had been used in that board. He reported to Schwarzkopf that a search of the home of any suspect might turn up the other end of that same board. Koehler learned one other important fact from the ladder. From minute markings on pieces of the side rails he determined the type of planer used, the speed at which it worked, and that at the time the board was dressed at the mill one of the planer knives did not make a full cut. He decided to write to lumber mills in the southeastern section of the country, giving them the information about the planer and asking if any of them had a similar machine. There were 1598 mills to query and it would take time. Meanwhile, Koehler and Detectives Bornmann and DeGaetano set out to locate the remaining section of the piece of lumber with the old-fashioned nails. The three moved in everwidening circles checking barns, farmhouses, haylofts, chicken coops, and other likely structures. Many a farmer was surprised to see three men clambering in and out of his outbuildings or those of his neighbor. Industrious as they were, the woodman and the two troopers could find no trace of the matching board. It was now a matter of waiting for replies from the southern mills. The replies came slowly and resulted in further correspondence or visits to those mills which might be likely prospects. The search ended at the Dorn mill in McCormick, South Caro-

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lina. Here Koehler found that if a certain pulley was used in the planer, the same marks were made on the wood as those found on the kidnap ladder. From the company records, he obtained a list of customers who received shipments in the Northeast. Accompanied by Detective Bornmann, all the purchasers were visited. Some had disposed of their shipments; some could not be accounted for at all. Twenty-five firms were visited, and where the records showed the names of purchasers, they in turn were visited. Bornmann and Koehler were on the road in New York, Connecticut, and Massachusetts. Finally they came back to New York to trace a load of lumber sent north in November 1931. T h e search brought them to the National Lumber Co. in the Bronx. Here they found more lumber with the telltale mark. Here the trail stopped. T h e yard kept no record of lumber buyers; all transactions were for cash. T h e detective and the woodman could not conceal their frustration and disappointment. Still they could feel that their long hunt had not been completely in vain. They had added another directional arrow toward the Bronx. More signs pointing to that area began to appear with regularity. Ransom money was being passed now with more frequency in the Bronx, in the surrounding area, and along the subway lines to and from the Bronx. Detectives from the State Police, New York City Police, and the Justice Department were assigned to inquire in each instance that a bill turned up. T h e press was requested to refrain from printing the information concerning the passing of the money, for with each news story, the flow stopped for several days. The newspapers cooperated and silence covered the appearance of the bills. T h e country had gone off the gold standard and now gold certificates were rarer and easier to spot. T h e bulk of the ransom money was made up of these certificates, and diligent bank tellers furnished descriptions of the depositors. All were checked; all were cleared. Then one of the bills was deposited by a store owner in the Bronx. Salvatore Levitano remembered the man because he made a small purchase and tendered a twenty dollar bill, which took all of Levitano's change. T h e annoyed grocer described

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him. It was "John." Levitano made the deposit on September 5, 1934. Teams of state and city detectives now took to the streets on foot patrol in the Bronx and Yorkville sections. Subways and major intersections and business areas were watched. More ransom money was passed in the area within the week. T h e description of the passer, "John." He was right in their midst, yet still invisible. On September 15, 1934, a customer at a service station in upper Manhattan bought five gallons of gasoline and gave the manager a ten-dollar gold certificate. Walter Lyle, the manager, commented that he did not see too many gold certificates anymore. T h e customer, speaking with an accent remarked, "I have only about a hundred left." As he drove off, Lyle remembered his company's strict policy about odd currency, so he wrote the license plate of the vehicle in the margin of the bill. Then he made up his daily bank deposit, and calling to his helper, J o h n Lyons, asked him to go to the bank. He also paid Lyons his weekly wage in cash, and the gold certificate was given to Lyons as part of his wages. As the teller at the bank completed the station's transaction, Lyons drew the gold note from his pocket and asked if the teller would change it. That was done, and the teller placed the gold certificate on the top of the bills being deposited. It would be routinely checked by the head teller, who did not get it until the next morning. Finding the serial A7397634A on the ransom money list, the teller set the bill aside and notified the Justice Department. Shortly thereafter, Special Agent Seery, Lieutenant Finn of New York City Police, and Corporal William Horn of the New Jersey State Police arrived at the bank. They cross-checked the serial number and then Horn turned the bill over. There was the license plate number, 4U-13-41 N. Y. T h e three men hurried to the service station. Lyle and Lyons described the man and the conversation. He was "John." Now Finn called the New York Motor Vehicle Bureau. T h e information was forthcoming in a few minutes: Richard Hauptmann, 1279 East 222nd Street, Bronx, New York. Early on the morning of September 19, 1934, a car was parked near that address. T h e three men seemed to be experiencing

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some motor trouble, as they stood near the raised hood and gazed at or fiddled with the engine. T h e n a man came out of the house, went to the garage, and emerged behind the wheel of a dark blue Dodge sedan, N. Y. plate 4U-13-41. As he drove past, the stopped vehicle's hood was dropped, and the occupants started off behind him. Other men had seen the hood go down, and now they casually followed the other cars. In the first car were Detective William Wallace, New York City, and Detective Sergeant J o h n Wallace and Trooper Dennis Dore o f the New Jersey State Police. T h e other two following cars contained teams of three men from the city, state, and Federal departments. As the procession continued, Bill Wallace saw that he might be blocked by a city sprinkler truck, so he accelerated up alongside the Dodge as it slowed down. Jack Wallace and Dore were out on the run; Dore to open the driver's door and Jack Wallace to j e r k open the right side door and scramble in beside the driver and order him to stop. A quick search was made for weapons and then Wallace handcuffed him as the others pulled up. Lieutenant Keaten checked the man's wallet and found a twenty-dollar gold note. T h e ransom list was checked; the bill appeared on the list. T h e long search was over. Bruno Richard Hauptmann, age 35, German, carpenter, was arrested. Taken to a quiet precinct, Hauptmann denied any knowledge o f the kidnapping. T h e denials continued through hours o f questions. It was obvious that he would make no verbal admission. T h e r e was yet another way; the handwriting test. He was informed of the purpose of the test and agreed to write. Osborne had noted that ransom notes had been written by a person who continually transposed the g and t in words such as light. T h e note writer had a curious way o f forming the x, which resembled two e's. These peculiarities had been incorporated in the two test paragraphs which were now dictated by Corporal T o m Ritchie of the State Police. Hauptmann was asked to write the paragraphs several times so that he could not completely disguise his hand. First comparisons did not require an expert opinion; the same hand had written all the ransom notes. Still,

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they were forwarded to Osborne and other experts, along with other samples of Hauptmann's writing f r o m other sources. Meanwhile, other officers and troopers were examining Hauptmann's garage. Boards were removed from over the workbench, gold certificates found, serials checked: ransom money. More boards removed; more ransom money. T h e house was searched; more ransom money. A total of $13,760 was found, all ransom money. How had he come into possession of this money? It had been left by a friend for safekeeping. What was the friend's name? Isador Fisch. Where was Fisch now? H e had gone to Germany to visit his relatives. Where could he be reached? Unfortunately, he could not be reached; he had died six months ago in Leipzig. New York held Hauptmann on an extortion charge based on possession of the ransom money. New Jersey would present evidence to a grand jury seeking a murder indictment and extradition. All this took time —time well spent —time spent in further searching the Hauptmann apartment. One of the searchers examining the door jamb of a closet found some scribbling of numbers and letters. T h e board was removed and more closely examined. It was a phone number —the phone number of Dr. John F. Condon; the phone number at his home in 1932, a number not published. T h e board was kept as evidence. T h e r e was another board, too. For Detective Lewis Bornmann, it was the board. A f t e r Hauptmann's arrest, his wife and son left the apartment and were housed in a hotel at the expense of a newspaper which published daily stories about the case. Detective Bornmann rented the vacant apartment and began a thorough search of it. T h e r e was a small trap door to the attic and he squeezed himself through the opening. T h e r e on the floor joists he found that a piece of the board was missing. At the point where the board had been cut, he found four nail holes. Old-fashioned, square-cut nail holes. Now he notified Arthur Koehler who came with the side rail, now marked as Rail #16. Together they fitted it into place and inserted four square nails; it was a perfect match!

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Photographers f r o m the State Police Bureau of Identification were called to take pictures. T h e attic and floor board were photographed from every angle. Pictures of the floor board were enlarged to show its wood grain and growth rings, its measurements and its saw cuts. It became a major part of the exhibits being prepared by the State Bureau. T h e experts of this Bureau played a large role in the trial preparations. Though the evidence was largely circumstantial, there were three hundred exhibits to back up that evidence. These eventually included pictures of the ransom notes, photographs of the ladder and wood samples, floor plans and aerial photos of the Lindbergh estate, floor plans of Hauptmann's apartment and garage, and every other relevant subject. It was a big assignment and regular working hours were forgotten during those last months prior to trial. T i m e pressed in on them now, but time had been the necessary ingredient to make a strong case: time to give the wood expert an opportunity to trace the wood used in the ladder; time to give the handwriting expert a chance to devise a simple test for suspects —and to analyze those tests; time to examine the defendant's past life from his school days to his arrest; time to examine his bank and brokerage accounts and his employment records; time to thoroughly examine the statements of witnesses; time to prepare all the evidence for the trial; time to juxtapose fact, circumstance, and theory. That theory was that the kidnapper had observed the family movements in the house at Hopewell. Hauptmann was the owner of a pair of fine binoculars suitable for such observations. Witnesses would identify him as being in the area on at least two occasions before the crime. T h e theory was that entry had been made by using a ladder to the nursery window. Soil inside the window matched the soil near the house. T h e ladder had been traced to him. T h e ladder would be "run right into him." Hauptmann had been arrested for burglary of the home of the mayor in his hometown in Germany; entry had been made by ladder. T h e theory was that one man had committed the crime. One man had written all the ransom notes. Hauptmann's writing would be shown to be the same in script and in the constant mis-

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spelling of the same words. T h e sum of money demanded was too small to pay off a gang, but sufficient for one man. One man had made the decision to take a smaller amount after Condon offered it. Hauptmann had not worked a single day since the ransom was paid, yet he had money: money to send his wife to Germany on vacation; money to take a trip to California; money to buy stocks on Wall Street; money during a time of Depression. The record showed that his financial transactions amounted to more than forty-nine thousand dollars between the date the ransom money was paid and the date of his arrest. There was the ransom money in his garage. T h e family of Isador Fisch, whom Hauptmann named as owner of that money, was prepared to testify that Fisch had died almost penniless while in Germany. There was "Jafsie" to identify him as the receiver of the money. There was a grocer, a theatre ticket seller, and a gasoline station manager to identify him as a passer of the money. T h e investigators felt that they had a good case. T h e prosecuting attorneys were of the same opinion. Fact, circumstance, and theory. T h e jury would hear the facts and circumstances and add their own theory. The trial began on January 2, 1935. T h e Hunterdon County Courthouse in Flemington became the arena. Flemington, a town of 3000, was besieged by thousands of visitors, all intent on getting into the act. T h e atmosphere was that of the Circus Maximus. T h e drama was quickly dubbed " T h e Trial of the Century." At times it seemed that the defendant was cast in a secondary role, with the main parts played by the opposing attorneys. For the defense, Edward J . Reilly of Brooklyn, a florid, expansive, larger-than-life embodiment of the Hollywood characterization of "big-city lawyer." T o counteract this impression on the country folks, he was backed by Lloyd Fisher, a Flemington lawyer. For the state, Attorney General David T . Wilentz, a jaunty figure, young, well-versed in the law. Both attorneys were eagerly sought out by the press, and both proved good copy. Reilly was one of the most successful trial lawyers in the country, but Wilentz had never tried a criminal case. T o overcome this lack of experience,

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the Attorney General was backed by the county prosecutor, Anthony Hauck, and as a special assistant, f o r m e r j u d g e George Large. These two veterans of many courtroom battles would sift the mountain of evidence available, and guide their younger colleague in the courtroom cockpit. T h e fact that they were also home-town boys would do their side no h a r m . For thirty days the scenes were played, and millions of words by telegraph and teletype detailed the action. T h e well-modulated voices of famous radio commentators added more words to complement those of the printed page. T h e trial transcript was to bulge into a million-word volume.

B r u n o Richard Lindbergh, J r .

H a u p t m a n n , convicted k i d n a p p e r of Charles A

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J ®

s s

99 ## k

H

h 2322 9 ®

SB ww EE aa aa

1." i t f V t i i C « i $ e » i U . *

1

Handwriting specimens prepared for exhibit at Hauptmann's trial. Note his signature in comparison with letters from the anonymous notes.

Words and pictures testified to the long search. Each side had its crew of experts. A r t h u r Koehler, the wood expert, offered a cram course in wood technology. Handwriting analysts, accountants, doctors, detectives and ordinary citizens spoke their pieces. Alibi witnesses appeared for the defense, and as soon as their names were known, State Police inquiries were made as to their background and reputation. Damaging reports were used to discredit their testimony. T h e j u r o r s dutifully listened, alternately interested and bored. T h e chain was f o r g e d for them. Ransom notes, ladder, sleeping suit, ransom money, brokerage accounts, and eyewitnesses. T h e n charged by the j u d g e as to their duty, the matter was placed in their hands. For eleven hours, those hands manipulated the scales. T h e result, "We, the j u r y , find the defendant

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Bruno Richard Hauptmann guilty of murder in the first degree." T h e sentence was mandatory, death in the electric chair. T h e final chapter was soon to be written, or so it seemed. T h e scholarly legal maneuvering began in the Court of Errors and Appeals. That court read the briefs, heard arguments and after some months, affirmed the conviction. T h e United States Supreme Court came to the same conclusion. Governor Harold G. Hoffman was not so ready to accept the verdict. H e had his band of sychophants who were more than eager to agree with him. While the legal debate went on, Hauptmann was still in the death house, a puppet to be jerked back and forth across the stage. T h e Governor got his headline when he announced his doubts. Further inquiry revealed that he had also visited the condemned man. Though.it was a violation of all the regulations, the warden had made the arrangements for the extraordinary nocturnal session. Now the inquiries were directed to Ellis Parker, the Burlington County chief detective.

T h e kidnap ladder is brought into the courtroom. T h r o u g h o u t the trial the c o u r t r o o m was j a m m e d with the press and spectators.

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United Press

International

L a d d e r rail # 1 3 and stock f r o m a lumber dealer near H a u p t m a n n ' s h o m e in the Bronx. T h e planer marks are identical.

Although he made it plain that he was not convinced that the case was solved, Parker disclaimed having a hand in the Governor's action. Early in the case, before Hauptmann's arrest, Parker had written to Colonel Schwarzkopf and requested that he be allowed to compare the ransom notes with some "writings" he was investigating. Schwarzkopf had given him the standard reply for similar requests. Any handwriting samples should be forwarded and the State Police expert would make the comparisons. The fact that he had not been asked to enter the investigation had ruffled Parker's feathers and this latest rebuff made him even more bitter. His talent for political revenge now made his present motives suspect. The suggestions of others that the Governor was openly displaying his ambition for higher political office made Hoffman the object of cynical speculation. T o "assist" the State Police in their new investigation, the Governor gave a press statement outlining his theories about the case. One of his major contentions was that there was a "frame-up" and the police were eager for Hauptmann's death, so that the case could be marked closed. Somehow, the Governor

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apparently overlooked the number of people who would necessarily be involved in such collusion. T h e total force of investigators used by the Federal agencies, New York City, and New Jersey State Police approached 600, a rather large group to engage in a conspiracy. In his position that the evidence against Hauptmann was framed, the Governor neglected to mention that most of the evidence was obtained before the arrest. Colonel Schwarzkopf was certainly in no position to turn down an order for a new investigation, so he again inquired of

Arthur Koehler, wood technologist, compares the ladder with floor board from Hauptmann's attic.

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the New York City Police and the Federal agencies as to any new evidence they might have. Polite and formal replies were received that indicated the case was closed to their satisfaction, and the New Jersey State Police would have to handle this new phase on their own. While continuing his persistent inquiries as to the status of the State Police investigation, Governor Hoffman quietly enlisted the services of a private investigator, Robert Hicks, to make a separate investigation. Ellis Parker also got into the act, by announcing that he was checking on some "clues" he had turned up. Both of these investigations brought results, although not of the kind intended by the Governor. Hicks, the private detective, hired assistants to approach some of the witnesses in an effort to get new stories. Several contacts were made with Corporal Frank Kelly, the fingerprint man, during which he was made vague promises in the name of the Governor, if he would change his testimony. Kelly, who was also an amateur radio operator, arranged another meeting in his small radio room at his rooming house. Using his microphone, he rigged a receiver to the basement where the conversation was monitored and a transcript made. The gist of this transcript was conveyed to the Governor in a formal report that Kelly was not the only person approached in these attempts at subornation. The private detective also brought a wood expert from Washington to examine the floor in Hauptmann's attic, and on the basis of that examination, reported that the attic floor board had been tampered with by the police. There followed an extraordinary meeting in that attic. Present were the Governor, his private detectives, the Attorney General, Arthur Koehler, and Detective Bornmann, who had removed the floor board from the attic. All gathered around as the board was laid in place and the four cut nails were inserted in the holes. The trial testimony was that the nails were flush with the floor and at the same angle. Now the nails protruded above the floor. Governor Hoffman demanded an immediate explanation from Bornmann and hotly accused him of tampering with the board to make it

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conform to the state's theory. Bornmann's reply that he had removed the board in the presence of two New York police carpenters was angrily brushed aside. T h e proposal was made that the boards be checked in a laboratory. A carpenter was found and several pieces of the floor were removed, and with the evidential pieces of wood were taken to nearby Columbia University. Koehler and Arch Loney, the defense wood expert, carefully sawed the wood through the nail holes. At the bottom of each hole, they found a small wood plug, which they removed. T h e board was fitted together, and the Governor invited to insert the cut nails. Without the plugs, they fitted perfectly. Indeed, someone had been tampering with the attic flooring, but it obviously was not the state witnesses. There was still the investigation of "clues" by Ellis Parker. Governor Hoffman referred to this phase in a reference that he and Parker "agreed on theory." Parker added a bizarre twist and more sensational publicity. Two days before the scheduled date for Hauptmann's execution, a disbarred lawyer, Paul Wendel, was jailed after "confessing" to Ellis Parker that he had kidnapped the Lindbergh baby. This arrest caused a furor, with Parker remaining enigmatic and the Governor denying any foreknowledge of this development. When the news was released, Wilentz, Schwarzkopf, and Lieutenant Keaten hurried to the jail to interview Wendel. It did not take them long to determine that the confession was a hoax. In fact, Wendel told a fantastic tale of having been kidnapped and held prisoner in a house in Brooklyn until he did confess. Taken from there to Parker's home, he was persuaded to commit himself to a state institution for mental defectives. Visited there by Parker and Ellis Parker, Jr., he finally gave a long statement about his alleged role in the case. He now recanted the whole thing and stated that while he was a prisoner in Brooklyn he was beaten and chained until he gave his original confession. T h e story he told did not jibe with the known facts of the Lindbergh kidnapping and was obviously false. As for his story of being kidnapped, he remembered the street where he had been held captive. While impris-

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oned in the basement, he had managed to scratch his initials on the floor joists. It did not take the New York City police too long to locate the house, and the initials were found which proved that Wendel was there. It did not take them much longer to arrest the men who had held him captive. Meanwhile, the Mercer County grand jury had heard from Ellis Parker and his son. The story of Wendel's "confession" resulted in no action by the jury. There had been no formal charge for the jury to consider, so they could not indict, nor could they declare no bill of indictment. Wendel was released from jail, and there the matter stood. Meanwhile, time had run out for Bruno Richard Hauptmann. On April 3, 1936, the sentence of death was carried out. It had been four years and one month since the disappearance of the baby. There is more to the story. Shortly after Hauptmann's death, a Brooklyn grand jury indicted Ellis Parker and Ellis Parker, J r . for their part in the kidnapping of Paul Wendel. Four others were indicted with them. The state of New York moved for the extradition of the Parkers to stand trial. Their good friend Governor Hoffman refused to honor the request. Justice was only temporarily stayed, for the following year found them on trial in the Federal Court in Newark. The charges: conspiracy under the Federal kidnap law. Both were convicted and sentenced to prison, where the elder Parker died; his ambition to head the State Police had died at his own hand. Another's ambition had seemingly died also. Harold Hoffman's political star faded because of his role in the affair. The national convention of his party would pass his name over as anathema. He did not surrender, however, without one final gesture. Predictably, it was a political gesture. On June 30, 1936, Colonel H. Norman Schwarzkopf completed his third five-year term as Superintendent. He had served under five Governors of both political parties. The incumbent of that office, Governor Hoffman, did not reappoint him and for the first time political alliance became a consideration for appointment to the post.

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Schwarzkopf followed the rules even to his last day. He turned in his uniforms and equipment to the supply sergeant, received a receipt that they were in good order, and departed. In later years, he would return and fate would bring Hoffman and Schwarzkopf together in another encounter, with a dramatic reversal of roles. An era had ended, but the State Police would go on as a firmly established entity.

7

Tragedy, Tribulation, and War The tragedy of the Lindbergh case dominated the last years of Schwarzkopf's term, but tragedy made more personal contact with the troopers. Eleven men had died, up to this time, as the result of motorcycle or automobile accidents while on routine duty. Three had been murdered, and Trooper Johnny Divers suffered the strange fate of death from blood poisoning after being bitten by a prisoner arrested on a minor matter. Trooper Warren Yenser's death in a brutal murder further emphasized the danger in routine matters. Yenser and Trooper John Matey were at the scene of a minor motor vehicle accident in the early morning hours of November 9, 1935. It had been a quiet patrol for them, with a traffic summons issued, and now came this accident on Route 25 in North Brunswick. No one was injured and they had summoned a tow truck to remove the vehicles. A speeding car passed them as they stood on the roadside, but as they motioned it to slow down, the driver increased his speed and continued on. Leaping into the troop car, they sped off in pursuit. They soon lost sight, gave up the chase, and turned around. Now going south, the same car passed them on the other side of the road going north. Once again, they gave

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chase. After a short time, they pulled up and Yenser blew his whistle to signal the driver to stop. The other car slowed down and turned to the side of the highway, with the troop car pulling in behind. Suddenly the vehicle sped off again, the troopers once more in pursuit. Now the speeds neared eighty miles per hour and again the troopers pulled alongside. As Yenser put his whistle to his lips, a shotgun blast came from the other car and struck him full in the face, driving him back across the seat. The car again increased its speed, as Matey continued the chase, while firing several shots. As the patrol car came into the outskirts of Elizabeth, Matey stopped at a diner to ask directions to the nearest hospital. One patron volunteered to ride with him, and as they left Matey gave a quick description of the car to the counterman and asked him to relay the information to the Elizabeth police. T h e n he sped to the hospital, where Yenser was pronounced dead on arrival. Headquarters was now notified, and Matey went to the Elizabeth Police headquarters, where the suspected vehicle had been towed. An Elizabeth patrol had located the car and pursued it until the occupants jumped out and fled in separate directions through back yards and alleys. The area was now being thoroughly searched. T h e search was without result, but an alert patrolman spotted a suspicious looking man on the platform of the railroad station at 7:15 A.M. and took him into custody. The prisoner, identified as Edward Metelski, remained silent when questioned. Investigation soon verified that Metelski and another man, Albert Morton, had pulled a holdup in Philadelphia about two hours before Matey and Yenser came upon them. A shotgun had been used, and the victim identified both robbers from police photos. Albert Morton evaded arrest and prosecution by committing suicide in a rooming house in Philadelphia two days after the Yenser murder. The case against Metelski was based on his fingerprints on a bottle of liquor found in the abandoned car. The liquor was traced to the scene of the Philadelphia holdup, and the victim made another identification of Metelski. Now he was charged

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with Yenser's murder and committed to Middlesex County Jail while the state police detectives gathered more evidence. On December 14, 1935, he escaped from the jail, but was captured four days later. On January 8, 1936, he was convicted of first degree murder and sentenced to the electric chair. A f t e r appeals to the Supreme Court and Court of Pardons, the sentence was carried out on August 4, 1936. T h e original crime of holdup and robbery had yielded eighty-seven dollars and two bottles of whiskey at the cost of three lives. It was to be ten years before another trooper would make the extreme sacrifice, but all of them lived with the thought. It was part of the routine of the life, but there was never a dearth of applicants to become part of the routine. T h e men of Schwarzkopf's time had created their own legend, and now they waited for a new leader to continue the tradition. Governor Hoffman surprised his critics and the men in the Department by appointing an Acting Deputy Superintendent. None was more surprised than the man chosen, Captain William Carter. On June 7, 1936, the T r o o p A Commander was installed in the Superintendent's office. Sitting in the next office was the Acting Deputy Superintendent's first problem, Deputy Superintendent Charles Schoeffel. T h e Acting Deputy Superintendent and the incumbent Deputy were good friends, so both understood the reasons when Carter asked for Schoeffel's resignation. Schoeffel refused, to no one's surprise, and continued to appear at his desk for duty. T h e impasse was finally ended by placing Schoeffel on leave of absence. N o w that Carter had handled that unpleasant job, with some strong coaching f r o m the sidelines, he was returned to his troop in South Jersey, and the new Superintendent assumed command. H e was no stranger to the place. Colonel Mark O. Kimberling was the first Deputy appointed by Colonel Schwarzkopf and he had served in the position until his resignation on June 30, 1929. As Principal Keeper of the State Prison, his name was much in the news in the final stage of the Lindbergh case. H e was a good friend and political ally of Governor Hoffman. H e took command on June 17, 1936,

Colonel Mark O. Kimberling

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and within one month returned Major Schoeffel to his j o b as Deputy Superintendent. With the cutback in personnel because of the Depression, many of the men still in the ranks were veterans of the Department during Kimberling's earlier service. There were other personnel changes as the new Superintendent took firm command. Captain J o h n Lamb was transferred from command of the Detective Bureau and Lieutenant Arthur Keaten of the same Bureau was demoted to sergeant and transferred. That these two men had headed the Lindbergh investigation made the changes worthy of note, although all participants declined public comment. After that brief flurry, the Department settled down to continued service. That service was interrupted for Trooper William "Scotty" Turnbull on November 11, 1936, when he found himself in the unaccustomed role of victim of a crime. That was not routine, and his kidnapping was surely to be classified as extraordinary. It started routinely enough, as most things go. Turnbull had just left the office of the local justice of the peace in Bound Brook and was riding along Route 29 when he saw a vehicle headed west at excessive speed. He turned around and followed for about four miles, overtook the car and signaled the driver to stop. T h e driver ignored his signal and continued on for two more miles before stopping. Turnbull pulled up behind and walked up to the offending car. T h e driver got out to meet him, but before any words were spoken, the trooper felt a pressure on his back, and his revolver being removed from its holster. As he half turned to observe that he was now the target of his own and another revolver, he was confronted by another weapon held by the driver. Turnbull was ordered to remove his cap, blouse, and gun belt, which were placed on the front seat of the troop car. Still at gunpoint, he was directed to the rear seat of the Michiganregistered car, where he was guarded by the doubly armed gunman. T h e driver resumed his seat next to a woman passenger, started the car and the group continued west, across the Delaware River into Pennsylvania. During this trip, there was a

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lively discussion concerning the disposition of the prisoner at some convenient place. Finally, when they reached the area of Flint Hill, near Bethlehem, the car was stopped and the g u n m e n led their prisoner into the woods. Here, while binding his hands and feet with adhesive tape, they continued the discussion of his life or death and finally decided to leave him alive and bound to a tree. After emptying his pockets and removing $17.00 f r o m his wallet, they drove off and left him. T u r n b u l l finally managed to f r e e himself and made his way to a telephone to call the Bethlehem police. A search was quickly organized and teletype alarms sent t h r o u g h o u t the area. A check of the Michigan car registration came back as a fictitious name and address. Now T u r n b u l l began the tedious task of looking at rogues' gallery pictures. His powers of observation served him well, for he soon identified the two men as Harry Brunette and Merle Vandenbush, both known bank robbers, and both the subject of wanted alarms t h r o u g h o u t the East. Teletype alarms and press releases identified the wanted men and a d d e d this crime to their record. T h e first information came when the kidnap car was f o u n d in a Philadelphia repair shop. Repair slips f o u n d in the car were traced to an address at 2754 Broadway, New York City, a rooming house. A check of the residents showed that Arline LaBeau of that address had recently married a "Robert Lake." T h e newlyweds appeared to be Harry Brunette and the unknown girl of the kidnap ride. T r o o p e r s and FBI agents located an apartment house where the honeymooners were believed to be living. Watches were placed there and at the rooming house. It was now one m o n t h f r o m the day of the kidnapping and the watchers felt that all three fugitives would eventually t u r n u p together at one of the addresses. T h e patient waiting came to an end on December 15, 1936, when the watchers at Brunette's address looked on in amazement as several cars zoomed u p to the f r o n t of the building at 1:15 A.M., and agents of the FBI s u r r o u n d e d the place. T h e troopers dashed out to find out what the Federal men were u p to, and were i n f o r m e d that the Brunette apartment was to be

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raided at once. T h e watchers tried to dissuade the raiders by advancing their theory that Vandenbush was bound to put in an appearance and the whole trio could be arrested. T h e raiders were not to be dissuaded and were advised that they were under the direct orders of J . Edgar Hoover to make the raid. T o emphasize their point, they indicated that Hoover was with the raiding party. T h e discussion soon ended, for the commotion made by the arrival of the raiders had certainly forewarned every one in the neighborhood, so the troopers became reluctant participants. T h e Federal men formally announced their presence to Brunette, who responded with several shots. T h e rain of bullets in answer started a fire in the besieged building, and the fire department arrived to add to the commotion. T h e blaze was extinguished, the girl was brought out, and Brunette surrendered soon after. Several months later it was learned that Vandenbush had turned the corner while the shooting was going on and had remained in the background, an interested spectator. In March of 1937, Vandenbush was arrested for another bank robbery in New York, and when questioned by New Jersey troopers, admitted his part in the kidnapping. Trooper Turnbull's service revolver was found in the bank robber's possession at the time of his arrest. He admitted that he had filed the State Police emblem off the gun after test firing it along the highway, and he added his recommendation to his captors that it was "a good, straight shooting gun." Brunette received a life sentence; Vandenbush got forty years for his latest bank robbery and Brunette's wife was sent to the New Jersey Women's Reformatory for a short term. "Scotty" Turnbull continued his "routine" life as a trooper until his retirement. Turnbull had participated in a "first" as a solo performer, but in 1937 the Department became involved in other "firsts." Almost twenty years after the debate about the use of State Police in labor disputes, the Department responded to an order from Governor Hoffman to enforce an injunction of the Chan-

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eery Court against picketing and violence at the Thermoid Rubber plant near Trenton. Hoffman advised the Superintendent that the local police and sheriff were unable to enforce the court order and directed that troopers be sent to the scene. On April 29, thirty-two troopers arrived on the street near the plant and advised the pickets that they were there to prevent violence. The union leaders protested bitterly to the Governor, but the violence ceased. This duty ended on May 6 and the troopers resumed their regular duties. The routine was interrupted again that very evening by calls for their services at a tragic disaster. At 7:30 P.M. on May 6, the silvery shape of the German airship Hindenburg hovered over the field at the Naval Air Station in Lakehurst. She was at the end of her long voyage over the sea, and after being delayed by local thunderstorms now began her approach to the mooring mast. Always an object of interest, the ship was being observed by naval officers, reporters, and relatives and friends of the passengers. Among the observers was Detective Hugo Stockburger. He and a New York City detective, both fluent in the German language, were on the scene to observe the debarking passengers. They were interested in the activities of the German nationalist organizations with camps in North Jersey and were on the alert for anyone of the passengers and crew who might be connected with these organizations. Outside the main station entrance, Trooper Frank Boyer stood by on his cycle to assist with any problems resulting from the increased traffic. The ground crews began to retrieve the trailing lines and move the ship toward the mast, when there was the sound of an explosion and the rear of the airship burst into flames. The hydrogen-filled cylinder was quickly enveloped and then began an agonizingly slow descent to the ground. As quickly as the ground crew scurried to safety, they and the spectators rushed back to the craft as it settled on the surface. Trooper Boyer cranked u p his cycle and sped to a telephone to spread the word and then returned to join the marines at the entrance to clear

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Wide World

Photo

T h e G e r m a n zeppelin Hindenburg bursting into flames at Lakehurst, May 6, 1937. T r o o p e r s were on the scene in minutes after the flash fire, as were h u n d r e d s of curious citizens. T h e troopers' biggest problem was keeping the crowd at a safe distance.

the roads as the morbidly curious began to arrive. More troopers arrived as word of the disaster was sent over commercial radio and appeals were made for medical personnel. More than forty troopers moved out in an ever-increasing radius until none but emergency vehicles were on the roads near the scene. This free access offered precious minutes to those being taken to nearby hospitals and for some made the difference between life or

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death. After those first hours, the detail spent more time stemming the tide of gawkers, gazers, and self-appointed investigators until curiosity finally waned and the area settled back to ordinary rural life. Other men from the Department remained for a longer period to assist the various investigating authorities at the scene. Once more, in June 1937, the troopers were called to strike duty. In response to an order from Governor Hoffman, they were directed to enforce the order of the Chancery Court directed to persons involved in a strike at the Little Falls Laundry Company. Seventy-three men served there at various times over a sixteen-day period. Their presence was praised by labor and management alike and there were no incidents. It had taken fifteen years and actual strike duty to finally disprove the dire predictions of the anti-State Police soothsayers. There would be labor violence throughout the country for the next few years, but New Jersey would not feel the agonies of many of the other states, and troopers were not needed in any other labor disputes. The epithet "strikebreaker" could no longer be used. One of the chief critics of the past had a few more words at a public ceremony. Governor Hoffman, in one of his last official acts, distributed the $25,000 reward offered for a solution to the Lindbergh case. As he apportioned the money among some one hundred persons, he took the occasion to reiterate his contention that the case was still not solved. The ambiguity of his paying the reward while maintaining that the case was still open was probably better understood with his announcement that he intended to write a series of magazine articles about his role in the case. It was 1938 and the Department was slowly returning to its authorized strength as the legislature appropriated more funds. In response to the growing problem of traffic, a Traffic Bureau was instituted at headquarters. There were a million cars registered in the state and the increase in transient vehicles emphasized the true extent of the problem. Somewhat prophetically, Kimberling stated that auto traffic "limits are beyond conception"

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and he asked for an increase in personnel to meet requests for more state road patrols. The Detective Bureau was restructured so that the detectives were assigned directly to some of the barracks to handle the increased criminal work. More men were assigned to detective work, bringing specialization to the field. What might have been a classic detective case was assigned to Trooper Frank Boyer on J u n e 9, 1938. At 4:50 P.M. he was dispatched to Zaperts' road stand near Toms River to investigate a report that a woman had been shot. The victim had already left in the ambulance when he arrived, but her neighbor related the tale of finding her in the attic, suffereing from gunshot wounds. Boyer hurried to the hospital, fearful that the victim might die before she could offer a clue to her assailant. Finding her in a conscious state, and being advised that she was near death from seven bullet wounds, he began to take a "dying declaration," with several hospital people as witnesses. To the surprise of all, the woman gave a statement that she had shot herself with the intent of suicide. Unbelieving, Boyer took her carefully through her story of the day, which began when she arose in the morning, shot herself four times in the left chest, and lay down to die. After several hours of waiting, she went to the attic and shot herself three more times. These last shots were heard by the neighbor who called the ambulance and the State Police. The unfortunate woman lived for fifteen more hours before that elusive death finally came. No evidence could be found to disprove her claim, and the official report of death as suicide ended the strange episode. In J u n e 1939, the Department was assigned to its first real security detail, when the King and Queen of England passed through New Jersey on a state visit. Motor escorts were provided by troopers and right-of-way security was coordinated along the railroad route as their majesties progressed through the "Colonies." In appreciation, Colonel Kimberling later received an autographed photograph of the distinguished visitors, and then was placed in a ticklish position when the King enclosed a check for one hundred dollars. One does not refuse a sovereign, so the

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dilemma was solved by a temporary waiver of the rule concerning accepting gratuities, and the money was deposited in the various "Good and Welfare" funds in the troops. The security exercise had involved over four thousand police, National Guard and Army personnel and was a valuable warm-up for the protective duty which was increasing as the nation anxiously watched the European continent come closer to armed conflict. Governor A. Harry Moore, back in office for another term, asked the legislature to appropriate funds for fifty more troopers to investigate "fifth column" threats in the state. The threat from subversive groups was on the mind of everyone, who watched the posturing of the Brown Shirts and the Bundists. The Ger-

T h e i r majesties, King George V and Q u e e n Elizabeth, at Red Bank in J u n e 1939. This was the first important security detail assigned to the troopers, and they were a u g m e n t e d by the National G u a r d a n d Army personnel.

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man-American B u n d met regularly at C a m p N o r d l u n d near A n d o v e r in the hills of N o r t h Jersey. T h e meetings were watched by almost as many police agencies as the n u m b e r o f Bundists attending. T r o o p e r s at the nearby barracks busied themselves with the recording o f license plate numbers, while the Federal watchers f o u n d it more r e w a r d i n g to climb trees or lie in the woods to observe t h r o u g h field glasses. Detective H u g o Stockburger, w h o at times could look more Prussian than some o f the Bundists, was in and out o f the meetings or enjoying a f e w glasses of Bavarian beer with the members, while keeping his ears o p e n f o r more ambitious plans not discussed at the meetings. W h e t h e r or not the B u n d was a real threat, the residents of the area kept a wary eye on them. A f t e r all, it was less than one year since O r s o n Welles had f r i g h t e n e d N e w Jerseyans and the nation with his radio show based on H. G. Wells's The War of the Worlds. T h e imaginative Mr. Welles updated the story into the f o r m of a continuous series of "news bulletins" which described the landing of Martians in the farmlands of central New Jersey. T h e occupants of the h u g e metal space ships, vividly described in the best science fiction terminology, p r o c e e d e d to defeat the N e w Jersey militia and started off f o r N e w Y o r k City to subdue the u n f o r t u n a t e inhabitants. U n d e r s c o r i n g the A m e r i c a n propensity f o r believing everything in the way of "news," no matter how preposterous, the phones b e g a n to ring in police stations and radio stations t h r o u g h o u t the country. N e w Jersey State Police received their share of the calls, but could not convince some of the callers that the state was in g o o d hands. T r o o p e r s on road patrol near the outskirts of Princeton faced a f u r t h e r hazard t h r o u g h the night as some people b r o u g h t out old blunderbusses and a wide assortment o f shotguns, pitchforks, and other weapons and stationed themselves at strategic crossroads where the Martians might be expected to pass. T h e bright light o f day dispelled the threat, but the incident showed that even the most garbled account was believed and a d d e d to the hysteria.

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There was more hysteria when a tremendous explosion at the Hercules Powder Company in Kenvil in September 1940 caused the deaths of twenty-seven workers. The ammunition plant's close proximity to the camp of the Bund led to wild rumors of sabotage. Troopers and Federal investigators could find no evidence to substantiate the rumors, and the case was classified as an industrial accident. Rumors persisted until the Bund camp was finally closed as the United States began making ready for defense. As the nation shifted toward military matters, the State Police were affected and involved. In September 1940, the 44th Division, New Jersey National Guard, was federalized and sent to Fort Dix for training. Captain Russell Snook, a member of that Division, was granted leave of absence to report for duty. He was one of the first troopers to go into the service, joining thousands of others in field maneuvers. This sudden influx of soldiers caused a burgeoning of businesses near Fort Dix to cater to the temporary residents. Restaurants and taverns appeared overnight. Gamblers and prostitutes installed themselves in more secluded surroundings. T o keep a general eye on things, the legislature gave hurried approval to an appropriation to establish a new State Police station near the fort. Thirteen troopers were assigned and it quickly became one of the more interesting and lively duty assignments, especially on the soldiers' payday. T h e Department as a whole began to compile information on available emergency facilities and supplies for the state Civil Defense Council. T h e years of watching and recording the activities of subversive elements resulted in increasing inquiries from the various Federal and military intelligence agencies. More and more of the detectives' time was claimed for these investigations. There were also those citizens who could see a saboteur behind every tree and a subversive in every foreignsounding surname, and the checking of these reports became a daily chore. T h e pervading feeling that a national emergency was imminent was an important factor in the acquisition of equipment that had been requested over a decade. Unbelievable as it seems,

Wreckage following an explosion at the Hercules Powder Co. in Kenvil, September 1940. Suspicion was cast on the German-American Bund, but no evidence was f o u n d to justify it.

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the Department had no two-way radio system for its patrol cars. T h e cars used the various county systems in their patrol areas, and in those places where there was no county system, still relied on telephone messages. Finally, in 1941, funds were appropriated f o r a state-wide radio network. A f t e r all the years, the idea was still beyond realization, for the scramble for priority to fill military needs further delayed the installation of the troopers' own communication system. T h e new state administration under Governor Charles Edison began to expand the provisions for civil defense. T h e Governor, a former Undersecretary of the Navy, appointed a state coordinator of defense. His choice f o r the j o b was Brigadier General Richard Williams, U. S. Marine Corps. T h e Governor also planned to make Colonel Kimberling the assistant co-ordinator. T h e n the Governor announced his intention to define the line of authority more clearly by appointing General Williams to the post of Superintendent of State Police. That announcement brought a quick response from the lawmakers, who passed a bill to extend Kimberling's term. T h e bill was just as promptly vetoed, and a compromise bill passed extending Colonel Kimberling's term for one hundred days, so that he would qualify f o r pension rights. Once again in an awkward situation was Major Charles Schoeffel, the Deputy Superintendent, who must have viewed the proceedings with a feeling of "This is where I came in." Governor Edison relented on his plans for the Marine general, and on June 19, 1941, the nomination of Charles Schoeffel to the office of Superintendent was approved. On September 22, 1941, after twenty years of service, eleven years as the second in command, Colonel Schoeffel became the third Superintendent. One of his first acts was to journey to Washington and personally fight f o r priority to purchase a two-way radio system. His tenacity paid off and he returned with the necessary approval. Just in time, too, for within three months the country was at war, and the deluge of special requests would not allow Colonel Schoeffel the luxury of leaving his office f o r any great length of time.

Colonel Charles H. Schoeffel

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It soon became apparent that there was a need for men to devote full time to civil defense activities and Colonel Schoeffel asked for more money and men to take on this job, and the investigations of persons for military appointments, defense plant work, and other sensitive areas. Funds were voted to expand the ranks, and in 1942 one hundred men were added to the force. There were to be no more recruit classes until the end of the war, and the last two classes would soon lose one third of their number to the military along with more of the veteran troopers. There were no replacements to fill the gaps in the line, and there were still more odd jobs to be done. T h e early war years found the Department engaged in surveys of defense plants, transportation facilities, water supplies, etc. Until the formation of the State Guard, many troopers stood in lonely vigil at bridges or other places considered to have strategic value. Others were detailed to pinpoint every geographical, man-made, or other physical feature which in any way could be connected with the war effort. These features were shown on a huge map at headquarters, and this map was constantly in the process of updating by Civil Defense cartographers. Although the department soon became a clearing house for all kinds of information, and many men were kept busy answering these inquiries, there was still the regular job of being a police force. That job was carried on with a shortage of personnel, gasoline, and tires. The rationing of gasoline was one of the minor harassments of the home front, and there were those who overcame the problem by obtaining extra gasoline ration books. The possession of these books was fairly common, and on February 12, 1943, Corporal Fred Atkinson arrested a driver for a motor vehicle violation, and finding extra ration books in the car, decided to take him to the office of Recorder J. C. Haines near Bordentown. Troopers Les Johnson and Joe Lyons were at that office when Atkinson arrived with Alfred Long, the prisoner. Their casual observation came to a halt when Long snatched Atkinson's service revolver from the holster and began shooting. Lyons and the Recorder dropped with wounds, as Johnson dove under

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the desk and drew his own weapon. In a moment he had returned the fire and Alfred Long lay dead. T h e sudden violent reaction of Long was without reason, or if there was a reason, its telling died with Long. A series of crimes without apparent reason finally ended with the personal satisfaction of a solution for a whole team of detectives who had labored for six years seeking the answer. T h e so-called "Duck Island murders" had become an obsession for troopers and detectives of the Hamilton Township police. Many hours and many miles had been covered since November 8, 1938, when a man and woman parked their car in a secluded spot at Duck Island, near Trenton, a favorite trysting place, known to lovers and voyeurs. T h e couple's date was abruptly halted when a man pulled open the driver's door and demanded money. Before the man in the car could move, the assailant shot him at close range with a shotgun. T h e terrified girl j u m p e d out of the car and ran. She had gone but a short distance when she was struck in the back with another blast from the shotgun. She died within twenty-four hours, but she managed to give a meager description of the murderer. Two twelve-gauge shells were found at the scene, and a palm print on the car did not match the print of either victim. Not much to start with, so the investigation followed the routine —interviews, legwork, and guesswork. On September 30, one year later, another couple parked near the same place were found murdered in the same manner. There was no description of the killer. One shell was found at the scene, and marks on the brass indicated that it came from the shotgun used in the earlier murders. No fingerprints were found, but in this case, both victims had been robbed. Circulars describing the watches and jewelry were sent out, but there was no significant progress. T h e following year, two attempts at robbery and shooting with a shotgun were reported in towns across the river in Pennsylvania. T h e description matched that given by the first murder victim.

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Within a month of those attempts, another couple was found shot to death, by shotgun, while parked in a lovers' lane near the place of the earlier murders on Duck Island. N o shells were found, but a fingerprint was found on the car, and a passerby reported a suspicious-looking man in the vicinity before the time of the crime. T h e description matched that of the murderer in the first case. T h e male victim's watch was missing and the details were circularized to jewelers and pawnshops. It was now two years since the first murders, and the other crimes had resulted in a deluge of tips, clues, and casual information which the investigators doggedly checked. Their perseverance was not rewarded, although their search and queries covered the eastern seaboard. T h e country was now at war and some of the casual suspects left the area for the service. Several of the investigators followed the same path, but the cases were kept active and all hunches and ideas were given full consideration. On March 7, 1942, a soldier parked with his girl friend on a lonely lane in Tullytown, Pennsylvania, were approached by a man demanding money. T h e soldier resisted and was shot in the left arm and side with a shotgun. His companion scrambled out of the car to escape. T h e man pursued her and struck her over the head with the stock of the shotgun. T h e soldier had survived the shooting and now started the car and made an attempt to run the shooter down. T h e attacker ran off into the woods, as the soldier picked up the girl and went for medical aid. Both gave descriptions which matched that of the earlier incidents. A fingerprint was also found on the door of the car. O f prime interest was the finding of the broken shotgun forearm at the scene. T h e number A-639 was found on the broken piece, and it was traced as the first three serial numbers of a single-barrel H & R shotgun. Here was some tangible evidence at last and it gave new hope and energy to the New Jersey investigators. Inquiries to the manufacturer of the gun were without results, so the detectives again resorted to the routine checking of other angles. They had spent many hours in pawnshops

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looking for the missing jewelry of the victims, and now they began the tedious search for any record of pawn on a singlebarrel H & R shotgun. Even with the search narrowed, it was a long hunt, until there was a record of the weapon being pawned. It had been turned in to a shop near Trenton, three years before the first murder. There was the name and address of the owner, but the ticket had not been redeemed. T h e pawnbroker's books showed that the gun had been sold "at auction." N o record of the buyer existed; none was kept on auction buyers. T h e lead of so much promise now seemed worthless, until one of the detectives recalled that articles in pawn were to be held for a maximum time, and then by law were to be sold at auction. It was common practice to use the notation "at auction" in the record to cover violations of the law, and the pawnbroker admitted that the gun might have been redeemed. Now the detectives hurriedly began to check on the original pawner. More searching showed that he had pawned many other guns and other items during the lean Depression years. H e was located and questioned, although to the detective's dismay, he did not match the description of the wanted man. H e remembered the shotgun; it was the only single barrel he had ever owned, and he was not too fond of it. H e had never intended to redeem it. About a year after he had pawned the gun, he had given the ticket to a fellow working with him on a W P A project, although he told him that it was past the redemption date. What did his fellow worker look like? H e described him —the man in the first murder and the man who had dropped the forearm of the shotgun in the latest attempt. Could he remember his name? Part of i t - " H i l l . " T h e Hill family was known to the Hamilton Township police. Most of them had worked for the W P A in those years. Which one matched the description? Clarence Hill, who was in the Army and had been stationed in Pennsylvania during the time of the three attempted murders there. Now he had been sent to an embarkation port in the Carolinas. Arrangements were made with the Army, and the detectives and the shotgun owner

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drove down to have a look at him. In a lineup of soldiers, he picked himself out by speaking to the shotgun owner. When questioned he told of taking the pawn ticket but then claimed to have given it to another man. That man was questioned and denied any knowledge of the gun or ticket. Clarence Hill was clearly evading the truth, and the matter was discussed with the Army. Shortly thereafter, Clarence Hill was transferred to Fort Dix, New Jersey. Again questioned and confronted with the discrepancies in his story, he finally admitted that he had redeemed the shotgun and used it to commit the six murders and the three attempted murders. He had gunned down the men almost as soon as he asked them for money, and confessed that he was more interested in sexually abusing the women, and as an afterthought, robbed them of their valuables. His matter-of-fact manner made him a candidate for a complete mental examination, but he was eventually placed on trial for the murder of the first female victim. The jury spent five hours in deliberation and returned a verdict of guilty, with a recommendation against the death sentence. The luck which had let him roam freely for six years after his first execution saved him from the same fate. The investigators were commended for their work in that case and in others. There were commendations for other endeavors, too. Some served to emphasize the closeness of the "Outfit," as in this letter from Colonel Schoeffel to one of the men in July 1944: My dear Trooper Shaheen: May I convey to you and Mrs. Shaheen my pleasure at hearing you are parents of a baby girl . . . .

This closeness served to make a hard job easier for the undermanned troopers of those years. Saddled as they were with calls for services not of a police nature, the Superintendent took every opportunity to remind them and the public that they were still police officers. One of the major reminders was activity against gambling, which was big business during the war years.

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Those large paychecks for overtime defense work often found their way directly to the gamblers. In 1944, the Superintendent got his men firmly established in the gambling raid business. Fifty men, with a deputy attorney general, made a series of raids in Hudson County. Five large wire rooms were raided, and sixty-three gamblers, customers, and onlookers found themselves in the county jail. T h e eager raiders seized hundreds of telephones, some with New York City exchange numbers. One of the rooms featured a switchboard capable of taking eighty incoming calls. T h e phones, switchboard and other gambling equipment were loaded into two large vans and hauled away. In one of the rooms, the raiders found a suit owned by a local politico. That he was not exactly destitute, the searchers confirmed when they counted the sum of $17,500 of walking-around money in the pocket. T h e raid stunned the local inhabitants and the local politicians were infuriated. Bad enough that troopers were sent to watch the voting, but the descent of fifty troopers commanded by an attorney general of the opposite political party, seemed to be somewhat cavalier. For the troopers, it was the first of many trips to those same environs on the same business. Though the big gambling raids were the beginning of a new assignment for the troopers, the death of one of their men reminded them of the dangers of the ordinary routine. Sergeant Cornelius O'Donnell and Trooper Frank C. Perry knew quite a few people around Warren County and had information on those they might not know. Ernest Rittenhouse was one who had crossed their path earlier, when he had escaped from a mental institution and hidden out at the home of his parents. They had found him then and returned him to custody. Now on July 15, 1945, they were looking for him again. Things were more serious this time; Rittenhouse had quarreled with his wife at their home in Orange, and fled after striking her in the head with an axe. His three young children had called their grandparents and told of the quarrel and the injury to their mother. Rittenhouse was gone before the arrival of the ambulance and

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police, and the wife died soon after. T h e troopers moved quickly to find the husband in his old haunts. Questioning of residents near the Rittenhouse f a r m turned u p several who had seen him, and they led the troopers to his hiding place. H e was f o u n d soon enough, but across the river in Pennsylvania where the troopers could not arrest him. T o f u r t h e r complicate matters, a severe storm in the valley had damaged the phone lines on both sides of the river, so there was no way to call Pennsylvania police. Rittenhouse agreed to go back to New Jersey and the whole party set out walking across the railroad bridge to the waiting patrol car on the Jersey side. O'Donnell led the entourage, followed by Rittenhouse, with Perry and the several local residents bringing u p the rear. As they came to the midpoint, the m u r d e r e r made for the railing to j u m p into the river. O'Donnell turned and wrapped his arms a r o u n d him and they wrestled briefly. Rittenhouse managed to pull the revolver f r o m the sergeant's holster and fired two bullets into O'Donnell's stomach. H e whirled and then shot Perry in the chest. T r o o p e r Perry fired back as the m u r d e r e r went over the rail and started swimming toward the Pennsylvania shore. T h e onlookers dashed across the bridge to the troop car and used the radio to notify the State Police barracks. Ambulances and troopers hurried to the bridge and the two wounded men were sped to the hospital. Perry i n f o r m e d them that he thought he had wounded the fleeing man. Six hours after the death of O'Donnell, the searchers f o u n d the m u r d e r e r in an abandoned shack along the river. He was incoherent and suffering f r o m gunshot wounds in the face. Quickly arrested, treated, and then confined to the W a r r e n County jail, he sat while the authorities debated which m u r d e r he would be tried for. T h e matter was settled when the prosecutors decided that the strongest case would be made for the trooper's murder, because of all the witnesses available. T h e witnesses proved unnecessary when Rittenhouse's attorney entered a plea of guilty, and the murderer received a life sentence. O'Donnell's death brought attention to the fact that the State

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Police were still performing their regular job, despite their involvement in other things. World War II was ending, and the other responsibilities would gradually be passed on to other agencies. The troopers could look back to some strange assignments during those years. They had been involved with checking fuel oil supplies and co-ordinating reports from the cities, so that no hardships were suffered by the civilian population. T o balance that job, they were also set to checking coal yards and dealers, in anticipation of a coal shortage. T h e military authorities used the troopers' rural experience to check on farmers using German and Italian prisoners of war who were found trustworthy enough to be put to work on the farms of the state. T h e sight of a trooper in uniform at odd hours of the day was usually enough of a reminder to most of the prisoners. Motorists on the highways did not see as many troopers on patrol, for the highway patrols were generally busy with military and truck traffic. Some motorists found themselves receiving "Victory Speed Violation" warnings, which were to remind them that they were wasting valuable gasoline. Copies of these warnings were forwarded to the Office of Price Administration, the famous OPA, where they were submerged in that bureaucracy's vast sea of paper. A vicious hurricane in September 1944 reminded all that nature was still the most potent of enemies, and troopers along the Jersey coast were kept busy in rescue work. Where there were no communications, the troopers' radio provided the means for emergency calls for medical supplies and other aid. All these jobs were successfully handled, though the Department had by this time lost more men to the military service and the personnel shortage was painful. They could look back on that as plans were started for the return and retraining of the experienced men, and the recruitment and training of new men. T h e returning troopers found that they had received a raise while they were gone. Colonel Schoeffel had asked for more money to counteract the loss of men to higher paying jobs

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in the defense industry, and the extra money helped convince the returning veterans that the Department wanted them back in the ranks. To fill the other vacancies, the Training School made ready for the first peacetime class. T h e recruits looked around on their arrival. Here they were, back in tents, and those instructors sounded suspiciously like those in basic training. There was one difference here; you could leave this camp if you weren't happy with the accommodations, and they were reminded of that choice frequently. Twenty-nine of them stuck it out for four months and were graduated in the 32nd Class at the end of the summer of 1946, to join the ranks and fill the gaps. Off they went on their cycles or in their Fords. The cars even had roll-up windows, an unheard of luxury in the "old days." They would hear about the old days and the old troopers, and then they would be assimilated, learn through experience, and they, too, could tell the newer recruits about the new "old days." Trooper George Kell added a personal fillip of excitement to that first peacetime year. On August 1, Kell was making a routine check of vehicles on Route 29 in Somerset County. Kell had learned the routine four years before as a recruit before going into the Army, and now back with the State Police less than a year, he was performing the ordinary business of the cycle trooper. It turned out to be somewhat more than an ordinary day. After checking several other cars, Kell stopped a Tenneseeregistered car. August Doak, the driver was honeymooning with Constance Doak, his bride of just one day. Doak, a believer in free enterprise, was financing the honeymoon with the proceeds of his calling, the art of holdup and robbery. His bride, though only sixteen years old, was no blushing violet. The newlyweds met while the bride was confined to a home for incorrigibles in Nashville, where Doak was working at a short stint of honest employment as a handyman. He was also lying low from a prison escape in Michigan. Trooper Kell, however, was unaware of the interesting background of the two, and when Doak showed his

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driver license, he informed Kell that the registration papers were in the car trunk. Kell instructed him to pull off the pavement and open the trunk, and as he stepped back, Doak jammed on the gas pedal and sped away. Kell raced over to his machine, kicked the starter and headed off in pursuit, as the fleeing car made a sudden turn off the main road. As the trooper wheeled along to overtake the auto, Doak slammed on his brakes and forced Kell to put on his brakes and swerve to avoid a collision. T h e motorcycle skidded, upset and Kell fell hard on the pavement. Before he could make a move, Doak covered him with a pistol and ordered him into the car. Taking Kell's service revolver, Doak gave it to his wife with orders to use it if necessary. T h e car started up and after an aimless trip came back toward Flemington. Kell told his captor that he thought he had broken an arm in the spill f r o m the cycle, and Doak stopped the car to have his wife take a look at the arm. Here was Kell's chance. Quickly, he kicked out at Doak and caught him in the groin. As Doak went down, Kell dove into a field and ran into a nearby woods. T h r e e shots fired by Doak missed their target. T h e trooper came to a farmhouse and asked for a shotgun, shells, and the telephone. T h e r e was no phone at the farm, so a neighbor hurried Kell to a nearby service station where he called the Flemington barracks. Troopers were already en route to the scene, f o r two women had seen Kell's predicament when he was first made a prisoner and had phoned in the information. Roadblocks were set up as the alarm was transmitted. Doak sped through one roadblock and slammed on the brakes beyond it, leaped out of the car and ran into the thick underbrush, as the troopers there grabbed the wife and relayed this new development. More pursuers hurried to the scene with bloodhounds, floodlights, and a sound truck. Doak managed to evade this posse and made his way to a nearby railroad. As he hurried along the tracks, T r o o p e r Lou Masin stepped out of the shadows of the small railroad station near Hopewell and ordered him to stop and spreadeagle on the road. Disarmed and handcuffed, he was hustled off to jail. Within a short time, he entered a plea

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of guilty to the kidnap charge and was sentenced to a life term in State Prison. G e o r g e Kell, who was later to c o m m a n d the Narcotics B u r e a u , and then could empathize with some of the heartstopping encounters common to that line of work, had unwillingly been a more than ordinary participant in the events of that significant year. It was the twenty-fifth anniversary of the State Police. T h e State Police had come a long way. T h e horses were gone, and with them went some of the old ideas and techniques. T h e training reflected the changes. T h e r e were still those arduous hours of physical drills, but the recruits now learned of the m o d e r n devices in the laboratory, of the p r o p e r psychological

August Doak, kidnapper of Trooper George Kell, in custody. Kell's damaged motorcycle is at right.

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approach, of attitudes and public relations. It was a time of inner change, yet some of the old remained. T h e traditional emphasis on the "Outfit" was still evident. Colonel Schoeffel had been there when the first tents were erected for the very first State Police class. He had seen the changes come. After leading the Department through the hardships imposed by the war, he would now oversee the updating by science, machines, and by young men with new ideas gained from broad experience throughout the world. On the last day of the twenty-fifth year, he was appointed to another term as Superintendent.

8

Murderers, Gamblers, and Disasters The bookmakers and the troopers had made each other's acquaintance during the war years in a continuing series of gambling raids. Face-to-face recognition was useful as the state authorized the establishment of legalized parimutuel betting at new horse-race tracks. Detectives of the Department were sent to the tracks to keep an eye on the gambling fraternity, who saw the tracks as both a threat and a boon to their services. The horseplayers flocked to the new tracks to get a little more action for their money. After years of skulking in and out of dingy back rooms, here was the chance to bet the fillies right out in the open, and watch the colorful panorama of the racecourse instead of the drone of the horseroom announcer and the view of the blackboard. Some of the players exhibited a singular determination to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine while adding to the improvement of the breed. An attestor to that fact could be found in the person of Trooper Leroy Umholtz, who while on cycle patrol near the Atlantic City Race Course, pursued a speeding vehicle headed toward the track, pulled alongside and motioned the driver over. As he dismounted, one of the passengers burst out

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of the car and began to run full tilt across the nearby field. His first thought that here was some guilty fellow fleeing capture caused the trooper to shout a command to halt. T h e mystery was cleared when the man whirled and displayed a fistful of dollar bills, and shouted in near panic, "I've got to make the daily double." With a wave of his hand, the trooper sent him on his way toward the "pot of gold." Other troopers assigned to traffic posts near the tracks soon learned that the average driver en route to the track could on occasion display the ability of the best of the Indianapolis race drivers, while the losers on the return trip desultorily moved over the same route, beaten again. Troopers still perform the same duty at the tracks, and the horseplayers still exhibit the same qualities. T h e racetrack assignment was the beginning of another new detail which required the services of personnel at a fixed time and place. Requests were made for more men to handle these extra jobs, but until the requests were granted, it was the same story of stretching the hours and manpower to keep up the regular work, especially in the rural areas. T h e regular rural patrol could turn up some interesting cases, and the Keyport barracks found their attention focused on a "trunk murder." Bethany Road in Hazlet was a typical thoroughfare in the Monmouth County farmlands. On April 19, 1947, during the dark hours before midnight, Dominick Allocco looked out the window of his farmhouse at several cars parked near his front lawn. H e ventured out to see what interested the drivers, and there saw a wardrobe trunk near the gravel shoulder. One of the motorists told him that the police were on the way, and Allocco opened the trunk to see what might be of interest to the police. H e quickly closed the lid and stepped back, resolved to let the troopers pursue the matter. On the arrival of the first troopers, their headlights and flashlights illuminated the trunk and its contents. Unceremoniously stuffed inside, with knees bent to fit, was the body of a

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nude woman, with a dog leash wrapped tightly around her neck. A search of the immediate area revealed no tire tracks, no vehicles, no clues. T h e few residents of the area had heard and seen nothing. There were no identifying marks on the trunk; it was similar to thousands of its type. The coroner's report was anticlimactic; the victim had been strangled. A search of the trunk had turned up two shoulder straps from a nightgown, which indicated that the gown had been ripped from the body before the trunk was closed. The lack of any signs of violence showed that there had been no resistance to the killer. The victim had been asleep or knew the murderer and could not resist until it was too late. Detective Nick DeGaetano arranged for dental charts and photographs for a circular. The flyer went to 3400 dentists, and brought some possible identifications. The photograph, which also was sent to the newspapers, produced hundreds of possibilities. A tentative identification was made and it began to look as if the search could be narrowed, when the "victim" telephoned the classic phrase that she was "alive and well." Meanwhile, the trunk and dog leash had been traced to their manufacturers, but the shipping records of each only further emphasized the massive search that lead would require. The trunk revealed one further bit of information. A portion of a shipping label remained on the lid, and this had been photographed and enlarged until several letters were discernible. Along with the many tips generated by the newspaper picture, one came from a union official who thought the victim resembled the wife of a casual acquaintance. He had met the couple in a tavern near Plainfield, and when the labor man again ran across the husband in the tavern after the murder, he inquired as to the wife's whereabouts. The husband told him that she was visiting relatives in Chicago. Several weeks passed, and the two men met again at the tavern. The husband said that his wife was still away, and the labor man decided to report his suspicions to the Keyport troopers. The woman's son was located and when shown the photo agreed that it did look like his mother, but she was in Chicago visiting relatives. A phone call to the rela-

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tives was made and the troopers were told that the expected visitor had never arrived. Shortly thereafter, the husband was met as he stepped off his commuter train. Shown the picture of the victim, and the trunk label bearing the first letters of the family surname, he quickly confessed that he had strangled his wife after a violent argument, kept the body in the trunk for a day, and then drove around aimlessly in the countryside before stopping and unloading it. A sympathetic jury found him guilty of manslaughter and he served a term in State Prison. Another case of pent-up frustrations producing classic reactions was handled by the Malaga station in 1950. Trooper Donald Smalley took a phone call about 8:55 P.M. on November 17. The man on the other end was excitedly screaming, "Send troopers, there's going to be some shooting." Before he could question the man, the phone was dropped by the party calling, and Smalley could hear screaming and the sounds of shots. Another phone call came in, this time from a woman, who screamed that there was shooting going on at "Mike Mazzoli's in Piney Hollow —send troopers —plenty of them." Troopers George Yeager and Herbert Kolodner were dispatched at once. Meanwhile, the telephone operator gave further aid by furnishing the address. Yeager and Kolodner arrived at the Mazzoli house and were confronted with the results of a furious rage —three persons dead and three more wounded. One of the wounded, Theresa Ingenito, told them that her estranged husband had shot them all and raced off in his car. Description of the car was given to the barracks for transmission over the teletype network. Before Trooper Smalley could send this information, he received another call that there was a shooting at the Mazzoli home in the nearby town of Minitola. After making certain that he was not getting another report about the same crime, Smalley requested the nearby Mays Landing station to check that home. Urgent radio and teletype alarms were now broadcast throughout South Jersey for the apprehension of Ernest Ingenito. Though it appeared to be a vendetta against the one family, extreme caution was the order to any patrol coming upon the suspect.

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Troopers Leonard Cunningham and Raymond Vorberg had been at the scene of the first shootings and were now patrolling the roads in the area. Cunningham was driving and Vorberg sat next to him, a .45 calibre submachine gun carried across his lap. On one of the back roads they spotted the wanted car going in the opposite direction at moderate speed. Carefully reversing direction, they closed the distance slowly as the other car increased its speed. As they came up from the rear, the suspect's car slowed down. A short blast of the police whistle brought it to a halt, and the troopers leaped out and raced up to the driver as he emerged with his hands waist high and quickly stated, "I'm the man you're looking for. I did it." As Vorberg covered him with the submachine gun, the man was searched by Cunningham. From a holster on the waist came a 9 mm. Luger automatic. From a coat pocket came a .32 calibre revolver. Now the car was searched and yielded a Mauser automatic pistol and a U. S. Army carbine. Handcuffed and arrested, Ingenito would say no more than "I did it; why don't you shoot me?" Subsequent questioning by detectives, the prosecutor, and eventually by psychiatrists elicited a tale of a man tormented by his own inadequacies, harassed by his employers and his inlaws, who attempted to break up his marriage and employed him in conditions of semi vassalage. There was finally a separation, and his attempts to visit his children were the occasion for further harassment. Ingenito went to the home of his wife's parents and pleaded with her to allow him more time to visit the children. As his father-in-law attempted to intervene, Ingenito shot him. There was no turning back now, so he shot his wife. The mother-in-law ran from the house to get help from other relatives in the Pioppi home across the road. John Pioppi rushed from his house and was gunned down in the front yard. The murderer continued into the other house until he found his mother-in-law, who was the next victim. Her mother, an uncle and a cousin, aged 8, were also in that house. All were shot. His rage unspent, Ingenito went to the home of another branch of the Mazzoli family and shot the two adults. Then he rode aimlessly until he was arrested.

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During the rambling telling of his story, one more of the victims succumbed. T h e final toll was five deaths and four survivors. T h e trial for the death of the mother-in-law, Pearl Mazzoli, resulted in conviction with a recommendation for life sentence. Three short months after that night of horror, Ernest Ingenito entered State Prison. Five years later, he briefly appeared in court again, withdrew "not guilty" pleas to the other four charges of murder, and was sentenced to life on each count. From the violent world of murder to the sometimes solemn deliberations of a Constitutional Convention, there would be a need for troopers. T h e Constitutional Convention of 1947 brought many changes to the state government, and the State Police found themselves involved in one of the major changes. On the recommendation of the Convention, Governor Alfred Driscoll planned to consolidate ninety-six bureaus into fifteen major departments. Gone was the Department of State Police, which was made a Division of the new Department of Law and Public Safety headed by the Attorney General. On September 1, 1948, legislation was passed creating the new department. Colonel Schoeffel continued as the Superintendent of State Police and there were no major internal changes. Along with the new Department came a new Attorney General, Theodore Parsons. He replaced Walter Van Riper, who reported at the end of his term that he had used the State Police in more than two hundred gambling raids in his last two years in office. T h e raids had been made throughout the state and were a continuing part of the State Police detective duties. Hugo Stockburger, now a lieutenant detective, compiled the information on the people involved in these raids and other illegal activities, and made this information available to the investigators employed by a special committee headed by the senator from Tennessee. It was the prelude to the year of Kefauver, and the famous hearings which turned the spotlight on organized crime in the nation and the state. It had been three years since the state legalized parimutuel betting at its racetracks. That move had satisfied the horse-

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players, but the high rollers wanted more action and there were people ready to supply it. There were still some wire rooms and the ever-present floating crap game, but the real gamblers wanted a permanent location; nothing fancy, but permanent. To satisfy this need, a group of entrepreneurs built a simple building on the outskirts of the town of Maple Shade. It was situated away from any main road, surrounded by foliage, and to a casual observer it might appear to be some sort of warehouse. At nighttime, though, the warehouse was the focal point for many cars and many people. The few windows were high enough from ground level so that the activities within were hidden from view. There were those who conjectured as to the purpose of all the traffic. Their theories eventually reached the ears of Colonel Schoeffel, who found them more plausible when a former customer of the place detailed the extent of the activity. Captain "Buster" Keaten was ordered to have a further look and make ready a raiding party. Keaten found that the easiest angle was to take a plane ride over the place and photograph the layout. Plans were made and at 12:50 A.M., July 28, 1949, the raiders rode in and quickly surrounded the place. Lookouts in the parking lot were disarmed and arrested as the main party headed for the entrance. Here they were confronted with a heavy steel door complete with peephole. As they pounded on the door and demanded admittance, they could see tables being overturned and the crowd milling about looking for a safe exit. Sledgehammer blows on the door did not move it, so two detectives were boosted through a high window in a rest room. As one of these men rushed to open the main door from the inside, the other loudly advised the occupants that they were under arrest. T h e rest of the troopers poured in and soon the players were lined up about the place. As these were being identified, more gamblers arrived at the main door and were politely ushered in to join the others. A search of the premises turned up four revolvers and a carbine. A search of the occupants and an office desk turned up $40,000 in cash. A head count of those arrested

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came to 187, who were transported to the nearby justice for arraignment. T h e players were released in low bail, while the owners were assessed $5,000 bail. T h e j u d g e sat at his desk and the accused piled the bail money in f r o n t of him, but as the a m o u n t grew, he produced a large sack to hold the money, while a trooper stood close at hand. Most of those arrested were Philadelphians, who had escaped the heat of the city and enjoyed the New Jersey countryside f o r but a brief moment. At the other end of the state, in a more cosmopolitan atmosphere, things were better organized. Bergen County, just across the George Washington Bridge f r o m New York City, was typical of the contrasts of New Jersey geography. From the majestic Palisades along the river, with their high-rise apartments comm a n d i n g a breath-taking view for breath-taking rentals, the traveler venturing inland would find small New Englandish towns complete with village greens and white-fronted clapboard houses. Those small towners were unaware of a thriving unadvertised service which operated close to the New York side of the county. T h e business day usually began about 9 P.M. , with commuters f r o m the city arriving in chauffeured automobiles at plush gambling casinos. After dropping off their passengers, the paid drivers discreetly dispersed and parked t h r o u g h o u t the immediate area. T h e passengers, though ostensibly invited to be customers, were routinely frisked at the door. T h e owners took pains to prevent any attempt at holdup, not so much f o r the money loss as to prevent the accompanying publicity which would reveal their presence. Once inside, the customers were comfortably provided for, even to the extent that fresh milk was handy for the occasional ulcer-ridden crapshooters. It was a well-managed setup, with locations in old mansions, warehouses, and factories. O n e place, known as "the carriage factory," was actually that d u r i n g daylight hours. All the locations showed the influence that is evident when there is money around, especially enormous amounts of money. T h e owners had originally set u p in Bergen County when New York City put the heat on them u n d e r the guidance of the re-

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form mayor, Fiorello H. LaGuardia. In 1950, they would feel the heat again, with revelations before the Kefauver Committee. A more direct application of heat came when the Attorney General appointed Deputy Attorney General Nelson Stamler as a special investigator of conditions in Bergen County. Troopers were assigned to assist him in his investigations. Their first raid in Teaneck led to the seizure of $127,000 and was hailed as an auspicious beginning. More raids followed and more troopers were assigned. Governor Driscoll ordered an increase in personnel to meet increased demands on the Division, not only in the rackets investigations, but for traffic duty and to offset the loss of men to military service. With this call for more men for more jobs, Colonel Schoeffel found himself with the problem of finding manpower in competition with the armed services who were engaged in Korea. T h e need for more men for rackets probes was underscored by the untimely death of one Willie Moretti on October 4, 1951. Moretti met his demise in Joe's Restaurant in Cliffside Park at the unlikely hour of 11:30 A.M. He had been talking and joking with four other men at a table in the cafe, when someone in the group shot him in the face and head with a revolver. His executioners fled the scene without a trace, except for two fedora hats left behind at the table. Willie allegedly had been talking to various crime probers about bribery and the payers and payees of sums of money. He had always had a reputation as a "big-mouth" and lover of the high life and was considered by investigators as a good target as an information source. Some of his associates apparently decided that he was too good, so they made him a target: period. His death brought a team of state investigators into action and added impetus to the drive against the gambling interests. Moretti's murder remains unsolved; but it did force the undercover operators to seek refuge across the bridge in New York. Casinos closed; phones were disconnected; relocations were sought. The state probe continued for three years. It ended in controversy, with the politicians hurling charges in legislative inquiries, and the troopers involved finding

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themselves in the familiar role of "man-in-the-middle." They could find some satisfaction in the fact that they had removed some fancy people from circulation, names like Joe Adonis, Frank Erickson, and Sol Moretti, all men of stature in the hierarchy of the metropolitan area syndicate. They could also find satisfaction in the findings of one legislative committee, who after extensive hearings, recognized the need for expansion of the role of the State Police in similar probes. They were already in the picture throughout the state, with one notable raid being made on the Western Union office in Bridgeton, with an indictment against the manager and the company for engaging in "unlawful pursuits" while transmitting racing results by wire. Governor Driscoll had earlier defined the mission when he spoke to a graduating class of recruits at the Academy and advised them they had joined "a task force to rid the state of the gangster and hoodjum." He continually asked the legislature for more money to hire more troopers to add to that assignment. "Organized crime" was not yet the catchword, but the problem was finally recognized and money and men were finally being provided to deal with it. Those early years of the 50's also demonstrated the ability of the State Police to deal with the sudden and unexpected. Such a moment came on May 19, 1950, in South Amboy. It was a pleasant spring evening and most residents of the little city were settled down to reading the afternoon paper or were tuning in the television. It was still a little cool for sitting on the front porch, so, as many another resident, Kate Coakley was in her favorite chair near the bay window observing the comings and goings in the neighborhood. At 7:25 P.M., the quiet ended with a loud "Crack!" coming from the area near Raritan Bay. Simultaneously, the sky lit up as if by a lightning flash, and the shock wave quickly following tore at the buildings and homes, shattering windows, breaking doors and walls, and driving some of the citizens out into the street in speechless panic. As a young woman some thirty years before, Kate Coakley had gone through the same kind of experience when the Gillespie Load-

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ing Company blew up, and she had not forgotten the sound of an ammunition explosion. For that was what it was. In one instant, at the Pennsylvania Railroad docks, three barges being loaded with 600 tons of ammunition had exploded and vanished, along with all the stevedores aboard. Black m u d f r o m the enormous crater blasted in the sludge on the bay bottom now began to fall u p o n the lower end of town, and a sudden rainstorm made the black deposits cling to everything. Emergency vehicles f r o m s u r r o u n d i n g towns arrived within minutes. They were followed by the inevitable throngs of the curious, whose cars clogged the roads in and a r o u n d the town. T r o o p e r s responded quickly to the call for help, and details of men began to arrive at the local police station. They were sent to guard the two banks, where the doors had been blown off and the walls bore the pockmarks of what appeared to be the work of machine guns. As the banks were secured, other troopers were detailed to guard the business district f r o m looters, with special emphasis on taverns and liquor stores. T h e details were extended until all the roads on the perimeter of the town were closed except to emergency vehicles. T h e rain continued to fall in the darkness, made even darker by the lack of electricity, and the town looked like the scene of a bombing attack. At 11:00 P.M., Governor Driscoll declared martial law and the Army sent 500 troops to patrol the streets. As daylight came, Detective J o h n Genz began his inquiry. Coast Guard and other Federal agencies also undertook investigations. Genz and Division identification personnel assumed the almost impossible task of identifying the dead. It took some days before they could be satisfied that they had successfully completed the job. As the town r e t u r n e d to almost normal status, the soldiers were the first to leave, and the troopers were slowly phased out next. As the guardians departed, the investigators arrived. Unfortunately, those who might truly know the cause of the accident were not available in this life, so it remained a mystery. T h e explosion victims had provided the area hospitals and the troopers with a practical exercise in disaster response. It

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was a timely lesson, a n d they w e r e to be called o n f o r a r e p e a t p e r f o r m a n c e s o m e m o n t h s later. O n the pitch-black, moonless n i g h t o f F e b r u a r y 6, 1 9 5 1 , the Pennsylvania R a i l r o a d c o m m u t e r train, The Broker, d e p a r t e d H u d s o n T e r m i n a l in Jersey City, m a d e a stop at N e w a r k , a n d then c o n t i n u e d its swift j o u r n e y t o w a r d Perth A m b o y , its n e x t s c h e d u l e d stop. T r a i n m e n o f a n o t h e r railroad c o m p a n y w e r e o n strike, so this train was a b n o r m a l l y c r o w d e d , with standees in the aisles a n d o n the e n d p l a t f o r m s o f the coaches. A s part o f the c o n s t r u c t i o n p r o g r a m f o r the N e w Jersey T u r n p i k e , a new railroad trestle was b e i n g e r e c t e d o v e r the s u p e r h i g h w a y in W o o d b r i d g e . Earlier o n that day, a t e m p o r a r y trestle a n d section o f track h a d b e e n o p e n e d f o r s o u t h b o u n d trains. The Broker s p e d a l o n g t h r o u g h the night, a n d e n t e r e d the t e m p o r a r y section with a lurch. T h e l o c o m o t i v e a n d first five

The Broker. T h e torn rail and damaged trestle barely hold the cars from crashing into the street.

Woodbridge News Tribune

Rescue teams work their way t h r o u g h the wreckage —and the crowd — as firemen and first aid squads assist the police in probing for survivors a n d bodies.

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cars had crossed the trestle, when one of the following coaches began to whiplash, causing the engine and first cars to run off the roadbed, overturn, and tumble down a twenty-six-foot embankment. There was a moment of shocked silence. Then the screams of the injured and dying, punctuated by the high-pitched hissing of the steam engine, alerted the surrounding area. As they threw open their doors to take in those who could walk, they also rushed out to aid those who were trapped. Urgent calls were sent for all ambulances in the area. Hospitals were put on the alert. Commercial radio quickly relayed requests for acetylene torches and experienced operators. Many of the passengers wandered away from the scene in shock, causing much anxiety until they found other means of transportation to their homes. Ambulances lined up in a double column in the narrow streets to receive the more than 300 injured. Hearses lined up in the same manner to receive the eighty-four dead. Hampering the movement of everyone again were scores of sightseers and morbidly curious. Troopers and National Guard were sent to the town to assist the harried local police in clearing the disaster area. Finally, the crowds were dispersed and floodlights lit the scene, as the volunteers worked through the night to remove those trapped, some still alive through the long ordeal. Other troopers had the unhappy task of conducting relatives through the temporary morgue to identify victims. In many cases, the personal belongings were not with the bodies, and the natural reluctance of the living to accept the finality of death led to emotion-laden moments of uncertainty. Troopers and Guardsmen remained at the scene for several days, to preserve the area for the many investigators, and to forestall the forays of ghoulish souvenir hunters. Within a year, other troopers were sent to the scenes of three airplane crashes occurring with tragic coincidence in the city of Elizabeth. These crashes resulted in the temporary closing of Newark Airport which for a time relieved some of the anxieties of the nearby communities.

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As the old airport stood idle, its new neighbor, the New Jersey Turnpike, bustled with life. Opened to traffic in November 1951, the number of vehicles on the road far exceeded the original predictions. T h e first users of the Turnpike had shown a characteristic enthusiasm for the absence of cross streets and traffic lights, and speedway-style driving resulted in some spectacular crashes. T h e small detachment o f troopers assigned to the road patrol were hard pressed, and more men were requested by the Turnpike Authority. Ironically, some of the Authority members had urged the creation of a special police force for the new toll road, and the promises of patronage appointments to the force had been made, when Governor Driscoll suggested that the State Police be assigned to the job. Since he had appointed the Authority members in the first place, his suggestions carried the force of directives. T h e soundness o f his idea was now proved, when more troopers were simply transferred to the Turnpike Detachment, without the delay that would have occurred in recruiting and training other officers to meet the emergency traffic situation. Aggressive patrols by the added men brought the situation under control, although the problem of the spectacular accident remained, as it does still. T h e problems of that patrol force can be best recognized when the predictions of the traffiic experts are recalled. Their estimate that the north portion of the roadway would be widened to eight traffic lanes in 1975, was shown to be somewhat modest in 1970, when the north portion of the road opened its twelve lanes to traffic. T o handle all this traffic, the Turnpike T r o o p D has steadily increased its personnel. New equipment, procedures, and special techniques have been pioneered on this highway, but good old-fashioned police work continues. Just the routine checking of hitchhikers has led to the arrest of murderers, burglars, rapists, escapees, and other assorted criminals. Stolen cars and cigarette and whiskey smugglers have been apprehended by the score. Along with the criminals and motor vehicle violators, the troopers on this highway can testify to personal encounters with all the foibles of human nature. They have been cursed and

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praised by the widest assortment of human beings operating the widest variety of motor vehicles whose mechanical condition cast as much doubt on the travelers' chances of reaching their intended destination as the doubts of the success of the many expeditions to Mount Everest. No less dangerous has been the penchant of the operators of these vehicles to abandon them, often in the traffic lanes, while they wandered off in search of assistance. Along with these antics, the Turnpike's geographical location assures the frequent occurrence of fogs whose density would make London tremble. T h e combination of these factors makes for interesting duty which appeals to many of the troopers who remain in that troop for years, and start off each tour with the question, "What the hell is going to happen out there today?" There was a man in Division Headquarters who had been asking the same question for thirty years. Colonel Charles Schoeffel was in his last year of service as a trooper. As he rode his motorcycle out of the Sea Girt camp in December 1921, neither he nor any of his companions could have foreseen the coming of superhighways such as the Turnpike. His classmates departing for a three-day horseback ride over unpaved roads never envisioned the idea of a radio system for autos to keep all of them in touch. Colonel Schoeffel sat in his office in a new administration building at Headquarters, a far cry from the office on the second floor of the old Headquarters, with a dentist's office below. Across the road was a special building to house the State Bureau of Identification with its many facilities. Troopers no longer had to improvise as did Gus Albrecht with his own makeshift ballistics tests. There was modern laboratory equipment and specialists trained to use it. T h e Colonel could gaze up the road to a new Academy building, where hippology and the diseases of the horse had been replaced by courses in driving skill and practical instruction in the fundamentals of auto mechanics. T h e young soldier of the 76th Field Artillery was the last of the wartime group of Marshall, Kondrup, Schoeffel, and

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Schwarzkopf, who had started together in the State Police. Sixteen men of that first class continued to retirement, to look back at the legend. T h e small force had grown beyond their dreams. On April 1, 1952, Colonel Charles H. Schoeffel retired. His replacement in the top job had served as his Executive Officer. T h e new Superintendent's seniority came as a member of the second State Police class. Russell Asher Snook was born in the small town of Woodsville in the rolling hills of Hunterdon County. In 1920 he left the farmland behind and enlisted in the Navy. After serving for two years, he was discharged with the rating of pharmacist's mate. Three months later, he came to the State Police Academy. After graduation, he was assigned as medical trooper at headquarters. Here he did almost the same duty as in his naval service. After several months he went out to T r o o p A until the next year when he was promoted to medical sergeant. At the end of his first enlistment, he left the Department to engage in a business venture. He had been bitten by the "bug," however, and returned to the State Police in July 1925. T h e official establishment of the State Bureau of Identification came on July 1, 1930, and as a lieutenant he was assigned as its first supervisor. That Bureau was to prove its worth in the services it provided for the municipal police departments of the state. Its biggest individual job, however, was for the State Police, when the preparation of all exhibits and photos for the Hauptmann trial became the Bureau's special assignment. Over three hundred exhibits were made for use in the courtroom. Hundreds of reports were summarized and consolidated for use of the prosecuting attorneys. Outside laboratories were consulted and used. Outside experts were solicited for their opinions. All this was done under the pressure of time between arrest and trial, compressing years of experience into months. Captain Snook continued in the Bureau until September 1940, when the former Navy pharmacist's mate was called to active duty with the National Guard 44th Division with the rank of major. He went overseas to serve in Europe, ending his ac-

Colonel Russell A. Snook

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tive service with Allied Military Government in Austria. Now holding the rank of lieutenant-colonel, he was released from active duty and returned to the State Police in 1946. In April 1947, the position of executive officer was created, and Major Snook was appointed to the post, where his experience in Army staff work was put to use in the organization of a similar staff in the State Police. As executive officer, he was privy to all of the decisions and operations of the Division. As supervisor of the Identification Bureau, he had made acquaintances in all the police departments of the state and he used these friendships when he became Superintendent; first to encourage greater use of the technical services offered by the laboratories, and second, to encourage the local departments to send their men to the municipal training classes. These classes had been revived by Colonel Schoeffel, and were conducted on a fulltime basis at the Sea Girt training camp. As yet, there was no law making police training mandatory, so the police chiefs' associations were enlisted as sponsors for the New Jersey Police Academy, which was staffed by troopers. The cost was minimal, with the major portion of cost per student included in the State Police budget. This training continues at the same bargain prices, and length of the waiting list is its best recommendation. One of Colonel Snook's first assignments was to select detectives to assist the newly formed Law Enforcement Council. This body of five citizens, appointed by the Governor, was charged by the legislature with investigating the effectiveness of law enforcement at all levels in the state. They were a controversial group even before formally organizing, and the fact that they were given funds which limited them to a one-year life was far from a display of confidence. Nevertheless, they needed people to do the legwork, so the State Police filled the need. T h e detectives found themselves investigating crime and cops; and on occasion, other investigators and their investigations. T h e public hearings of the Council caused predictable reactions. Their supporters praised the revelations of wrongdoing; their detractors dismissed the proceedings as politically inspired. Enough

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interest was generated in the work of the Council so that its life was extended for two years. The final report covered familiar ground. Law enforcement, politicians, money, and shady characters were often intertwined. Only the public could improve the situation and their mood vacillated between apathy and the crusader's zeal. In among the serious discussions of law enforcement, there were little vignettes which told the story in truer terms. T h e Council had found that one police department had its headquarters in the back room of a tavern. There was no sign indicating the use of the premises for law enforcement purposes; the owner was fearful that it would discourage business. The department, which was mercifully not named in the report, consisted of a chief and two patrolmen. They kept no records and no files. The patrolmen had missed duty for about three months each, due to accidents with the single patrol car. During their absence, the chief carried on alone. To assist him in filling the gap, it was customary for the bartender to answer the police phone. If the bartender was busy with his ministrations, a helpful customer near that end of the bar would step into headquarters and handle the situation. Despite the impromptu conversations that almost certainly resulted from that arrangement, the local citizens apparently enjoyed the conviviality. As under the previous Superintendent, the troopers found themselves directing more effort against gambling. T h e shadowy world of "organized crime" began to take shape. The gamblers proved a hardy lot. They had survived special Federal and state probes. The attacks on their empire were piecemeal, limited by money and men. Occasionally, though, they were badly wounded. In Paterson, the prosecutor and troopers raided the biggest crap game in the county. Fifty-one arrests were made and the $ 11,000 pot was seized right off the table. Left behind were the many boxes of dusty candy that had served as window dressing for the phony candy shop out front. In 1953, most of the prosecutors had to admit that they were not making much progress, even with the manpower of the State Police. They

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strongly recommended the legalization of wiretaps as the strongest weapon, although legislation for that purpose had been recently defeated. T h e existence of organized crime was a fact to be dealt with. Intelligence files which had been started in the late '40's indicated that the bootleg gangs of Prohibition were the founders of the new enterprises. The "gang-watchers" at Division Headquarters noticed a trend of the ex-bootleggers to begin to deal in another commodity, narcotics. T o keep a special eye on this new business, a narcotics squad was formed. After training by the Treasury Department Narcotics Bureau, they began their duty in 1951. There were only six men in the squad, a small number for the job to be done. It was a beginning, nonetheless, and in the nick of time. T h e squad has grown as the narcotics business has grown. Those first years of Colonel Snook's term saw the construction of new barracks buildings for the troops. There had been many requests for decent accommodations to replace the rented quarters, which were often outwardly disreputable. T h e first of the new buildings was erected on land generously donated by Princeton University. This handsome structure of natural fieldstone, located on the main highway between New York and Philadelphia, was the first of three of the same design, and quickly became a showplace stop for visiting police officials from all over the world. Now as headquarters for T r o o p C, its location next to a large landscape nursery makes it stand out proudly for the passerby to see. T h e building program coincided with a building up of the ranks. Governor Driscoll approved requests for more men and in a five-year period the Academy graduated more than 500 troopers. There was plenty of work for everyone. Along with the usual road duty, the opening of the Garden State Parkway in 1954 absorbed another detachment at the start, so that the problems of the Turnpike at its beginning were not duplicated. Patrols on this highway from the metropolitan area to the Jersey shoreline have consistently been the major factor in the Parkway's standing as one of the safest roads in the nation.

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Troopers assigned to the southern section of the road when it first opened found themselves faced with an extra safety hazard. As the Parkway rolled along through stretches of pine barrens, the night patrol's right of way was sometimes challenged by the herds of deer in the area. The animals, not accustomed to high-speed traffic, would enjoy a late evening snack on the cultivated grass at the edge of the road, and then decide to take a stroll on the pavement. In the darkness of that forest area, the deer were often not visible until they turned toward the oncoming cars. These sudden eyeball to eyeball confrontations usually ended with the deer as the loser, until someone came up with the idea of placing tiny mirrors along the edge of the highway, to reflect the headlights into the woods and warn the deer. It was the nation's first "caution —car coming" device for animals. T h e year was 1954. Robert B. Meyner was the new Governor. Grover C. Richman, Jr., was the new Attorney General. Mr. Richman continued to employ the administrative assistant of his predecessor. That assistant was Brigadier General H. Norman Schwarzkopf, whose primary duty was to oversee the operation of the Division of State Police, Motor Vehicles, and Alcoholic Beverage Control. He performed other duties as directed by the Attorney General and Governor. In March he was directed to take charge of an investigation into the affairs of the Division of Employment Security whose director was suspended on charges of misconduct in office. Schwarzkopf had returned to state service by a somewhat circuitous route. After his departure from the State Police, he had served as the radio voice for the program "Gangbusters." This show of the late '30's, with its lurid scripts typical of the times, made him famous. When World War II began, he went back into the Army and was eventually assigned to Iran to train the National Police. He increased this force from 7,000 men to more than 20,000. Iran was officially neutral at the time, but agents of all the belligerents operated freely across the land. It would be a logical assumption that Norman Schwarzkopf knew

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where the action was, and being a man of action probably knew a small bit about the spy business. After the war, his police talents were used in Germany, where he was assigned to organize a force to deal with increasing activity in the black market. The effort was a success and he returned to the United States and to the relative quiet of Trenton. Here his fated alliance with controversy brought him into confrontation with an old antagonist. T h e director under investigation was former mayor, assemblyman, congressman, motor vehicles commissioner, governor and Army colonel, Harold G. Hoffman. Hoffman was suspended on March 18, 1954, and details of troopers were sent to the offices of the Employment Security Division to seize the files and secure them for a team of Federal and state investigators who were to audit the books of the agency. The suspension of the popular ex-Governor caused an uproar. When he learned the news while presiding at a meeting of the Circus Saints and Sinners, Hoffman remarked that it was one thing to be charged and another for the charges to be proved. Schwarzkopf was aware that the previous experience with Hoffman during the Lindbergh case would leave openings for questions about the objectivity of some of the investigators, but the former Governor himself provided the answers. On J u n e 4, Hoffman was found dead beside his bed in the Blake Hotel in New York City, the apparent victim of a heart attack. Three days later, thousands attended funeral services at the Harold G. Hoffman High School in his home town of South Amboy. Five former governors, two U. S. senators, and scores of other dignitaries were also there. One week later, another shock wave hit South Amboy. In a posthumous confession contained in a letter to his daughter, Hoffman admitted to embezzling $300,000 from the South Amboy bank where he was an officer. He had originally begun his manipulations to cover his expenses as a congressman, but he was then blackmailed by a state official in whom he had confided. The first reaction was one of disbelief, but the bank which had been draped in mourning quietly removed the black bunting from around the door.

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T h e continuing state investigation revealed evidence of payroll padding, improper use of state employees and equipment, and payment for purchases that were never delivered. Harold Hoffman had lived his life with an outward display of brightness which pushed back the shadows of a varied career. Now the shadows had closed in. It had been eighteen years since Hoffman charged that the State Police had bungled their biggest case. T h e voices of those early critics who had joined him were now silenced by revelations of the life behind the convivial facade. In that year 1954, another vestige of the past was wiped away by the decision to cease using the motorcycle as a patrol vehicle. Fifteen men had died on cycles over the years and many more had suffered painful or crippling injuries. T h e traffic volume on the highways now made the trooper on the cycle even more vulnerable. Emil Bock was one of the last troopers to lose his life on a motorcycle. On May 26, 1951, while chasing a speeder in Berlin Township, an automobile turned into him while his cycle was in "blind spot" of the driver. It was a common cause for many of the accidents involving motorcycles. Bock's death came with its own touch of the ironic. Several weeks earlier, while on patrol in a "safe" automobile, he had made an on-sight arrest of a man looting parked cars. Placing the prisoner in the troop car, he began his return to his station. En route the prisoner attempted to escape and a wild struggle ensued. T h e troop car ran off the road and struck a tree. Both men were thrown out as the fight continued on the ground. The prisoner went for the trooper's service revolver and in the struggle for the weapon, the prisoner was shot fatally in the chest. Bock had escaped those frightening brushes with death only to be caught finally by the daily routine. T h e waste of good men in cycle deaths was in opposition to Colonel Snook's philosophy that "man is the most valuable asset in police service," so all cycles were disposed of. None were kept for escorts or other ceremonies, for cruel experience proved that the trooper was most vulnerable at the most seemingly

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innocuous times. T h e Harley Davidsons would join the horses in memory and as a focal point for many a tall tale from the old-timers. It was the last year in the Superintendent's office f o r Colonel Snook. During his three years in the position he eliminated or changed some of the old ways; his successor would change other things or revert to the older methods. But Snook's term had afforded him an opportunity to submit a formal report containing suggestions to improve law enforcement in the state. Some of the ideas would eventually be implemented, though the prophetic nature of his suggestions took some years before they were proved out. Recognizing that gambling and narcotics provided the life blood of organized crime, Snook recommended that a special force be trained to cope with that element; today there is an Organized Crime Task Force. H e suggested that the state have a separate investigative council responsible to the Governor; today there is a State Commission for Investigation. H e urged a study of the effect of making prosecutors responsible to the Attorney General; recent legislation has resulted from this study. A statewide standard f o r police training became effective with the creation of a Police Training Commission. T o aid in the proper deployment of these personnel he recommended a system of statewide crime statistics; the Uniform Crime Reporting Act has since been passed and that system is now a nationwide model. His term had been blessed with a cooperative Governor, A l f r e d Driscoll, which enabled him to add manpower, money, and better quarters. Although a new barracks in Hainsville, a remote section of the forested area of North Jersey, would continue the tradition of a rural police force, the State Police had been further aimed toward the mark of being a service agency for other police forces, and as the chief investigative force for the state. Snook left with the Governor's expression of "admiration and commendation for the great service they render." On January 25, 1955, Governor Robert B. Meyner named Captain Joseph D. Rutter to the Superintendent's post. T h e

Colonel Joseph D. Rutter

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nomination was confirmed within one hour of its submission to the Senate. Colonel Rutter was born in Fort Lee along the scenic Palisades. As a young man he worked as an electrician for his father, and was first attracted to police work at that time. He joined the police of the Palisades Interstate Park and worked for that force for nine months. He enlisted in the State Police in October 1929, and when graduated from the 21st class, he was assigned to duty as a mounted trooper at Eatontown. There was still plenty of wooded country in that area and further along the Jersey Shore. After more service throughout Central Jersey, he eventually arrived at the Pompton Lakes station in the rolling hills of North Jersey. During his transfers and service, he met Lorraine Lauerman of Lake Hopatcong. Though he dutifully asked her father for permission to make her his wife, the record shows that he also respectfully requested permission from the Superintendent to enter into the married state. His request was duly endorsed by his troop commander and forwarded through channels, where it was duly noted and sent back with the notation "RETURNED. Approved, BY ORDER OF THE SUPERINTENDENT."

That rather impersonal attitude was reversed in later years when Rutter was a student at the F.B.I. National Academy in Washington, D. C. While there he sent several letters to Superintendent Schoeffel detailing his progress and the course of studies there. In reply he received personal letters from the Superintendent which encouraged him to continue his work, and usually included some bit of social news about the State Police or its troopers. That small personal touch was disappearing when Colonel Rutter assumed command. The times were changing and the continued build-up of personnel in the ranks saw the slow changes from that close feeling of acquaintanceship. Though some felt that they were becoming faceless numbers, the tradition of the "Outfit" and its feeling for its own were renewed because of the murder of one of its troopers. It was a clear, bright night with a full moon on November 1, 1955. Travelers on the Garden State Parkway could appreciate

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the view from the hills of the Holmdel section. It was a brightly lit panorama of lower New York Bay and the towns along Raritan Bay. Trooper J. J. Logan, on duty in the Holmdel station, was not afforded an opportunity to enjoy that view since for some mysterious reason, the architect had elected to place the building at the lowest point in the area, at the very foot of the Holmdel hills. It had been a quiet night and Logan was busy with paper work, when at 10:40 P.M., he heard a terse radio call, "Help! Holmdel!" Quickly he called his patrols, and received answers from all except Car 94, the car assigned to Trooper John Anderson. Now there came another call for help, louder this time, and Logan recognized Anderson's voice. As Anderson gave his location at the 112-mile marker, the two adjoining patrols began to speed toward that point even before Logan could direct them to do so. Trooper Anthony Scalzone was the first to arrive, and found the troop car about eighty feet off the roadway, in the U-turn lane. As he hurried to the car, Trooper Henry Kalinowski arrived from the other direction. There was Anderson, lying on his back across the front seat, with the radio microphone clutched across his chest. Barely conscious, he gave a New York license-plate number to Scalzone and told him that the car had headed south. Neither of the troopers noticed any wounds at first though Anderson told them that he was shot. Scalzone called for an ambulance and gave Logan the wanted registration, 7L 9335 New York. As the troopers were asking him for a description, Anderson lapsed into unconsciousness. Shortly an ambulance arrived, and the wounded man was eased onto the stretcher. Now Scalzone and Kalinowski could see the blood and knew their comrade was critically wounded. They also saw that his revolver and six cartridges were missing from the torn holster. Kalinowski climbed into the rear of the ambulance to make the trip to the hospital in hope that the dying trooper could offer some further information, but Anderson was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. As the ambulance departed, Scalzone was relaying this meager information to Holmdel Station and searching the surrounding

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area for the missing weapon or any other evidence. T r o o p e r Logan a d d e d the new developments to the alarms he was broadcasting by radio and teletype, and when Kalinowski called f r o m the hospital, he changed the alarm to "Wanted for Murder." T r o o p e r Ed Wilke, who had been in the force f o r only six months, was on patrol f r o m the Shrewsbury Station. He had received the continuing radio alarms, and now as he drove north on Route 35 near Asbury Park, he saw a New York car pass him going in the other direction. H e t u r n e d and followed. T h e registration plate was 5L 7935; not the same as given in the alarm, but close enough for Wilke's suspicions. H e decided to stop the car and check it. He called his station and gave a description and his location as he pulled u p to motion the driver over. T h e car stopped and Wilke pulled in behind. Standing near the f r o n t of the troop car, he called to the driver to get out of his car. T h e m a n half t u r n e d his head, and acting as if he had not heard, called "What?" As Wilke was repeating his order, the driver started off again in a shower of dust and gravel. Wilke ran back and took u p pursuit, calling the station to report this development. T h e chase now continued off the highway and into the side streets of a quiet residential area. Close on the tail of the New York car, Wilke followed it into a dead-end street and skidded to a halt when he saw the car stopped ahead of him. R u n n i n g u p and finding it unoccupied, he started into a small woods, as two of the residents came f r o m their homes and called to him that the man had r u n off in their direction. Wilke fired one shot down the trail and then went to his radio to ask for more help, which was already converging on the spot. A small force of troopers and local police officers undertook a careful search of the woods and yards of the area. Edward Whritenour and his wife were in the office apartment of their motel, which was several miles f r o m all the commotion. At about 11:45 P.M., the doorbell rang. As Whritenour went to answer, he was puzzled that the driveway alarm bell had not sounded. O p e n i n g the door, he was confronted by a young man, who, using a revolver, pushed him back into the office. T h e man was covered with m u d and breathing heavily and said he had

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run out of gas. The owner told him they did not have too much money, since the motel was not completely open. The man replied that he didn't want any money, and ordered the owner and his wife to remain seated. Still holding the revolver, he kept returning to the window to look out toward the highway. Then ordering the wife to tie up her husband, he took the man into the bedroom and pushed him into a closet. Now he turned his attention to the wife and pulled her into the bedroom. Hearing noises from the closet, he stepped toward it and ordered the owner to remain quiet. Suddenly the closet door was flung open, and the owner, now free of his bonds, took one step out into the room, raised a rifle to his shoulder, and with one shot ended the life of Sammy Alvarez and the search for the murderer of Trooper Anderson. It was Anderson's revolver that lay next to the dead man, and Anderson's bullets that were in his pockets. The story was pieced together from statements and deduction. Alvarez and a companion had robbed a service station earlier that night, and had returned to Brooklyn. Then alone in a borrowed car, Alvarez was once again headed for the shore area. Anderson, who had received the alarm about the earlier holdup, had probably come upon the car while it was parked off the Parkway in the turn area. The trooper had the reputation of careful thoroughness and the detectives assumed that he was bent over and leaning into the car when Alvarez attacked him from behind, tore his revolver from the holster, and fired the fatal shots. The trooper's strong body had given him the endurance to cling to life, just long enough for a final display of thoroughness, by giving the license plate and direction of flight of his killer. Three hundred troopers turned out for his funeral, many of them who knew no more about him than that he had been one of their own —part of the "Outfit."

9

More Men, More Duties, and a Political Convention T h e middle years of the 50's were marked by an increase in the number of troopers. The Kefauver hearings placed the spotlight on syndicated crime, making it both a political and a social issue. It was recognized that the proceeds of gambling financed the other enterprises of the syndicate, so the gamblers became the prime target. The gamblers dug in to ride out this new storm, as they had done in the past. The small bookie or numbers runner could not afford the luxury of a vacation without pay, so he fell prey to renewed efforts against the empire. Gambling in any form was now to be publicly frowned upon. Some of the outcry against games of chance bordered on the ridiculous. Much pressure was put on the games on the oceanfront boardwalks. Some of the enterprising gentlemen who operated these games sought to upgrade them to games of skill so that they could be considered legal, if one really stretched the interpretation. Typical of the skill tests was a quiz of the holder of the lucky number. That person could collect the prize by answering such difficult questions as "Who is buried in Grant's Tomb?" Public indignation over games of chance reached the apogee

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when questions were raised as to whether the Miss America contest was truly a test of skill, and the awarding of prizes to the contestants was a violation of the New Jersey gambling laws. The silent lobby of girl watchers went to work and that issue came to an end. Public discussion centered on the elimination of gambling and the efforts of various enforcement agencies toward that end. To combat criticism of those efforts, most police agencies countered with requests for new laws enabling them to make legal wiretaps in cases involving gambling and other syndicated crime. Stormy legislative hearings thoroughly aired the opinions of both sides, but the issue was not resolved. To offset the lack of this mechanical aid, Colonel Rutter pushed for additional personnel. More men were assigned to undercover work, and raids continued across the state on operations uncovered by these anonymous troopers. The raiders popped up all over New Jersey, from the metropolitan area to the coastal resorts. Big fish and little fish showed up in the nets, and sizeable sums of money were seized. Meanwhile, various grand juries recommended the legalizing of wiretaps. One Mercer County grand jury felt that New Jersey would become a "haven for criminals." This same grand jury was incensed by the "unbelievable arrogance" of some of the gangsters summoned to appear before them. The general situation was not relieved by the public attitude, which ranged from apathy to occasional outrage. As this discussion on crime fighting continued, one of the original crime fighters retired from the State Police in May, 1956. Arthur "Buster" Keaten had attained the mandatory retirement age. Now a major, he entered the relative quiet of civilian life. From bootleggers to bookmakers, he had seen them all. He and his cohorts were a colorful band of natural, selftaught investigators who showed a tendency to get involved, and make a legend. Keaten had been promoted and demoted and promoted, but his medical record best shows how he was subjected to the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune." Over the years he had managed to be in an automobile when it was

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struck by a train, various battles with prisoners, an explosion, and other calamities. Out of these encounters he had suffered at various times injuries to his right hip, fractures of the right shoulder, right clavicle with lung penetration, fractures of the right hand, burns of the face and both eyes, brain concussion, fractures of the right knee and left hand, and shortly before his retirement had injured a cervical vertebra. With all this, the physician who examined him reported that "patient had difficulty in reverse leg flex, not due to injury, but because of being so well muscled in the legs." As the State Police continued to expand their operation against criminals, the ever-present job of traffic enforcement also expanded. Regular patrols were assisted by special radar teams on all major highways and the menace of the drunk driver was fought with a new weapon designed specifically for that job. Training was started to certify troopers in the use of the drunkometer, a device designed to measure the alcohol content through breath specimens. The use of the machine relieved the patrols of looking up a physician to give an impromptu test for sobriety. The examining trooper now gave the series of balance and physical coordination tests. After stumbling through these, the subject blew up a balloon, if he was capable of coordinating his cheeks. The breath sample was chemically tested and indicated the amount of alcohol consumed. At first glance, this seemed a fairly simple process. But that simple process really began with the apprehension of the suspected driver out on the roadway, a maneuver full of danger for both parties as well as passing strangers. With those dangers behind, there was the task of arresting the driver and transporting him to the barracks. After the balance tests, which sometimes included fancy stepping worthy of the Broadway stage, there was a series of questions designed to eliminate the possibility that the driver might be using medications which could account for his condition. Many drivers became indignant at the suggestion that they had been drinking, but the answer of one,

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" O f course, I've been drinking; think I ordinarily look this messy?" was closer to the truth. T h e success of the troopers and their new machine, and their subsequent adoption of a newer "breathalyzer" led to an increase in convictions for drunken driving, and was a factor in passage of implied consent laws, which make it mandatory for New Jersey drivers to take the tests or lose their licenses. T h e r e were times, too, when the drunkometer men were tempted to use the machine on other than drunk drivers. Imagine the temptation to bring out the machine f o r the fellow who walked into the Berlin barracks one night and reported an alligator walking on the highway about two miles away. With the tolerance gained from many years of dealing with passing kooks, the sergeant eased the man out the front door, just as another man came in to report the same alligator. Out dashed the sergeant and a trooper to check for a full moon which might account for the visions. Finding none, off they went down the road to see f o r themselves. T h e r e was an alligator, all right, all nine feet and 400 pounds of one. T h e stroller took a mean attitude toward the new arrivals, and it became necessary to dispatch him with the riot gun. Despite notices in the press, no one ever came forward to claim the remains or explain the presence of the water denizen. A n escapee f r o m a handbag factory, perhaps? T h e introduction of new equipment was not limited to traffic enforcement, and in 1956 the first state police scuba unit was organized. This diving team was trained by the Navy in Bayonne and soon proved their worth in searches for criminal evidence throughout the state. They proved their physical fortitude by making dives in every kind of weather, in one instance diving through the ice on a North Jersey lake to locate a truck which had gone to the bottom. T h e driver had been using the solidly frozen lake as a short cut for his dump truck and made the crossing several times, but tried his luck once too often, ending on the bottom in a freezing grave.

A State Police scuba diver goes into freezing water to bring up the body of a man whose truck had broken through the ice.

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The whole scuba team was called to the scene of another inexplicable disaster on September 15, 1958, when a passenger train ran through the Bayonne end of an open drawbridge and into Newark Bay. The two diesel engines and five cars had approached the draw which was opening for a dredge moving across the bay at about 10:00 A.M. For some reason, the train passed two yellow caution signals, a red stop signal, and a derailer device, which finally put the engine off the track. As it began to bump along the ties, some of the passengers made ready for a quick exit. One man, who had survived the Woodbridge train wreck, saw the open bridge, opened his window and went out that way just before his car entered the water. Another Woodbridge survivor, 70 years old, chinned himself on the luggage rack and made his way hand over hand up the inclined seats and out a door. As the train went off the trestle with "a roaring sound, like an anchor chain being dropped," small boats began to converge on the area in answer to distress signals sounded by the dredge captain and the bridge tender. These boats picked u p those who survived the plunge and the racing tide of the channel. Coast Guard boats appeared to assist and then were kept busy keeping sightseeing boats away from the wreckage. Those passengers who were fortunate enough to escape from the two submerged cars in the first few minutes were saved, but rescue attempts after that short period would have been futile. The scuba team, called to the scene by Bayonne police, were unable to dive in the main channel due to the strong current. They went into the water along the trestle on both sides of the draw and checked for bodies. Some were found there and others were picked up in patrolling boats. The team assisted "hard-hat" divers from a salvage company in the raising of the engine and cars. These were lifted to a railroad barge, where the bodies were removed and identified, and luggage and personal property recovered. The team remained at the scene until all bodies were recovered and identified and all wreckage raised from the bottom.

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Unprecedented emphasis on the acceptance of scientific equipment and trained operators came in a Newark courtroom when Detective John Toth of the Polygraph Unit was allowed to testify. It was the first instance of "lie-detector" evidence in a New Jersey trial. Toth had given the test to the defendant on the request of defense counsel, who agreed to accept the finding, and the judge agreed to accept it in evidence. The defendant, charged with holdup and robbery, was questioned by the polygraph detective, who then testified that it was his opinion that the defendant had not committed the crime, even though he had been identified by the victim! The judge agreed with the scientific finding, and directed a verdict of acquittal. Manpower with sharp eyes, rather than fancy equipment, was the order of the day in April 1959, when troopers were sent to Princeton to provide security for the visit of Fidel Castro, the Cuban revolutionary. The mercurial premier, on a triumphant tour of the metropolitan area, was scheduled to address the students at Princeton University. His stopover in the small university town offered no problems from hecklers or those with ideas of more violent dissent. Violence is an ever-present part of the trooper's life and the point was made, tragically, for Trooper Les Pagano on November 25, 1959. Pagano and another trooper were dispatched to a department store in Blairstown to answer a call about an atrocious assault. They arrived at Silverman's store and found Lester Silverman in the basement, with first-aid men preparing to take him to the hospital. He had been cruelly beaten about the head, and was breathing with difficulty, still clinging to the life that would obviously soon leave him. Pagano and his partner, Jim Suydam, learned that a local weightlifter and health enthusiast, Stanley Marrs, was seen near the store before the victim was discovered. Marrs was known to both as a troublemaker, whose nickname "Batman" was acquired when he viciously assaulted three persons with a baseball bat. His conviction for that assault, his local reputation, and the similarity of this attempt made him a subject for further investigation.

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The troopers went to the little village of Johnsonburg where the strong man rented a room at the local inn. Marrs was not there, but his room was checked and some bloodstained clothing found. Their suspicions reinforced, the troopers sat down to wait for the suspect to return. Suydam called their barracks to tell of their plan, and was informed that the victim had died, and he was told to return to the scene. Pagano remained, concealed near the entrance to Marrs' room. As the strong man came into the inn and climbed the stairs, Pagano placed him under arrest and hurried him down to the bar on the first floor. There he asked the bartender or one of the patrons to phone the barracks for assistance. All of them, terrorized by the "Batman's" reputation and size, refused to make a move to involve themselves. The driver of a bakery truck came into the bar and offered to make the call. Now as Pagano attempted to handcuff his prisoner, Marrs made for the door and out onto a porch where Pagano grabbed him and they scuffled. Again, the bar customers chose to be spectators, as Marrs grabbed the trooper and tried to choke him. Pagano drew his weapon and clubbed the prisoner across the head as they struggled off the porch and into the street. The suspect suddenly whipped a pistol from his folded jacket and fired it into the trooper's stomach at point blank range. As he went down, Pagano rolled over and fired at the fleeing muscle man. The slug struck him in the leg and as he stumbled, a second shot from the trooper caught him in the back and dropped him to the street. He was not finished yet, and turned to fire at Pagano who was scrambling toward the bakery truck. Marrs now called out that he wanted to surrender, but as the trooper emerged from cover, Marrs fired again until his pistol was empty, and then threw the weapon at Pagano, as other troopers arrived and handcuffed him. Marrs was taken to the hospital ward of the County Jail to be treated for partial paralysis. He recovered, was tried and sentenced to life for the Silverman murder, and in addition received a twenty-one year sentence for shooting the trooper. Les Pagano had been precariously close to becoming the

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"Batman's" second murder victim. On the critical list, he was completely paralyzed from the waist down. He too faced a life sentence of helpless immobility. T h e will to survive and the skill and techniques of the world-famous Kessler Institute combined to work the miracle for him, and after years of painful therapy he went back to duty, fittingly enough at his old barracks at Blairstown. Troopers at the New Brunswick barracks would bear witness that violence and sudden death were no respecters of class or station, when on January 26, 1960, they were called to the large colonial house, "Woodstock," in North Brunswick, the home of Dr. Francis M. Clarke, a prominent surgeon. His wife, Edith Clarke, was an invalid and the staff of housekeeper and maid doubled in nursing duties. T h e other member of the staff was an elderly gardener, who looked up from his work about noontime to see a taxicab pull up to the house. Two men, whom he did not recognize, entered the house. Some time later, one of the men came out and drove off in the taxi. T h e gardener thought no more of it until the daughter of the family returned from shopping to discover the horrifying result of the visit of the two strangers. One, identified as the taxi driver, was found dead of a gunshot wound. T h e three women in the house had also been shot to death, after being tied and gagged. All had been shot with copper-tipped bullets from a .32 calibre weapon. Troopers and detectives now pressed the gardener's memory. He had heard no shots or other sounds. T h e bullets and a brief description from the gardener were the only leads. T h e taxi used by the murderer was found abandoned in Elizabeth. A careful check of the vehicle yielded nothing of value. Quiet inquiries were made of any real or suspected enemies of the surgeon or his wife. T h e dead maid and housekeeper were believed to be victims only through their presence in the house. With the release of a sketch of the suspect, the investigators plugged along following every scrap of information. It was a wearying process without result. Michael Fekecz, twenty-five years old, a Hungarian refugee

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in the country for two years, had run afoul of the traffic laws and lost his license to drive. He was seen driving by two patrolmen of the Franklin Township police department who knew that he was on the revoked driver list. T h e two officers, J o h n Lebed and George Dunham, picked him up and took him to court. He was held in bail and when he could not produce the money, the two patrolmen drove him to his apartment in nearby Highland Park where he claimed to have funds. It was July, and though the warm weather caused the neighborhood people to open their windows for relief, none heard the gunshots which ended the lives of the policemen. Their dispatcher, not hearing from them, informed the Highland Park police, who located the bodies. Both departments broadcast murder alarms for the former "freedom fighter." A massive manhunt was soon under way, with both local and state police roadblocks throughout the area. Troopers were detailed to obtain the names of any friends of Fekecz and interview them for possible locations the fugitive might use. As these inquiries were pressed, the search ended dramatically two days later when officers of the Union police department located the suspect. There was gunplay, with the suspect ending the short battle by shooting himself in the head as two Union patrolmen attempted to approach him. Fekecz lived through the suicide attempt and was rushed through emergency surgery for removal of the bullet from his skull. Troopers were placed at his bedside on round-the-clock guard duty. As he lay in a coma, his .32 calibre Czech pistol was put through ballistics tests which showed that it was the weapon used in the murder of four persons at the Clarke home and in the seemingly unrelated murder of the two patrolmen. On September 24, the grand jury indicted him on six counts of murder. T h e indictments proved to be but a formality, for on November 2, after three months in a coma, Michael Fekecz died. His condition prevented questioning, and the reasons for the deaths of six persons died with him. An apparently idle gesture in February 1961 resulted in the arrest of a murderer, proved the power of the press, and demonstrated that there were still citizens willing to cooperate

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with the police. Trooper Angelo Nasti had torn a picture from the front page of a New York City tabloid and stuffed it in the pocket of his uniform with the remark, "I'm going to get this guy." "This guy" was Fred Thompson, drifter, drunkard, and former mental patient. The picture was reprinted from a photo in the New York City police files taken when Thompson applied for a license to work in a cabaret. That picture and fingerprints from beer cans found in Thompson's room in a dingy Chelsea rooming house were to be the key pieces of evidence linking Thompson with the brutal murder of a four-year-old girl, whose broken, beaten body had been found in that room. Max Pesko, the owner of an egg farm near Lakehurst, had hired another hand through an employment agent in Philadelphia. He and his wife met the new man at the bus stop in Lakehurst and after feeding him a hot meal showed him to his quarters near the coops. He was obviously suffering from a recent bout with alcohol, and Pesko thought it best to let him alone for the first night. After the dishes were cleared, the Peskos sat down to watch the television newscasts. The story of the little girl's murder had been on before and they were familiar with the details. Then, the screen showed a picture of the wanted man and the farmer and his wife exchanged startled looks. It certainly looked like "John Andrews" the man they had just hired. Then the image was gone, and the couple discussed their reaction and concluded that their imagination was playing tricks on them at this unaccustomed late hour. In the stark light of early morning, the discussion continued until Max Pesko finally telephoned the Toms River barracks and reported his suspicions. Trooper Nasti was sent to the farm to talk to the caller. Pesko related the events of the past evening and Nasti decided to have a chat with "Andrews." He went out to the coop where the rheumy-eyed little man was struggling with his new job. As Nasti walked back to the house, he pulled out the newspaper photo which he had casually folded away. There was a resemblance of sorts, and he decided to bring the man in to the barracks. The farm hand came along quietly at

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Nasti's request and shortly thereafter sat meekly while being questioned. Detective Bart Vought and the other detectives were not satisfied with his denial that he was the wanted man. Identification men arrived at the barracks, took his fingerprints, quickly classified them, and phoned the classification to the New York City police. The numbers matched those on file for Fred Thompson, and now confronted with this undeniable proof of his identity, he admitted the brutal murder. He gave a statement of the details, waived extradition with the statement, "I know I deserve full punishment." A New York jury agreed with his opinion, and found him guilty without recommendation of mercy. It was the year of Yuri Gagarin, the first man to orbit in space. This demonstration of rocket power was hailed throughout the world, but the use of such power as a weapon was implied, and the implication duly noted. State Police personnel assigned to the Civil Defense Agency began an intensive training schedule for troopers and other police officers in the use of radiological detection devices, which were issued to each barracks. T h e daily transmission of a teletype message on "upper wind fall-out" became part of the lexicon. This innocent series of numbers enabled the defense experts to plot the expected radiological damage if an enemy nuclear device were exploded. Fall-out shelters were advocated for those who might have the luck not to be incinerated by a direct hit, and some State Police barracks were designated as such shelters. Closer to home than this new threat, there was ample evidence that here on the planet man could provide his own threat to existence. Ecology was a word little used outside the scientific community and the fact of pollution had the same anonymity. This anonymity was swept away when an outbreak of hepatitis in the summer of 1961 became a case for the medical detectives. The epidemic was carefully traced to its origins in the common clam found in the rivers and bays of New Jersey. T h e hardy bivalve was unaffected by the wastes dumped into its environ-

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ment; it survived to be harvested and return the product of man's waste to the depositors. T h e situation required quick action, and the health authorities declared certain portions of the rivers and bays off limits for clamdiggers. T o enforce these stern measures, the Shellfishery Department increased its inspector force and put them on duty at once. T o assist them, men and patrol boats from the Navigation Bureau were assigned to the area of Raritan Bay, where the waters were condemned in entirety. T o broaden the police powers of the hastily organized force, four troopers were also assigned to round-the-clock water patrols. This force of "clam cops" was collectively known as the Raritan Bay Detail. Some stronger appellations were used by the illegal clammers and fishermen who were unused to the constant surveillance. Several arrests were made, but the idea that the laws would be enforced finally was accepted when the boat of one violator was confiscated and its title taken by the state. Refitted and renamed, she was placed in patrol service in the area and proved to be the fastest craft of the fleet. T o further aid the detail, the Conservation Department rented a helicopter and the troopers started air patrols of the condemned waters. As the summer resorts opened, these air patrols were broadened to check for illegal fish netting and to oversee the coastal fishing boats to prevent the indiscriminate dumping of garbage. T h e r e was no great reduction in the pollutants being dumped into the waters, and slowly the bay men and river men drifted f r o m their calling and found work on the beach. T h e Bay Detail was phased out and the "land-sea-air troopers" finally returned to their regular duties in the spring of 1963, almost two years since the lowly clam had managed to generate fear in the attendees at clambakes throughout the East. T h e r e was some fear being generated in the hearts of the illegal betting fraternity in North Jersey. T w o inhabitants of North Arlington were the object of a visit by troopers on July 15, 1960. T h e visitors had been directed to the house by under-

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cover men, who described it as a numbers bank. T h e term "bank" was quite apt, for the raiders came upon a strongbox in the house, opened it, and found it stuffed with United States currency. There was more stuffed in the closets, dressers, and chests in the house. It took some time to count the hoard, but there were several handy adding machines on the premises, and these were used to ring up the total —$265,525. Neither the little old lady who owned the house, nor her son who lived across the street would acknowledge ownership of the money. So the Bergen County authorities took the money and placed it in a real bank, where it might stimulate the economy and also earn a little interest until its owner came forward with a claim, if ever. Trooper raiders came up with another big haul in Hoboken, when on Raid No. 20 in that town, over an eighteen-month period, they grabbed the operators of a lottery which was turning a tidy profit on gross receipts of $2,500,000 yearly. The Attorney General advised inquirers that the troopers would continue their visits, and if the local authorities were having difficulty with the problem of gambling, the county prosecutor was to be notified. If he also had difficulty, the Attorney General indicated that the necessary manpower would be deployed to investigate any information passed on from both levels. T h e ruling by the courts that police could legally obtain evidence by "keyhole peek" did nothing to calm the nerves of the bookmakers and their bankers. Gambling was an old problem, but an age-old enemy made one of its visits to remind mere mortals of their inherent fragility. On March 6, 1962, a vicious northeast storm struck the Jersey coast with full fury. Winds and water lashed at Long Beach Island until the ocean proved its mastery by breaking through the island at three points, pushing houses and other buildings into the Bay or destroying them in its own violent waves. One local police chief and two volunteers were out in the height of it, searching for residents who might be in danger. Their search ended when they themselves were swept away. Troopers were sent to aid in the rescue efforts of others and when the storm

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abated were assigned to patrol boats to deter looters' forays across the waters. As usual, there was the problem of the idly curious, who also arrived by boat to do their sightseeing. It would be some time before the island returned to any semblance of normal life, so the patrols served as protectors and purveyors of needed supplies to the three sections until the island once again became whole. Later in the same year, three troopers were the victims of a triple tragedy. On June 11, 1962, Trooper Joseph DeFrino picked up Troopers Milan Simcak and Arthur Abagnale at the Newark Station on the New Jersey Turnpike at the end of their patrol tour. On the first swing of his tour DeFrino was to drive them north to the end of the Turnpike, so that they could pick up their personal cars and go home. Meanwhile, Nicholas Bellarosa in his dump truck was making his last run of the day from Sayreville. As he labored up the bridge over the Passaic River, another truck driver pulled alongside him and signaled that one of his tires was going flat. Bellarosa did not want to stop on the upgrade of the bridge so he drove over the crest, coasted to a stop in the right lane, and climbed down from the cab to inspect his tires. T h e left front was losing air, but not yet flat. As he checked the tire, the troop car with the three troopers pulled up to his rear. Trooper DeFrino turned on his roof flashers and told the trucker to drive off the bridge and pull off on the road shoulder. DeFrino remained behind the truck using the flashers to warn oncoming vehicles of the slow-moving dumper. Albert Donahue was driving a sedan owned by his company and was on the way to the company garage at West New York to drop off the car and end his day's work. Raymond Peters was a bus driver making a regular run for the Royal Blue Coach Company. He had left Allentown, Pennsylvania, earlier in the day and picked up and dropped off passengers along the way until he entered the Turnpike. There were only two passengers on the bus as he drove up the bridge on the final portion of his run. As Peters cleared the crest of the bridge, he heard a hissing

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noise and thought that one of his tires had gone flat. He stepped on the brake pedal to slow the bus on the downgrade, but there was no response as the pedal depressed to the floor. The bus continued on as Peters grabbed for the hand brake. There in the center lane in front of the bus was Albert Donahue and the bus struck his car and sent him into a spin to the right lane and into the bridge railing. As the car came bouncing back from the rail, its front end hit the bus in the right rear, and the sedan again hit the retaining wall. The bus continued on down the bridge and then into the right lane where it smashed into the rear of the troop car and pushed it into the rear of the slowly moving dump truck. The bus rode right onto the roof of the troop car, crushing it beneath its long body and the rear of the dump. Bellarosa, in the cab, felt the impact and fought the wheel as his truck veered to the left and came to a stop. Donahue's car came rolling backward to a stop against the rear of the bus, and against the catwalk along the right lane. Within seconds in time and within 420 feet of roadway, the lives of Simcak, DeFrino, and Abagnale were snuffed out. Again, a routine day; a violent end. To forestall other tragedies, and to provide a closer control, troopers in civilian clothes were ordered to board buses as passengers and make note of any violations witnessed on their trips. Equipped with stop watches and summons books, these men rode the Turnpike in buses traveling day and night. After observing violations, they identified themselves to the drivers, had them stop at a service area or interchange, and issued appropriate traffic tickets for the violations. No flashing headlights or series of hand signals could warn the drivers of this enforcement technique, so those few who were persistent violators tended to improve their driving habits, meanwhile keeping a sharp lookout in the rear-view mirrors, both in and out of the buses. This detail, started without fanfare, ended in the same way when its purpose was served. In 1929, Patrolman Joseph Rutter of the Interstate Park Police was operating a traffic light when a state trooper came by on his motorcycle and stopped to chat. The trooper persuaded

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Rutter to take the test for appointment to the State Police, and with some misgivings he did so. He felt it was "a sharp outfit" and decided to try the life. Thirty-three years later, now Colonel Rutter, he was at the retirement age. During his seven years in the post he had seen 400 more men become members of that "sharp outfit." On his retirement, Colonel Rutter became eligible for membership in a new organization which continued the troopers' ties with the State Police. T h e Association of Former New Jersey State Troopers was formed in 1959 to assist former troopers, and to offer the combined knowledge and experience of its members in advancing police science. This altruistic purpose was further expanded in subsequent years when the former troopers organized a fund to assist the families of deceased troopers, specifically with educational grants. That feeling of "family" is best exemplified in these grants to the children of "the Outfit." T h e former troopers have worked for legislation to increase the pensions of men who retired on small sums many years ago in a more favorable economic climate. T h e fraternal gestures of aid and consolation during times of need are standard, but underlying all is the desire to continue that feeling of "Once a trooper, always a trooper." That invisible bond that defies description brings the men together in the spring and fall for formal meetings, which are followed by periods of reminiscence, where the stories are told, polished, embellished, and enjoyed; where there is no longer a distinction of rank —all are just troopers. T h e Superintendent and his staff describe the state of affairs concerning the programs and problems of the present and these short reports are proof that though things change, they never do change. As the State Police has increased in numbers, so has the Association, which has enabled it to make a valuable contribution while retaining its distinctive camaraderie. T o succeed Colonel Rutter as Superintendent, the nomination of Major Dominick R. Capello, Deputy Superintendent, was

Colonel Dominick R. Capello

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approved on October 23, 1962. The new Superintendent, a New York City native, enlisted in the State Police in 1938 in the 27th class. Earlier state employment with the highway department was curtailed by the Depression, and Capello worked at various jobs, last as a route salesman, before he joined the State Police as it expanded in the prewar years. Assigned to Troop B in North Jersey, he served at various stations until transferred to the Safety Patrol Unit of that troop. In August 1954, he was assigned as aide to Governor Meyner and from that job progressed to command of the State Capitol Police Unit. In 1955, he was assigned as the Inspecting Officer and remained at Headquarters to serve as Deputy and then Superintendent. The highlight of Colonel Capello's short term was the massive protection/security detail assigned to the State Police when the Democratic National Committee held its political convention in Atlantic City in 1964. The quadrennial celebration of this uniquely American exercise in boredom caused nervous jitters over the safety of the incumbent President Lyndon B.Johnson. The convention of the Republican Party earlier in San Francisco added to the uncertainty, when demonstrators converged on that scene and noisily voiced disapproval of the party's nominee. The usual array of California oddballs joined in and there were several tense confrontations between the dissenters and the police. New Jersey State Police observers were on hand to view the procedures and adjust their plans accordingly. New Jersey plans could be on a smaller scale due to the geography of the area to be protected. In contrast to cosmopolitan San Francisco, the Democrats were to convene in a city on an island with all approaches over water. If necessary, all bridges into the city could be raised and the residents and conventioneers would be protected by a moat. That medieval idea did not seem out of place in Atlantic City, the real-life "Monopoly" set. There was a Boardwalk and Park Place. There were benches on the Boardwalk, though most faced away from the ocean. The Miss America pageant featured bathing beauties, but no other bathing suits were permitted on the Boardwalk. There was a high-diving horse, the

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world's largest pipe organ, and even a chocolate-covered frozen banana stand! The arriving delegates, VIP's, and assorted political, governmental, and media functionaries and hangers-on would be housed in hotels bearing names more attuned to the cities of Europe. There was the Claridge, Marlborough-Blenheim, Ritz-Carlton, Devonshire, et cetera. Troopers were headquartered next to Convention Hall, in a motel aptly named the Pageant in honor of Miss America. The political doings proved to be a pageant in their own right. Things got under way in August in the world's largest convention hall, which for that week featured the world's largest picture of the incumbent President. The incumbent President was the reason for all the security. He had reached that office by way of the tragic assassination of President John F. Kennedy. The security planners could assume that President Johnson would be among friends, but all the plans were made on the assumption that any President was always among enemies. Couple this prime security purpose with the ordinary job of handling the crowds of spectators and managing the delicate job of handling the delegates, invited guests, news media, and staff people of the Administration — each group with its fair share of self-important prima donnas — and it all added up to one large headache. The Convention was to be held in August, but planning began in January 1964, almost as soon as the choice of the city was known. Representatives of the Democratic National Committee were consulted and a meeting of local police, State Police, and the Attorney General outlined the general problems to be expected. The first job was to delegate responsibility for the security phases. It was agreed that the Atlantic City police would handle the traffic control and policing of the Boardwalk. The State Police were responsible for Convention Hall, security of the President and dignitaries, and the streets in the immediate vicinity of the Convention building. The next job was one of logistics, for everyone. The Democratic National Committee set up an office six months before the date of the Convention and were available

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to answer or attempt to answer the many questions of the security people. Housing of delegates and others was then the current problem. The State Police required rooms for troopers who would spend two weeks in the city, and for those who would arrive during convention week and spend that week in town. It took many meetings before the arrangements were finally cleared for a State Police detachment to be quartered right across the street from the hall. This motel also housed some of the White House staff and communications personnel, and was used by the President on his arrival, and in effect became an annex to the White House. The size of Convention Hall's main floor, that of a regulation football field, dictated the use of many troopers inside the building. The hall would accommodate 18,000 persons, with no standees, and the many entrances and exits needed close watch. The streets and boardwalk entrances were protected by wooden barricades to funnel holders of the proper tickets. A barrier fence was set up twenty-two feet off the front of Convention Hall, so that troopers were shielded from the press of the crowds and could move freely around the perimeter of the hall. The State Police would operate in three phases, with the final disposition of the total force of 300 men made during the President's visit to the Convention. T o handle this force, there were logistical problems such as meal availability, a temporary clothing and equipment supply depot, auto repairs, cameras, tape recorders, rope and barriers, and water coolers for the reserve rooms. Detention of prisoners was another problem, since the city jail held only fifty prisoners and the county jail was some miles away. Arrangements were made for buses and guards from the state prison facilities to be available. Telephone and teletype complexes were given top priority and the telephone company deployed 200 people to set up installations in the command posts, operations trailers, and commanders' suites. Constant security against wiretapping of all phones was also the order for telephone security personnel. There was even a special directory of each delegate and his hotel address.

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T r o o p e r s in ranks outside Convention Hall, Atlantic City, ready f o r security detail at the 1964 Democratic convention.

Planning continued throughout the year, with the State Police and Atlantic City police in constant contact. T h e police departments of several major cities were requested to detail specialists from vice and pick-pocket squads to assist the local police. Military bomb disposal units were to be available at nearby installations. T h e power company arranged to increase the candlepower of all street lights in the vicinity of Convention Hall, and portable emergency lighting was stored in readiness. T h e allocation of special equipment even included arrangements for a bulldozer, if one should be needed for any reason. As the date for the Convention drew near, the magnitude of the detail was perhaps best illustrated when the woman in charge of the allocation of hotel rooms f o r the delegates threw up her hands and resigned.

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Motorola Inc. Closed-circuit television monitors in State Police c o m m a n d post. Remote control cameras could be quickly trained on any trouble spot.

T h r e e weeks before the opening date, the State Police Command Post went into action. Words like "pan" and "zoom" became a constant part of the vocabulary as the new closedcircuit television system was turned on, tuned in, and tested. For the first time at a political gathering, television provided a special capability f o r the police. Cameras inside the hall and on the boardwalk were under remote control f r o m the command post, and enabled the commanders to obtain the visual layout of problems as they were described over the walkie-talkies of the security details. T h e command post also monitored the broadcasts of the three commercial networks, with their small army of camermen and commentators becoming another source of information and intelligence. One week before opening date, an advance group of fifty troopers arrived to join the logistics and communication specialists. These men established posts at the hall and slowly began to tighten the right of access. One day before opening date, the main force arrived. Briefings were held throughout this day to

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determine proper credentials f o r admittance and to announce the policy regarding demonstrations. It was the time of nonviolent civil-rights protest. Meetings with leaders of various groups had resulted in an agreement on ground rules. Peaceful picketing was to be allowed in the Boardwalk rotunda area directly in front o f the hall. T h e rights o f the demonstrators would be preserved and protected. T h e r e were no plans to use police dogs, electric prods, or tear gas. Violations o f the law would be dealt with firmly and quickly. T h e demonstrators were to respect the right o f others to come and go on the Boardwalk and into the Convention. This simple agreement proved to be the answer. T h e r e was only one incident, when a neo-Nazi group became involved in an altercation in front o f the hall. T r o o p e r s leaped the barrier, arrested the instigators, and passed them back over the fence to begin their trip to jail.

Troopers check credentials at entrance of perimeter fence at Convention Hall.

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Credentials and admission tickets were the main irritants for everyone. Rather than face the prospect of the television cameras showing an area of empty seats, the Convention committee overprinted the admission tickets, on the theory that it was better to turn some away at the door than have them look lonely on the inside. That theory held up until the first night of the Convention, when it seemed that all of the ticket holders arrived at once. Predictably, there was a great crush at the door, on the floor, and in the aisles. T h e ushers and sergeants-at-arms fought a losing battle, but the number of persons in the hall exceeded the limits of safety set by the fire marshal. The Convention officials turned to the State Police for assistance, so the perimeter personnel were given the added responsibility of screening tickets at the barricade. At the cost of many frayed tempers, the situation was temporarily relieved. Bruised egos were added to the frayed tempers on the third night of the Convention when President Johnson suddenly decided to come to Atlantic City and personally announce his choice for the Vice-Presidential nomination. Hastily, reserve security details were activated and rushed to the city. Rushing to the city also were the many people who heard the news and wanted to be on hand. All available troopers were on post as the President arrived early in the evening, and an iron grip of security was clamped on the Convention Hall area. Intense scrutiny was given all credentials and admission tickets, without regard to prominence or influence. The howls of protest increased when the fire marshal again declared the hall overcrowded and denied admittance to everyone from that time. T h e President made his appearance and then compounded the security problem by going down off the rostrum to the crowded arena floor, where his near-hysterical admirers surged around and almost crushed him. State Police muscle saved him and helped edge him to a more secure area until the end of the evening, when he departed as swiftly as he had arrived. The President returned the next night to accept the nomination and to attend a party in honor of his birthday. This affair, arranged by the National Committee, featured a march of vari-

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ously costumed ethnic groups accompanied by thirty-one high school bands. T h e ballroom was the scene of the birthday ball, which the President visited for a short time before he stepped out to the balcony overlooking a huge crowd on the Boardwalk, who greeted him with a loud roar. T h a t roar was as nothing as it was followed by the grand finale of the night, a fireworks display which thrilled the crowd and terrified the security personnel. As the President stood overlooking the beach, the pyrotechnicians began their work. T h r e e tons of gunpowder in rockets, salutes, aerial bombs and pinwheels were set off in a cacaphony o f louder and louder blasts, culminating in a blazing fireworks portrait of the guest of honor. As the smoke cleared and the sound died away, the noisiest sounds were the heartbeats o f the troopers and Secret Service people who hurried the President back to the relative safety o f the interior. T h a t was the end of it, and the next day the crowd of delegates, visitors, workers, and curious departed. T h e great show was over. T h e r e were the usual complaints. Businessmen complained that their incomes had been hurt. Delegates complained of the arena seating, the food, the hotels, and the prices. T h e r e were complaints about the constant checking of tickets, passes, and credentials during the uncompromising security during the President's two visits. At a time in the nation's history when the thought of political assassination became a chilling reality which required the presence o f armed guards to ensure the free passage of the Chief Executive; armed guards to assure the free conduct of the political process; armed guards to deter the intent lurking in the tortured mind of that unknown lone person —then perhaps complaints about security measures were the best compliment the weary troopers could receive. It was the biggest detail in the history of the State Police, but the absence of the incidents which had plagued the Republican Convention earlier, and the problems at the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago, bolstered the opinions of the many writers of complimentary letters that it was the "best-policed convention" in recent years.

Interior of Convention Hall. Above, just before the sessions began, and below, as President Johnson speaks from the crowded rostrum.

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Sophisticated electronic and other security devices have supplemented but not supplanted the service revolver.

In that same year, a new expressway opened across the southern part of New Jersey to provide high-speed access from Philadelphia to Atlantic City. Twenty-two troopers were assigned to patrol this tourist-oriented highway, which deposited visitors almost in the heart of the resort city after their drive across the lonely scrub-pine country toward the neon Mecca by the sea. The troopers stationed in that city for the Convention had effectively inhibited the gamblers and sharpies who usually congregate at such affairs. While the eyes of the nation were on that city and those events, other troopers kept the "back-home" gamblers off balance. While the State Police detectives in Atlantic City were busy, they found time before and after the convention to stage 143 gambling raids throughout the state; 237 members of the gambling fraternity joined the 248 arrested in the year before. It was a continuing process and the under-

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cover troopers often found themselves in danger of being recognized by earlier "clients." At the end of the year, Colonel Capello ended his career and entered the ranks of the retired. Governor Richard J . Hughes was committed to an improved State Police and a broadened effort to deal with increased problems in traffic, narcotics, police services, and the investigation and control of syndicated crime. He urged passage of legislation dealing with witness immunity, statewide grand juries, and electronic and wiretap surveillance. During his terms in office, State Police strength increased by almost 500 men. New barracks were built in a program to maintain the State Police "presence" throughout the state. A special section was created in the Attorney General's office to deal with organized crime. T h e State Police provided the infantry for the battle, and Governor Hughes chose a soldier to lead them as their seventh Superintendent. In January 1965, he nominated the Deputy Superintendent, Major David B. Kelly, to the j o b of "top cop" of New Jersey. It was the midpoint of the decade. Governor Hughes and his appointee were fated to deal with explosions resulting from years of smoldering resentment and revenge.

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Into the Sixties Midpoint — "the sixties" — the decade which would turn the nation around. H a r d rock music, the d r u g scene, anything-goes sexuality, confrontation, "involvement," the turbulence finally rising to the surface. Midpoint —"the sixties." Society was to be tested, its institutions sorely tried in combat. Combat in the streets. Combat against ordinary crime. Combat against organized crime. Midpoint —"the sixties." T h e seventh Superintendent of State Police took the oath on J a n u a r y 15, 1965. He was no stranger to combat. David B. Kelly was graduated f r o m high school in 1934. He attended Seton Hall College f o r a short time, until the inevitable economics of the Depression caught up. Luckier than most, he f o u n d a j o b near his h o m e town of South Amboy. As a draftee in 1941, he joined the others of his generation in the expanding United States Army. After basic training and assignment to the a r m o r e d artillery, he was graduated f r o m Officer Candidate School and commissioned a second lieutenant, cavalry. This "cavalry" had tanks and scout cars and Kelly was assigned to the newly f o r m e d Eighth A r m o r e d Division. Primarily a train-

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ing unit, the Division finally embarked f o r Europe in November 1944. Arriving in England, they hurriedly prepared themselves and crossed the Channel to Europe in January 1945. Though it was the practice to send new troops to a quiet sector, the Division was sent for combat indoctrination in the Saar-Moselle area, where they learned to survive the bitter cold weather and were thoroughly tested by experienced Panzer Grenadier regiments. A f t e r seven days against the heavier German armor, they disengaged and proceeded over icy roads to Holland and joined the forces of General Montgomery as they pushed across the Roer River and toward the Rhine. N o invader since Napoleon had crossed that storied waterway, but that historical significance was accepted with typical American casualness. Combat Command Baker, Eighth Armored, was directed to support elements of the 35th Infantry Division in closing a gap in the line near the town of Wesel. Specifically they were to take the towns of Lintfort and Rheinberg, then push on to the Rhine and cross, if possible. That was the gist of it; no elaborate plans were made for that historic possibility. Captain Kelly, commanding Company B of one o f the task forces, set out with the rest of the battalion under blood-red skies in the morning of March 5, 1945. T h e two towns were reported to be lightly defended by disorganized troops supported by a few antitank and self-propelled weapons. Because light resistance was expected, no air cover was provided, and the force relied on its mechanized scouts to reconnoiter the roads. A f t e r some heavy fighting on the outskirts of Lintfort, the town was taken by the lighter tank battalions. T h e heavy tanks pushed through and continued on to Rheinberg in two elements, one company to attack from the south and the other to attack from the southwest. T h e terrain was flat and without cover, and the many canals and streams restricted lateral movement off the roads. One of the columns came upon their scouting squadron which was pinned down by sharp small-arms fire on the edge of the town.

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One company by-passed the scouts and continued on to a blown bridge, where they met heavy antitank and artillery fire. Trapped, they fought for room to maneuver. Their commander was killed as they attempted to withdraw. T h e "lightly defended" town was occupied by tough, disciplined German paratroopers who ringed the area in prepared positions, with their artillery registered on landmarks along the approach roads. Unaware that intelligence was faulty, Captain Kelly and his company continued toward the town. Along the main road, without infantry support, they ran into German bazooka teams dug in on both sides of the road. Infantry support was called for to dislodge these teams which were taking a heavy toll of the tanks. Kelly's tank was among those shot up and he and his crew abandoned it. Collecting crews from other tanks, they attempted an assault on the bazooka positions. Though armed with submachine guns, they came under even more intense fire as they attempted to fight on foot. Taking to the ditches, they held on as other tanks and infantry fought through the interlocking machine-gun fire to reach them. T h e attack was again pushed and three of Kelly's tanks made it into the town and were just as quickly destroyed. They held a small foothold until darkness and then withdrew. T h e company had lost twelve of its eighteen tanks and suffered 131 casualties. They continued fighting on the next day until ordered to the rear for re-fit. Captain Kelly was among the many men decorated at the end of that bloody, bitter fight. He and his tankers eventually crossed the Rhine on an amphibious assault and continued across Germany in a series of hard slugging matches against entrenched positions. T h e ferocity of their engagements never equaled that of the Rheinberg battle, but the Germans exacted a toll of those pushing along the roads toward Berlin. At the end of the war, Kelly returned to the United States a major, and continued his interest in soldiering by joining the Army Reserve. In 1946, he entered the first postwar class of the State Police Academy and graduated into the quasi-military life of a trooper.

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T h e r e were the usual assignments to traffic and general police duty, with occasional breaks in the routine. One such diversion came in June 1947, when a South Jersey pilot took his friend for a ride in the Atlantic City area. A f t e r a few acrobatic stunts, the passenger complained of not feeling well. Jeering at him for his lack of intestinal fortitude, the pilot landed on the runway of the Naval Air Station, opened the door and dropped off the passenger, who had actually suffered a heart attack. T o further confuse matters, the pilot then flew off without clearance f r o m the annoyed personnel in the control tower, who sent an ambulance for the hapless passenger on the runway and a wanted alarm for the pilot. A short time later, T r o o p e r Kelly found plane, pilot, and pint of liquor at a small airport nearby. T h e carefree airman was handed a summons for drunken flying and held in bail. After the local court collected a fine, the federal authorities expressed their displeasure by revoking the pilot's license and grounding him for an indefinite period. T r o o p e r Kelly had survived having his tank shot out f r o m under him, but he finally fell victim to that classic accident which was part of the troopers' life. On December 17, 1947, while en route from headquarters to his station in Shrewsbury, an automobile made a sudden turn across the path of his motorcycle and he crashed into the front fender. H e was thrown to the pavement, fractured his upper right leg, and was removed by ambulance to St. Francis Hospital to do his "tour." A f t e r three more years as a road trooper, Kelly was transferred to the State Capitol detail and then to the Academy. While an instructor, he was part of the team which toured the state to lecture to volunteer first aid and rescue squads. T h e subject was the "Preservation of Evidence." A strange title for a course for samaritans, but the training was deemed necessary after one well-meaning first-aider picked up some shell casings at a murder scene and pocketed them. A f t e r the baffled detectives had spent some time conferring, he remembered "tidying up" and gave the casings to the investigators. T h e evidence course not only helped to preserve evidence, but the increased awareness

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of these volunteers served as extra eyes for the detectives in future crimes. In 1954, Colonel Snook created the position of Planning Officer and chose Sergeant Kelly for the post. J o b descriptions of all positions were drawn up and a system of personnel evaluation was instituted by that one-man office. After tours as Records Officer, Executive Officer and T r o o p Commander, Major Kelly was appointed Deputy Superintendent in 1962. With the Superintendent and Planning Officer, visits were made to Chicago and San Francisco in 1964 to plan for the Democratic National Convention. Luckily, the problems of the Republicans in 1964 and the Democrats in Chicago in 1968 were notably absent from the Atlantic City Convention. Now at the age of 47, David Kelly, Colonel, USAR, became Colonel and Superintendent, New Jersey State Police. There were some parallels with the first Superintendent. Both were combat tested Army officers, "cavalrymen," believers in physical fitness and activists. Like the first Superintendent and his successors, this Superintendent set out to put his mark on the State Police. One of the first moves was made in the small city of East Newark on April 10, 1965. Two factory workers who were strolling along Grand Avenue paid no particular attention to two men in a small panel truck, while farther along, two other men who were sitting quietly in a car also failed to arouse their curiosity. Suddenly, a large van came careening down the street, screeched to a stop and backed up toward the door of a garage at No. 226. T h e rear door of the van was flung open and uniformed men leaped out and rushed toward the garage. As the two workers watched in astonishment, two of the uniformed men raced to the parked car and hauled the occupants out to the sidewalk. The other men began to beat at the garage door with a battering ram, and the two workers, now thoroughly frightened, made a hasty departure. One ran off down the street and his companion scaled a fence and headed for the next street.

Colonel David B. Kelly

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He later told the two detectives in that panel truck, whose radio message had brought the van to the scene, that he thought the "Russians had landed." The two men who had been arrested in the car knew that the uniformed men were troopers and they surrendered a remote control television tuner, which they had been using to signal the occupants of the garage. Those occupants needed no signal to tell them that company was on the way. The battering ram had smashed down the steel door, was now being used on an inner door, which opened into a room complete with a buffet for the gamblers, and the last door finally fell under the onslaught. Here was the jackpot. Sixty-seven men engaged in a dice game. Not all stayed to greet the troopers, for there was a convenient tunnel at the rear of the garage. Some attendees had used this handy exit, but the troopers dove into the squirming pile of bodies near the hole and began to peel them off in the manner of a football referee looking for a recovered fumble. The losers were arrested, lined up, searched, and relieved of a total of $29,000. That raid shook up the gamblers for a short time, but they set up shop at another spot nearby. This time, they had a specialist install a special door, similar to that of a bank vault. The dice began to roll again. Then the troopers arrived to raid this fortress. The gamblers could hear the battering ram against the heavy steel door, but chose to ignore it. The temporarily frustrated troopers paused and then went to the side of the building and battered at the fragile cinder-block walls. As the dust settled on the gaming tables, the gamblers chose to surrender. Another game was put into operation behind a solid oak door, which was reinforced with crosspieces. That place also fell to the raiders, who arrived with a chain saw. The .country-boy trooper handling this piece of equipment cranked up the gasoline engine and began to saw away at the door. Some of the cityboy gamblers were unnerved by the noise of the machine and the door was unlocked just as the saw roared through the door and a new jacket hanging on an inside hook. All this activity led the Superintendent to rejuvenate the In-

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telligence Squad and raise it to Bureau status. T h e Bureau reported directly to him and was charged with gathering intelligence of all types so that comprehensive plans could be made for stepped-up attacks against criminal activity. T h e information would slowly build, as hit-and-run raids continued. Meanwhile, another foreseeable problem was being analyzed and plans made for State Police readiness. T h e activities of civil rights leaders were increasing throughout the North. These leaders were dedicated to a nonviolent stance and a Human Relations Unit was formed to maintain liaison and communications with them. T h e approach had worked at the 1964 Democratic Convention, had proved worthwhile, and was to be continued. That first year of Colonel Kelly's term also brought action to maintain liaison and communication with another dissident and potentially disruptive force —young people. "Trooper Youth Week" was not a proclamation on parchment, but a continuing project. Young men in their junior year in high school were chosen by their schools to come to the Sea Girt Academy and spend a week in training which simulated that of a State Police recruit. Lectures in the law, with emphasis on the traffic law, on narcotics abuse, firearm safety, the role of the police and other demonstrations were combined with military drill and physical exercise periods designed to instill self-discipline. It was a busy week for students and instructors. T h e success in establishing an understanding of the trooper's j o b was matched by the self-pride displayed by the graduates at the end of the program. T h e program has since been expanded, with special groups of inner-city boys invited to participate. These boys usually arrive at the camp with an obvious attitude of contempt, which in most cases gives way to respect. The true assessment of the program's success is an intangible that may take generations to measure. Innovative when started, its permanence is assured by the attitude of the graduates, who throw aside clichés to advertise it in the language of the youth. Most of these young men

Above, trooper youth class dressing up ranks. T h e small dose of discipline is soon accepted by the young men. Below, a trooper instructor prepares the youth class for a demonstration in self-defense.

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would find themselves now subconsciously on the side of the police, while the prevailing public attitude was veering in the opposite direction. There were members of another group, the truck drivers, who though often the objects of strict traffic enforcement, were constantly ready to stand up for the police. Such a man was Raymond Pitts of Grand Ridge, Florida. Ray Pitts drove a truck for a furniture manufacturer in North Carolina and often used the New Jersey Turnpike on his frequent trips to New York City. On one of those trips on the clear, cool night of May 4, 1966, Pitts was tooling along the Turnpike at 1:30 A.M. Heading north across the flatlands of Burlington County, his headlights stabbed out in the darkness of a lonely stretch. He could see ahead the flashing lights of some sort of emergency vehicle, apparently on the right shoulder. With the prudence of the experienced driver, he began to edge toward the center lane and slowed down as he neared the spot. From his high cab he recognized a State Police car stopped behind another car which had no lights. As he swept past, he caught a glimpse of a trooper struggling with a man near the troop car. The trooper appeared to need help and Pitts made his own decision. He wheeled over to the shoulder, slammed on his brakes, climbed down from the cab, and started to run back. Then he remembered that he had not set his hand brake, so returned to do that and then started again toward the trooper. As he ran, he heard several loud reports, which sounded like gunfire. Suddenly, one of the cars started from the shoulder, nearly running the trucker down as he leaped to safety and took a good look at what he presumed was a drunken driver. Now he arrived at the patrol car, which had the driver's door open, the interior lights on, but to Pitts's astonishment, there was no sign of the trooper. Pitts's unspoken question was answered as another truck driver came running up, reached into the troop car and picked up the radio microphone. Breathless, he began to speak, "Fortynine to base —49 to base. Emergency near Exit 5. Send am-

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bulance quick." Pitts asked this driver, William Truitt, why he was calling for an ambulance. Without pause, Truitt transmitted again, "Forty-nine to base —49 to base. Trooper lying road, northbound. Send ambulance." Truitt now gave his flashlight to Pitts and motioned him to go to the rear of the patrol car. The beam of the flashlight picked up the still form of Trooper Anthony Lukis, face down, with one foot barely off the road. Pitts could see that he was badly hurt, and did not attempt to speak to him. He stood on the road edge and motioned oncoming traffic away from the shoulder. Within moments, Troopers Ted Bernhardt and Richard Trauger pulled up. They quickly determined that Lukis had been shot and was beyond medical aid. Pitts now gave them a description of the car that had sped away, and this was relayed to the Moorestown station where it was sent by radio and teletype. T h e toll collector at Exit 5, near Mount Holly, heard the alarm shortly after a car answering the description had passed through his gate. He radioed the Moorestown station, just as an ambulance entered his interchange in response to the first request. The collector's attention was momentarily diverted from an exiting car, which was halted while the driver filled out a special form for exiting with a toll ticket from the opposite direction. As he completed the form, another ambulance entered the Turnpike and he waved it on, as he collected the toll and paper work from the wrong-way driver. It was some moments after its departure before he realized that the wrongway car answered the description of the wanted car. Back at the scene, Trooper Bernhardt found a driver's license issued to Daniel Kremens of Brooklyn, New York. This information was passed on and broadcast to patrols now mounting a preplanned search pattern, with the entire Delaware Valley covered at designated checkpoints and roadblocks manned by state and local officers. Two hours later, Troopers Barry Townsend and Dory Saul of the Mantua barracks saw a southbound auto which matched the description. They gave chase and attempted to stop it but the driver turned off and the chase continued into the streets of Paulsboro. At the end of a dead-

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end road, the driver j u m p e d out and fled on foot through back yards in the area. As the troopers radioed this development, their quarry continued into nearby Gibbstown. Finding a car with a key in the ignition, he stole it and drove slowly through Gibbstown until he came to a roadblock manned by an officer of the West Deptford police. As the patrolman motioned him to stop, he pulled around to the center of the street and drove off at increasing speed. T h e officer gave pursuit and followed the suspect car until it turned into a coal yard, where the driver j u m p e d out and dove into nearby Mantua Creek. Other state and local patrols were converging on that location and a search was begun along the creek bank. Detective Nick Turse was joined by Deputy Chief Frank Pulio, West Deptford, and they both sought signs of a trail. Turse came across a set of wet footprints and both followed them through the mud until the trail ended at the paved road. Now the pursuers were joined by Detective Robert Andrews and the three undertook a closer search of the area. Pulio came to a vacant house and casting his light under the porch, he spotted a dark form and called out, "Here he is!" T h e suspect was ordered out and when he made no move, Andrews and Pulio ripped off the top step of the porch. Turse quickly reached down and pulled a revolver from the man's rear pocket. They tore off another step and handcuffed their man. Almost four hours had passed, but Daniel Kremens was under arrest. T h e story was slowly pieced together. Kremens had traveled to Virginia and purchased two handguns. On his return trip to Brooklyn, he had pulled off the Turnpike and dozed off. It was a rented car, and Trooper Lukis woke him on a routine check. Kremens produced his driver's license, but as he reached into the glove compartment for the rental certificate, Lukis saw a paper bag stuffed inside. Warily, he asked Kremens about its contents and the bag was handed over. Inside were two boxes of ammunition for the guns. When Lukis asked about a gun, Kremens handed him a .25 calibre automatic pistol. Lukis took the weapon and bullets and advised the driver that he was

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under arrest for carrying a concealed weapon. It was a common charge made against many motorists on the Turnpike. They both started to the troop car parked behind, when Kremens asked to lock up the rented car and take the key. As he reached in for the key, he managed to conceal a .32 calibre revolver in his jacket. Trooper Lukis then told him that he was to be handcuffed for the ride back to the station, but Kremens refused to submit and grappled with the trooper. Lukis reached for his radio microphone to call for assistance. It was the last chance for Kremens and he drew his concealed revolver and shot Lukis in the back. As the trooper fell to his hands and knees, Kremens fired five more shots into his body. Then retrieving the automatic and the bag of bullets, he ran to his car and drove off. After going a short distance he crossed the center strip and drove back past the scene. T h e truck drivers were there and Kremens continued to the exit, paid his toll, filled out the toll collector's report form and drove off the Turnpike. He became lost on the unfamiliar roads and was attempting to get oriented when the first troopers pursued him and he made a wild flight until captured. Anthony Lukis, aged 30, four years a trooper, was buried with full honors in the United States National Cemetery at Beverly. Daniel Kremens, aged 33, whose career included arrests for larceny and robbery, went to court in nearby Mount Holly. After a trial lasting several weeks, he was found guilty of murder and sentenced to death. T h e possibility of violence or political assassination once again brought large numbers of troopers together in a historic setting in J u n e 1967 at Glassboro. There was to be a "Summit Conference" in that small town, and the conferees were two of the most powerful men in the world. T o the State Police and others, they were two of the most likely targets. President Lyndon B. Johnson and Premier Aleksei N. Kosygin of the Soviet Union were to meet face-to-face for the first time to discuss matters of mutual interest.

T h e Summit Conference brought a large detail of troopers to Glassboro. Above, one unit marches to post while a reserve unit, below, stands at the ready out of public view.

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W h y Glassboro? T h e Soviet P r e m i e r was in the c o u n t r y to attend a m e e t i n g o f the U n i t e d Nations. T h e a r r a n g e m e n t s f o r a c o n f e r e n c e h a d b o g g e d d o w n in those little niceties o f diplomatic protocol. M o r e specifically, w h o w o u l d travel the greatest distance to be received? G o v e r n o r R i c h a r d J. H u g h e s o f f e r e d the m a n s i o n at Princeton, b u t p r o b l e m s o f space a n d security r u l e d o u t that place. His s e c o n d choice was the master stroke — t h e State C o l l e g e at Glassboro. It was a small c a m p u s n e a r e n o u g h to P h i l a d e l p h i a so that j e t planes c o u l d b e u s e d . T h e c a m p u s itself c o u l d be easily p r o t e c t e d , a n d most i m p o r t a n t , it was almost equidistant f r o m W a s h i n g t o n a n d N e w Y o r k . D r . T h o m a s R o b i n s o n , p r e s i d e n t o f the college, r e s i d e d in a c o m f o r t a b l e h o u s e o n the c a m p u s . " H o l l y b u s h " was its n a m e a n d that n a m e was s o o n transmitted a r o u n d the w o r l d . T h e college p r e s i d e n t l e a r n e d o f the choice o f a c o n f e r e n c e site only a short time b e f o r e the press was notified. It took s o m e time f o r

Colonel Kelly (center) checks the preparation and disposition of forces at Hollybush.

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the realization to sink in. By then, the first troopers were arriving on campus in the early evening of June 22, 1967. The townspeople drifted toward the campus as more of the arrangements became known. There were not many students on campus, but those who were there were excited at this sudden thrust into the limelight. Movement about campus was not restricted, but as more troopers arrived, the basement areas of the dormitories were secured and patrols circled the campus. Carpenters and electricians arrived with the Secret Service men. The college president and his wife found other quarters and surrendered "Hollybush" to the instant renovators, who moved furniture, installed air conditioners, telephones, two-way radios, and a complete set of White House dishes. Teletype messages were sent to all commands and troopers were detailed as plans for protection were drawn. There wasn't much time; next day was the big day. In the back of the minds of the security planners was the recent report of the man who had managed to reach the front door of the Soviet Mission in New York and when arrested was found to have a revolver and knife in his possession. The day of the meeting was warm and clear. The Glassboro townspeople remained calm and polite. The local movie house changed its feature to The Russians Are Coming. The local florist sent roses to the mansion. T h e word was passed that the Premier had departed from New York and was being escorted down the New Jersey Turnpike. Troopers manned all overpasses to keep people away from the railings. Other troopers halted traffic entering through the toll booths and service areas, until the caravan had passed. Meanwhile, the President arrived at Glassboro by helicopter and went into the mansion to wait. In a typical gesture, as time dragged for him, he emerged from the house and walked over to the edge of the campus to speak to the crowd gathered there. There was a rush toward him by spectators, press, and troopers. By a scant margin, the troopers won, and after a few minutes Mr. Johnson returned to the mansion. Shortly thereafter, the Premier arrived and the two men began their private discussions.

Above, President Johnson greets some of the spectators, one of whom presented him with a bouquet. Below, the President and Premier Kosygin share the microphones to report on the historic meeting.

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A f t e r five hours, they came out and gave statements on their progress. T h e usual diplomatic communiques were released with the President saving the most important announcement for the last. T h e participants had agreed to meet again at the same place in two days! T h e troopers on guard around the campus took the news calmly. It would be a repeat performance with most of the kinks taken out. On the day of the second meeting, there were more troopers at the site. With advance notice, the spectators and notoriety seekers had more time to plan their strategy, so the security detail was stiffened. T h e r e had been time to erect a snow fence around the campus to restrict access. T h e movement of persons and equipment within the campus was frequently challenged. T h e statesmen arrived and held their meeting without incident. T h e President offered the use of his helicopter to the Premier for his return trip. T h e flight relieved the troopers of that last responsibility of highway escort, and spared the Premier the personal involvement in the usual summer Sunday traffic jam of the proletariat who were returning to their homes. Glassboro returned to normal. T h e troopers returned to barracks. For them it had turned out to be nothing more than a routine protective security detail and they now prepared to continue their normal summer duties. Fate would deal a different hand; the Summit Meeting was soon obscured by the flame and smoke of rioting in the cities. T h e civil disorders in New Jersey's cities came as no surprise to the State Police. Planning since 1965 f o r such a contingency, trooper observers had long been in Newark and had flatly predicted that city would be the first to go. Intelligence from the streets backed up the feeling of anyone who took more than a casual look at the city. Newark, the largest city in the state, was beset by the usual urban ills. In addition, the city was a perennial leader in the statistics of unemployment, poor housing, infant mortality, and had one of the highest crime rates in the nation, particularly in narcotics cases. Most of the crimes were committed by Negroes,

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but most of the victims were also Negroes. Although Negroes comprised the majority of the population, they did not comprise the majority of the voting population. T h e political structure was a loose coalition of white politicians supported by N e g r o leaders. Superficially it appeared that the majority of the citizens had a voice at City Hall. In reality, their voice was unheard. Their politicians, who delivered the votes, could not deliver on their political promises. T h e r e was daily evidence of continuing social and economic decay. T h e inner city was falling apart, but its masters cared not. Newarkers were not much different from their counterparts in other major cities. They had legitimate grievances, but no one really listened. Their attitude was neatly s u m m e d u p in the phrase of a later report from the Governor's Select Commission. T h a t report swept away the bureaucratese to define the problem as "a pervasive feeling of corruption." T h e Newark riot is chronologically traced from one incident, the arrest of a taxi driver. Its true beginnings lay in that "pervasive feeling of corruption." T h e r e were radical voices working within the community who sought to encourage that discontent. T h e s e ranged f r o m Students for a Democratic Society, a wellorganized leftist group, to the "Black Man's Volunteer Liberation A r m y " under "Colonel" Hassan J e r u - A h m e d , the leader and apparently the only soldier in that army. T h e rabble-rousers had sufficient topics to speak about. First, plans of placing a medical school in Newark had seemed to hold out the promise of needed jobs. T h e decision to place the school within the inner city urban renewal area had caused rumblings of discontent and fears of further displacement of residents. While this pot simmered, new attention was focused on the proposed appointment of a new secretary to the B o a r d of Education. T h e j o b was slated for a white man active in city politics. Negroes countered with their proposed candidate, the city budget director who held a master's degree. H e r e was a clean-cut issue involving people, not architects' drawings or blueprints. T h e militants focused the community attention on that single

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issue and the tone of speeches became more violent. One speaker threatened that the appointment "would be the catalyst for blood running in the streets." Handbills with instructions for making firebombs were distributed. The instructions concluded, "Light rag —throw bottle at some white person or white person's property." State Police undercover observers reported that the city was on the verge of disaster. These reports were passed on at meetings of National Guard, State Police, and chiefs of police in the metropolitan area. Procedures for requesting state aid were outlined. Some of the local authorities indicated that they would seek state assistance as soon as possible, while others felt that the initial twenty-four-hour period of any disorders would be the determinant. The Newark city administration was confident that it could deal with any disturbances without outside assistance, a view not shared by top echelon officers of the Newark Police. State Police and the National Guard did believe in their intelligence reports and began to install facilities for a joint command post in the Roseville Armory in Newark. While this work proceeded throughout the spring of 1967, more meetings were held. All those in attendance heard the observers' reports of the escalating resentment in Newark. All waited as the time for the riot inexorably approached. It was going to happen; the question—when? The approaching meeting to name the new Board of Education secretary seemed like a likely date, but on that night, the incumbent withdrew his resignation. A confrontation had been avoided, but the matter was settled to no one's satisfaction. If anything, it increased frustration on both sides. Enter John Smith, taxi driver. Cloaked as he was in the nearanonymity of his name, he seemed an unlikely candidate for the role of cause célèbre. In his career as a motorist he had displayed a habit of committing traffic violations in full view of traffic officers. As a result, his license had been revoked. Undaunted, Smith continued to drive his cab. During the early evening of July 12, 1967, Smith was stopped by a Newark patrolman who requested his driver license.

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Naturally he could not produce one and he was taken into custody and brought to the Fourth Precinct. T h e r e was a struggle to get him f r o m the patrol car into the precinct headquarters, which was located across the street f r o m a large housing project. Residents of the project saw the arrival of the patrol car and prisoner. T h e incident was described to other residents and in the retelling it became a tale of the taxi driver dying as the result of a beating. T h e r u m o r spread, and some civil rights leaders arrived at the station house to see f o r themselves. They talked to the taxi driver, who was then spirited out the rear door, taken to a hospital, where his ribs were bandaged and he was released. A crowd had now gathered in f r o n t of the station, and some rocks were thrown at the windows. T h e civil rights leaders began to address the crowd, assuring them that the taxi driver was not dead, and urging them to r e t u r n to their homes. While these leaders were speaking, a fire bomb was thrown at the precinct building. Some of the crowd ran off, while others marched to City Hall. As the crowd dispersed, more missiles were thrown at the station house. In several hours, d u r i n g early morning, the situation calmed down. As daylight came, handbills were circulated to announce a protest rally in f r o n t of precinct headquarters at 7:30 P.M. on Thursday, July 13. Television crews arrived in late a f t e r n o o n of that day and set u p near the expected rally point. T h e i r arrival drew a crowd of the curious, who watched as a picket line was set u p near the station house. At 8:00 P.M., rocks and bottles were thrown over the heads of the pickets and bombarded the precinct headquarters. T h e pickets fled, and police squads roved the immediate area to disperse small groups. Radio reports of looting were coming in and patrols were sent to deal with this situation. At about midnight, the situation seemed to be easing, but after midnight the illegal activity suddenly increased. State Police observers had difficulty in driving to the Fourth Precinct. As yet, there was no request for state aid. Finally, at 2:20 A.M., Friday, after repeated requests f r o m police commanders, the mayor p h o n e d the Governor for state help.

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State Police and National Guard personnel were already on duty in the command post in the Newark Armory. Previously prepared teletype messages were now sent to the troopers who were standing by on alert with all leaves cancelled. Major Eugene Olaff, on duty at Division headquarters was busy in telephone conversations with the Newark observers, the police director there, the Governor and the Attorney General. The Governor and the National Guard commander arrived at Newark Armory at 4:30 A.M. on Friday, July 14. Within the hour, personnel of Troop B began assembling in the armory. Colonel Kelly, who had been in the city since 3:00 A.M., had held discussions with the mayor and State Police observers. With the arrival of the Governor, a planning session was held. There was a shortage of maps of the city, but the joint planners drew up a perimeter of the riot area and apportioned that area into patrol sectors, eventually breaking the disturbed area into twelve sectors. Troopers were patrolling the riot area at daybreak. Arrests of looters began at once. The absence of hard intelligence as to the actual limits of the riot area hampered the first patrols, so they were dispatched to the main business street within the perimeter. They needed no maps to guide them. The street was jammed with looters carrying off merchandise in a coolie-like procession. Much of the loot was dropped as the residents left the scene. Those still inside the stores were arrested in the act, and lined up at various points until enough vehicles arrived to take them to the jails. As more troopers and the first of the National Guard troops arrived, teams of combined trooper/Guard patrols began to move throughout the sectors. Guard trucks were sent in to haul away prisoners and recovered property. Later that morning, the Governor issued an emergency proclamation which declared a state of disaster in the city and empowered all constituted authority to use every power to control the situation. Curfew hours were established and the sale of alcoholic beverages was prohibited. Alcoholic beverages were in short supply, since liquor stores and taverns were the first targets of the looters, who had stripped the shelves clean. The Governor's proclamation

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was the drawing of the line between law and lawlessness. It was to be a hard line. By noon on Friday, the entire area was sealed off and roadblocks were placed at 137 intersections. These were manned by guardsmen who controlled the passage of traffic, which was now limited to official vehicles, the news media, and residents of the affected area. As daylight waned, the looting was gradually curtailed by roving patrols. Darkness fell on an uneasy city of nervous people, residents and patrollers alike. With the night came a new terror, guerilla warfare. Troopers of the State Police and National Guard had received training in riot-control tactics. With the State Police, the training was standard in the recruit Academy and continued in yearly refresher courses. It was a standardized military crowd-control formation, with the use of batons and chemical agents if necessary. On July 14, 1967, there were no mobs in the streets. O f the many looters in the daylight, more than 900 had been arrested, while others had fled. As curfew time approached, the streets were empty save for an occasional resident hurrying home. At 10:00 P.M., there were only police and guardsmen about. Hiding in the darkened buildings were desperate men with rifles. Their movements were covered by a friendly community as they moved about and began firing from the seclusion of the apartments and stairwells. Fire trucks responding to the many fires were a favorite target, as were the patrols escorting for the firemen. Though the snipers moved freely within the area, no one came forward with information. Reporters and photographers of Life magazine visited one "sniper's nest" where they took pictures and interviewed the occupants. They also failed to give the location to police. During the daylight hours, special antisniper teams were sent to the rooftops of buildings in the area where that activity was the heaviest. These teams denied the roofs to the snipers who chose not to exchange fire with the police. Trooper observers in a helicopter reported a sniper in one building as he fired at the mobile patrols. T h e patrols dismounted, and directed by the

Above, Colonel Kelly, right center, visits the riot area with Governor H u g h e s and Newark's Mayor Addonizio, seen in the automobile. T h e inspecting party m a d e arrests f o r looting as they traversed the streets. Below, troopers a n d Newark police are pinned down by sniper fire in the area where a Newark detective was slain by a sniper.

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helicopter, returned the fire as search teams entered the building. That search proved fruitless. Sporadic shooting continued through Saturday. This new danger in the daylight kept the looters from the streets. The head of the Newark Legal Services project, who was later to serve on a special governor's commission, could point to personal experience as the target of snipers. On Saturday, July 16 at 2:05 P.M., he phoned State Police and requested assistance when he was pinned down by gunfire. In the two-day period of Friday and Saturday, there were 124 reported sniper incidents. T h e gunfire of snipers caused an unknown number of the twenty-three deaths that occurred during the riots. T h e exact number may never be known. One female resident and a Newark detective both died as the result of wounds from a .22 calibre rifle, a seemingly innocuous weapon in a riot. The threat of sniping also kept the law-abiding citizens in their homes. Consequently there came a problem of food shortage. Attempts to persuade several of the food stores to open for business were unsuccessful, so arrangements were made for the delivery of emergency food supplies. T h e food was picked up by National Guard trucks and brought to several distribution points. Even these food-bearing vehicles became the target of snipers, including one distribution point at City Hospital, which itself had periodically been fired on for several days. Sunday brought a noticeable slackening of activity in the devastated area. Residents cautiously emerged to go to the food centers. All about them were signs of an agony of self-destruction. Property damage — millions of dollars. Arrested — a thousand persons. Dead —twenty-three. Injured —one thousand. Issues resolved — none. On Monday, July 17, state forces were withdrawn. A small contingent remained to protect the food centers and man the command post at the armory. Most National Guard troops returned to their stations. The State Police did not return to barracks; there was more work for them. The Newark disorders were the trigger to set off other disturbances throughout the

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metropolitan area. T h e troopers departed Newark and prepared themselves f o r more riot duty in Plainfield. Plainfield, a city of 45,000, with tree-lined streets and most houses individually owned, was in sharp contrast to Newark. T h e r e were grievances within the minority community and there had been some minor civil disturbances in the previous year. T h e most militant were the younger Negroes, but no major confrontation had yet taken place. On July 14, as rioting escalated in Newark, members of the Plainfield Human Relations Council met with city officials and discussed the probability of trouble. As the meeting went on, a small group of youths broke windows in the business area. Regular police patrols came to the area and the crowd dispersed. N o arrests were made. T h e next night, meetings were held with town officials and several N e g r o leaders. Concurrently, another meeting of N e g r o youths at the Youth Center was in progress. That meeting ended on a militant note, and the youths went into the streets. Stoning of automobiles, looting, and fire bombing began. One white fireman was burned as he sat with his N e g r o partner in the cab of their fire truck. T h e disorder lasted for six hours and the police made many arrests. At the request of the mayor, State Police observers were in the city on Saturday night. T h e next afternoon, a crowd of youths gathered in the county park and listened to several speeches which reinforced their militancy. When they were dispersed by park police, they began roaming and looting throughout the west side of the city. Automobiles were overturned and State Police observers barely managed to drive through the affected area. T h e fire department refused to respond to alarms unless the police could furnish protection. Assaults against passing motorists continued. As the situation worsened, the mayor called for State Police help. At 6:00 P.M., Sunday, July 16, orders were dispatched detailing men to Plainfield. Reserve personnel f r o m Troops B and C arrived and posted roadblocks around the troubled area. At 8:30 P.M., Patrolman John Gleason of the Plainfield Police was beaten, kicked, and stomped to the ground by a group of

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young people. He lay in the street until a rescue party o f Plainfield officers arrived and transported him to the hospital. He died a short time later. T h a t same night, forty-six carbines were stolen from a nearby manufacturing plant and some o f these weapons were openly being fired. T h e carbines were used later that night, when at about 11:00 P.M., the central headquarters o f the Plainfield Fire Department came under attack. After some intermittent firing, the small-arms fire increased and the rapidity of the automatic weapons approached the extent of a siege. State Police detectives, pinned down inside with the complement of firemen, were armed only with service revolvers and briefly returned the fire. At 1:00 A.M. on Monday, the siege was lifted with the arrival of armored personnel carriers of the National Guard who fired at the assaulters and dispersed them. More shooting and looting continued throughout that night. National Guardsmen arrived in company strength as State Police disengaged in Newark and came to augment the force in Plainfield. A decision was made to establish a perimeter o f roadblocks and guard posts around the disturbed section and this perimeter was tightened as more troopers and Guardsmen arrived. Throughout the daylight hours of Monday, several meetings were held with Negro youths and adults in which their complaints were aired to the city officials. One of the demands, that police remain out of the riot area, was already in effect. As the day waned, the meetings continued. T h e r e were demands for immediate release o f all persons arrested since the start o f the disorders. T h e impossibility of this demand was being discussed when a self-proclaimed spokesman for the Negro community arrived at City Hall. He demanded the immediate release o f the prisoners or "we are coming out shooting." T h e discussions of this demand and the implied threat became the keystone for a change in the position of some officials and a point o f contention in later events. T h e Attorney General and Commissioner o f Community Affairs took command of these discussions with the "spokesman." They abdicated their role as mediators and became negotiators.

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These negotiations concerned the releasing of some prisoners without bond. In the background of these negotiations there was the problem of the missing carbines, which police intelligence indicated were in the riot area. Twelve prisoners were released, but the negotiators made no specific counterdemands, although it was the widely held belief that the N e g r o negotiators would deliver the stolen carbines. T h e state negotiators had set no time limit for the delivery of the weapons nor had they asked for information as to their location. As it became apparent that these sociopolitical negotiations were not going to result in the recovery of the stolen carbines, intelligence reports were reviewed and operational plans were made to attempt the recovery of the weapons. Legal opinions were sought, and the authority of a disaster proclamation was cited for conducting a search for weapons, explosives, and ammunition. Plans were made for such a search. During the early morning hours of Wednesday, one of the local radio stations broadcast the announcement that a search was to be made. T h o u g h this offered opportunity for better concealment of the stolen guns, the decision was made to implement the search on the premise that if any of the weapons were recovered, the law-abiding majority of the citizens within the community would be less fearful of rash action by young militants. At noon on Wednesday, Colonel Kelly read the Governor's proclamation designating Plainfield a disaster area, and announced that a search would be undertaken. As the search party prepared to enter the riot area, the Community Affairs Commissioner stepped in front of the leading personnel carrier and halted the column "in the name of the Governor." T h e n after a sidewalk discussion with the "spokesman," he requested that the personnel carriers be removed f r o m the column. H e then appointed a small group of citizen observers to accompany the column. T h e searchers now set out and headed toward an apartment complex on the west side, which had been the hub of the initial disorders. Searches were made of the suspected apartments without success, and the search was terminated less than

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two hours after its start. Though there were some fears that the rifles might be used again to renew the violence, there was no further firearm activity in the area. T w o days later, the perimeter posts were discontinued and a free flow of traffic was again allowed through the damaged area. First contingents of troopers left the city on Friday, July 21. Others remained in support of the Plainfield police patrols. On July 31, the last of the uniformed force was withdrawn. T h e major disturbances had lasted for seven days. T h e results? Damaged property —$500,000. Arrests—148. Injured — 46. Dead —one. Issues resolved —none. Forty-six years after their organization as a semimilitary force, the State Police had been ordered to riot duty. After the troopers' arrival, the rioting stopped. Mission accomplished.

11

The Modern Image The riots and threats of more civil disorder had forced the State Police to an almost constant alert status during that hot summer. Their involvement as a pacification force pointed up the overall shortcomings of disorder response throughout the state. On orders of the Governor, a training course in command, tactics, and logistics was instituted at the Sea Girt Academy. This program, Operation Combine, of two weeks duration, eventually was attended by top-echelon personnel of all police departments throughout the state. Theoretical concepts were discussed and compared with the actual field experiences of troopers and officers from local departments who had been involved in civil disorders. From this program evolved a system of phased response to the problem. Mutual aid plans were formulated within the local police areas, and procedures for state assistance were detailed. Further courses of training on a tactical level complemented the command-level studies. Observers from other departments throughout the nation visited to learn, or to impart the knowledge gained from their own experiences. Federal funding provided an emergency radio network to forestall the hampering of operations caused by noncompatible radio com-

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munications. These training courses and further federal funding enabled most departments to attain a better state of readiness, and publicity of that readiness state was designed to inhibit further violent incidents in succeeding summers. While the State Police carried on in this quasi-military role, their attack against statewide crime was increasing. T h e beginning of 1968 marked the establishment of a special Organized Crime Task Force. As its name signified, this unit was ordered specifically to direct its attention toward the syndicate which controlled criminal activity while corrupting public officials. T o lead this task force, Colonel Kelly chose a detective from the field. If Howard Graff had lived during the heyday of the private detection and pursuing societies, he would have been appropriately employed as a "pursuer." He was no desk man, and he displayed a habit of turning up throughout central New Jersey leading gambling raids and other moves against the coalition of metropolitan area gangsters seeking a foothold in that virgin area. His tenacity infuriated them, yet engendered a grudging respect. Now he could move statewide against more of their friends. T h e new unit started in a small way. As a training exercise, Graff led them on a raid against a nest of gamblers at Aerie No. 20 of the Fraternal Order of Eagles. This little jaunt to Atlantic City in the spring resulted in the arrest of thirty-three men and seizure of $26,000. The occupants of this "bird's nest" were loaded into a van and hauled off to City Hall. More gambling raids were made, and as the unit recruited more men and acquired more information, it branched out to begin long-term investigations into loan-sharking, hijacking, labor racketeering, and the corrupt officials who allow most of that activity to flourish. T h e Task Force used a variety of camouflage to accomplish some of the intricately involved investigations. On occasion, the chance for a quick arrest in an unrelated case presented itself, with the case closed in a hurry. Detective Peter Henderson of the Task Force spent many hours in the North Jersey area following the convoluted machi-

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nations of the syndicate. While driving through the countryside near Little Falls on a pleasant fall day in November 1969, he received a radio message advising all patrols to be on the lookout for an u n m a r k e d New York State Police car with two occupants. A New York detective had been kidnapped and had been held prisoner for about two hours when H e n d e r s o n saw the car coming toward him. He carefully t u r n e d a r o u n d and headed south on Route 23, radioing the Little Falls barracks for assistance. Two patrols were dispatched and came u p to the rear of Henderson's car as the kidnapper and his unseen follower entered the town of Cedar Grove. As the u n i f o r m e d men pulled u p to the kidnapper and forced him to the side of the road, H e n d e r s o n approached on foot and arrested the kidnapper while the other troopers disarmed him. Except for the t r a u m a of being held prisoner at gunpoint, the New York detective suffered nothing more than bruised dignity. T h o u g h Henderson's assignment tended to make him something of a specialist, he was displaying the normal tendency to instinctively get involved. In that tendency he was following earlier examples. Patrolman Robert Perkins of the Middletown police had been on patrol on Route 35 since midnight of July 18, 1968. At 1:00 A.M. he observed two young men hitchhiking along a lonely stretch of the highway. Perkins stopped to look them over and question them. As he got out of his car, one of the youths ran into a nearby field. T h e patrolman pursued and collared him. T h e youth, still wriggling, was brought back to the roadside, where his companion suddenly j u m p e d on the patrolman's back and began punching and kicking in concert with the first youth. Perkins was giving a good account of himself, but it was a relief when he heard a car stop and two m e n rushed to his assistance. After a short, fierce struggle, the two youths were subdued and placed in the patrol car. His two helpers volunteered to follow the patrolman to his headquarters in the event f u r t h e r assistance was necessary. W h e n they all arrived, the two m e n introduced themselves to the grateful cop. T h e y too were specialists, although still able to handle the basics, as they proved. T h e taller one was T r o o p e r James Sweeney, Division Headquarters. He

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was the driver of the car that stopped and his passenger and fellow participant was Colonel David Kelly. This activism at the top continued down into field operations. Legislation granting witness immunity and creating state grand juries was given more teeth when the legislature passed laws allowing electronic surveillance under strictly controlled conditions. Intelligence obtained with this new tool brought more activity against organized crime. All these tools were used in legwork for the Organized Crime Unit of the Attorney General's office. These attorneys presented the evidence to the new state grand jury and obtained the indictments. It was fitting that one of the first indictments under this new system was against three men who attempted to bribe a trooper. It was an auspicious beginning. The old axiom, "Know your enemy," led to the creation of the first formal school in the nation which dealt with organized crime as the only subject in the curriculum. In an appearance before the New Jersey Supreme Court, one defense attorney had offered this definition, "The Cosa Nostra is supposed to be a group of people banded together for selfish purposes to make money any way they can, with the emphasis on illegal means." The reply of the Chief Justice was reasonable. "That sounded like General Motors, up until the last part," he said. The objective of the Organized Crime School was to identify this board of directors and their operation. With speakers from federal agencies, consultants from private groups, and field men from all levels of law enforcement, the two-week course gave the State Police detectives a near-encyclopedia of the subject. Laws, theories, and tactics were crammed into the curriculum. It became a small-scale war college, which graduated the first formidable, organized opposition. The theme of the whole school was that organized crime can be checked by police officers of integrity, who are knowledgeable in all facets of the situation. Their integrity would be tested, but would hold off those attempts.

Above, Colonel Kelly and Lieutenant-Colonel H. Norman Schwarzkopf, U.S.A. at the dedication of the new Academy building at Sea Girt, named in honor of the first Superintendent. Below, The H. Norman Schwarzkopf building.

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T h e early emphasis on basic training has also carried on to this day, with recruit training returning to its original home in Sea Girt. Gone are the tents and muddy streets, replaced by a modern mess hall and sparkling new dormitory. Here the Academy trains recruits for the State Police, municipal police, and other agencies. There are classes in command, supervision, and tactics, and seminars in every conceivable subject of interest to a police officer. This basic training is followed by in-service classes for all troopers of the Division. In addition to this vocational level of instruction, the creation of the State Police Educational Fund has provided the means for troopers who wish to continue in higher education. T h e emphasis in these scholarship awards is toward an education in the arts and sciences. Coupled with various federally funded grants, almost one-quarter of the enlisted personnel have enrolled for more formal education. From these fledgling attempts has evolved the concept of a State Police College of Criminal Justice in conjunction with Trenton State College. As these ideas are realized, more and more troopers are adding mortarboard to the uniform cap. There was one other area of training not yet covered. Accompanied by the sounds which resembled a gathering of thousands of the famed Jersey mosquitoes, fourteen troopers of the newly formed Helicopter Bureau started training in May 1969. T h e sky over Division Headquarters was alive with the buzzing of the tiny training ships, as the men began studies to master that patrol vehicle. Back and forth, up and down they flew, occasionally hanging there as if on an invisible string. T h e primary purpose of the new vehicles is to patrol those long stretches on the new Interstate Highway system. These magnificent ribbons of concrete have been designed for the utmost speed and safety of the American motorist. However, in one of those quirks of the political process, a provision of the law prohibited the construction of service areas on the new roads. Not only did the solons forget that people still get hungry, that carloads of kiddies must have bathroom facilities; they also forgot that automobiles run out of gas or have mechanical difficulties. These latter problems usually occur on the loneliest

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stretch of road, miles from the nearest aid. T h e new helicopter force concerns itself with aiding these people, and serves as a backup to the many volunteer first-aid and rescue squads called to accidents on the highways. T h e "eye in the sky" is also available for searches for lost or wanted persons, duty in disaster areas, and other emergency details. T h e potential uses of helicopters are limited only by the imagination. Two of the men of the new unit demonstrated its unique capabilities. While on a training flight near Hightstown, they received a signal from another pilot on the emergency radio channel, which they were routinely monitoring. T h e pilot advised that he was lost over central New Jersey and was low on fuel. T h e helicopter men asked him to describe some distinctive landmark near his position, and determined that he was within a short distance from them. Advising him to circle about, they located him after a short flight and led him to a small grass airstrip. As the lost pilot landed, they plunked down in the field next to him to further advise him of his exact location. T h e grateful pilot greeted them with profuse thanks. "Never thought I'd be so glad to see a trooper," said he. T h e passenger in the airplane, his wife, also had a few words for the helicopter troopers. "Fly me home, please," said she. "I don't want to fly anyplace else with this idiot." New patrol vehicle; same old complaint and problem. Later that summer, a new police problem was the cause for a congregation of troopers in the vicinity of the Atlantic City Race Course. On August 1, 1969, the age of Aquarius arrived in New Jersey with the Atlantic City Pop Festival. T h e generation which had shortened its skirts and belled the bottoms of its slacks gathered to pay homage to its heroes. It was a tossup as to who was the noisier, the adored or the adorers. More than two hundred troopers courted ear injury as they patrolled the fringes of the tribal gathering. Although more than 115,000 of the "now generation" j a m m e d the premises, there were no major incidents. Arrests were made for narcotics, lewdness, drunken driving, and disorderly conduct. More than two hundred of the

T h e billboard announces the appearance of the "voices" of the Age of Aquarius, and the response is shown as autos, campers, and tents clutter the approaches to the Atlantic City Race Track.

T h e r e were those at the Festival who wanted to be part of the crowd, while others p r e f e r r e d to go it alone.

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Typical scene near the stage during a p e r f o r m a n c e . Despite the continued crush, there w e r e no serious injuries.

hip people managed to injure themselves, with one a fatality in a motor-vehicle accident. At the end of the festival, most of those in attendance agreed that it had been a "gas" and hoped for a repeat. However, the racetrack neighbors, unaccustomed to the volume of noise or smell of marihuana which lazily drifted over the area, quickly petitioned the local government for ordinances to prevent an encore performance. For the troopers on the detail, what might have been an uncontrollable situation was avoided by equal applications of firmness, tact, and tolerance. That their approach was successful was acknowledged in a letter from one of the Festival spectators, who wrote "It is possible to be a moderate in a world racked by revolutionary radicals on one hand and vehement reactionaries on the other. T h e Atlantic City Rock Festival proved this and the New Jersey State Police played no small part in this proof." One of the catch phrases at the end of the 1960's aptly de-

Troop B headquarters in 1924 is in sharp contrast to the clean modern lines of the new State Police stations, such as this one at Hopewell.

Vehicles used by the State Police. Left to right, underwater recovery unit, standard patrol car, Turnpike patrol car, Garden State Parkway patrol car, Atlantic City Expressway patrol car, unmarked detective's car, and radar interceptor vehicle. T h e helicopter adds to mobility and effectiveness in law enforcement and rescue work.

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scribed the status of the New Jersey troopers as they neared their fiftieth year of service. "They put it all together," and truly became a state policing agency. From those early years, when the mounted trooper brought law and order in his saddlebags, when horses and cycles provided the only specialist's ranks of saddler or mechanic, and when the Superintendent was authorized to create two troops and provide them with necessary equipment, a mere listing of the present functions depicts the many facets of the modern State Police. The present Superintendent commands five troops which handle the field work throughout the state. This patrol force is backed by specialists in the Intelligence Bureau, Public Information Bureau, Inspection Bureau, Personnel Liaison Bureau, Planning, Research and Computer Bureau, Communications Bureau, Logistics Bureau, Budget Bureau, Personnel Bureau, Medical Unit, Community Relations Unit, Internal Records Bureau, Fingerprint Records Bureau, Forensic Sciences Bureau, Crime Reporting Unit, Court Disposition Unit, National Crime Information Center, Firearms Investigative Unit, Ballistics Unit, Photography and Composite Drawing Unit, Laundry and Jewelers Mark Unit, Document/Voiceprint Unit, Propane Gas Unit, Criminal Investigation Unit, Private Detective Unit, Race Track Unit, Central Security Unit, Polygraph Unit, Auto Unit, Organized Crime Task Force, Narcotics Bureau, Traffic Bureau, Police Liaison Bureau, Civil Defense Bureau, Helicopter Bureau, and Training Bureau. Other troopers double as radar operators, scuba divers, riflemen, and in other specialized capacities.

12

"For Distinguished Service" Since that snowy day when the first troopers rode out from Sea Girt, more than two thousand others have followed. These men — these troopers —how do they compare with those first legendmakers? In 1925, Colonel Schwarzkopf created the highest State Police award, the Distinguished Service Medal. The first awards were to Lieutenants Harry Walsh and Charles Wilson of the Jersey City Police Department, for their detection and apprehension of the murderer of Trooper Robert Coyle. Later recipients of this highest award have all been personnel of the State Police. It is not an easy honor to attain. In June 1936, the medal was awarded to Captain John J . Lamb, Lieutenant Arthur Keaten, Sergeants Eugene Haussling and Andrew Zapolsky, Corporals Samuel Leon and William Horn, and Detectives Claude Patterson, Lewis Bornmann and Nicholas DeGaetano for "painstaking, conscientious and comprehensive work . . . for extraordinary application, response to duty and energy beyond the call of duty . . . " in their investigation of the Lindbergh case. In 1958, the medal was awarded to Trooper Paul E. Clarke

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The highest award of the New Jersey State Police.

for the rescue of the pilot of an Air Force plane which crashed near the Fort Dix station on February 26, 1956. The pilot was trapped in the burning aircraft, which was armed with rockets. Clarke disregarded the exploding rockets and the fierce fire from the exploding fuel tanks and carried the injured pilot to safety. In September 1961, Trooper Lester Pagano received the medal for his capture of the murderer of Lester Silverman. Pagano had come extremely close to the limit of one of the criteria for receiving the award; the risk of life. His courage and

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strength sustained him through a long physical ordeal and enabled him to proudly receive the coveted award. In 1963, the medal was awarded to Trooper Joseph L. Yachimak for the capture of three bandits who held up and robbed the toll collector at Essex Plaza on the Garden State Parkway. Yachimak was on patrol nearby at 4:00 A.M. on March 27, 1963, when a radio alarm alerted him to the crime. As he approached the plaza, he noted a vehicle, with lights out, speeding toward the city streets. As Yachimak started his pursuit, one of the car's occupants fired a shot at the troop car. After two more shots were fired at him, the trooper returned fire. During this exchange, a bullet from the bandit's auto crashed into the windshield of the troop car and a sliver of the metal slug struck the trooper in the left eye. He continued pursuit into the streets of Newark, where the fleeing driver lost control and crashed into several parked cars before coming to a stop. As Yachimak came up, one of the occupants dove behind a hedge. The trooper fired several shots at him and then took the other two into custody. The third man was later captured and admitted his part in the crime. In 1963 Sergeant Philip P. O'Reilly earned the medal for the capture of an escapee from a mental institution on November 25, 1962. The escapee, armed with a large butcher's knife, was walking the streets of the town of Morris Plains. It was Sunday morning and the streets were busy with people on the way to church. O'Reilly was off duty at the time, but heard of the incident and rode with the hospital chaplain into town. As they stopped alongside the patient, he rushed at their car and attempted to stab O'Reilly through the car's open window. T h e deranged man continued down the street as O'Reilly and the chaplain managed to get ahead of him. The local police came on from the escapee's rear as O'Reilly got out of the car and confronted the patient, who lunged at him with the knife, stabbing him deeply in the left thigh. O'Reilly wrestled with him and threw him to the ground as the two local officers and hospital guards came to his assistance. T h e patient was returned to the institution, while the sergeant was rushed to a hospital. Quick medical attention closed

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off a severed artery and repaired the torn leg muscles of "Gentleman Phil," who shortly returned to full duty as supervisor of the guards at the State Hospital. In 1964 Trooper Edmund A. Gill was awarded the medal for the rescue of a woman trapped in a burning house. On January 28, 1964, Gill and Trooper Richard Richroath responded to a report of a house fire in Hazlet Township. They arrived there before the fire companies and were advised that all the occupants were out of the house, with the exception of the woman who was believed to be in a second-floor bedroom. The two troopers entered the house through the front door, but were driven back by heavy smoke. They went to the rear of the house, where the husband had placed a ladder to the bedroom window. Gill hurried up to the second story, but could not force the window open. As he reached up and hung by his hands from the storm gutter on the roof edge, Richroath moved the ladder to a better position. Gill quickly broke the window and climbed into the room. He finally located the woman in the thick smoke, but she resisted his efforts to lead her to the window. Still struggling, he pushed her to the window where Richroath waited on the ladder to carry her to the ground. As Richroath descended, Gill was overcome by smoke and collapsed with his head on the window sill. Richroath again came up and carried Gill to the ground. Gill was admitted to the hospital for treatment of smoke inhalation and the woman was later committed to a mental institution. In 1964 Troopers Raymond S. Smith and James A. Arena received the award for their rescue of a woman who had plunged through the ice of Carnegie Lake near Princeton. The troopers were responding to a radio message at 2:30 P.M. which advised that the woman was attempting to save another person in the lake. As they arrived they could see the woman and a boy in the water. T h e troopers were separated from the lake by a canal and a towpath. Arena took off his holster and blouse and dove into the canal, while holding a tow rope in his mouth. He swam the canal and tossed the rope to the woman. As he was pulling her to shore, Smith swam the canal. He and Arena then attempted to

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go onto the ice to rescue the boy, who was some distance from them. The ice would not hold them, so Arena put on a life jacket, tied a rope to his waist and began to break his way through the ice to the boy. Meanwhile, Trooper Richard Copeman had also come to the scene and located a small aluminum boat, which he dragged to lakeside. Smith got into this boat and began to break through the ice to Arena and the boy. Reaching them, he pulled both into the boat, where he and Arena alternately gave mouthto-mouth resuscitation to the boy. Ambulances took the woman, boy, and troopers to the hospital, where the boy was beyond aid. While at the hospital, the woman came out of her hystericail state and told the weary troopers that she was attempting to rescue two boys who had gone through the ice together. This sad report was passed on to the Princeton station and first aid squads finally located the body of the other unfortunate youth. In 1968 Trooper John Meakin was awarded the medal for his role in the capture of two bank robbers on February 9, 1968. While on patrol of the Turnpike near the Jersey City exit, he focused his attention on the two occupants of a sports car which displayed an invalid inspection sticker. As his troop car came up to their rear, he observed both the driver and passenger reaching toward the back seat, as the passenger repeatedly looked back at the trooper. Meakin motioned them to the roadside, where the driver alighted and hurried back. Meakin took his credentials and walked with him to the sports car. The passenger sat with his right hand concealed as the trooper looked through the open left door. On the rear seat, he noticed a suitcase and a white bag protruding from under an army coat. The driver stated that it was "just a bunch of clothing" and reached in to fumble with the coat. Suddenly, the passenger raised his hand and fired a shot at Meakin. The bullet grazed the trooper's neck as he instinctively moved away. As the driver straightened up and turned, he put his hand into his pocket as Meakin drew his revolver and fired. T h e driver stumbled back into his seat as the passenger again pointed his weapon at the trooper, who responded by firing five more times.

276

JERSEY TROOPERS

The sports car then started in motion toward Meakin, who leaped the guard rail to safety. As the car sped off, the trooper radioed a description of the car and occupants. That description matched that of a car wanted for a bank robbery in Paterson which had taken place a short time before Meakin halted the men. Both were later apprehended and charged with bank robbery and other crimes. In 1970 Trooper Richard E. Tomasik received the medal for the capture of a bank robber and the recovery of the loot. On July 15, 1970, Tomasik was on patrol on Route 9 in Howell Township near the Monmouth County National Bank. He had been a trooper for just thirteen months. Today would be the most exciting of his short career. About 11:00 A.M., the Howell barracks broadcast an alarm that a holdup was in progress at the bank. Tomasik came up as the escape vehicle was leaving. He was right after them as they drove a twisting route through the side streets of the area. As the robbers' car straightened out, one of the men fired a burst from a machine gun. One of the others also fired at the young trooper. Tomasik stayed in close without returning the shots and forced the fleeing vehicle into a side lane. All three men leaped out and ran toward a nearby wooded section. Tomasik was right after them and managed to collar and subdue one of the men. After handcuffing him, he radioed a description of the others. While waiting for assistance, he located $198,000 of the total $240,000 loot. One of the other robbers was captured later that day and the third later arrested out of state. The young trooper's actions, as those of the others cited, were the proof: dedication, determination and daring are still the mark of the trooper. Now we come to the end of this account. It is not the end of the story, for that has yet to be written. New men, new ideas and new methods will continue the record. We end our portion by noting that the story had come full cycle. On March 17, 1970, two Irish-Americans met in Trenton,

JERSEY

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277

and after exchanging the usual pleasantries, proceeded to the business at hand. One, the newly elected Governor William T . Cahill had assured that the State Police would continue with honor. As did Governor Edwards in the first instance, this Governor ignored party and politics by his appointment of David B. Kelly to another term as Superintendent. In remarks at the swearing-in ceremony, the Governor commented that the appointment emphasized "the attitude of this administration that police work and law enforcement have no place in politics; and politics has no place in law enforcement or police work." So be it.

Appendix

In Line of Duty The following New Jersey State troopers lost their lives in service: Number 63 127 231 232 238 240 265 318 367 378 383 442 494 530 561 585 594

Date Marshall, W. Divers, J. D. Smith, J. A. Ullrich, C. E. Coyle, R. E. Gloor, H. Arrowsmith, W. Beylon, M. O'Donnell, C. A. Gladys, P. W. Madden, J. Perry, J. Ressler, J. Ignatz, P. W. McCandless, L. P. Herbert, J. R. Scotland, J.

Motorcycle accident Septicemia poison Motorcycle accident Murdered Murdered Motorcycle accident Motorcycle accident Motorcycle accident Murdered Murdered Motorcycle accident Motorcycle accident Auto accident Motorcycle accident Motorcycle accident Motorcycle accident Auto accident

12-12-23 5-3-30 8-4-27 2-17-26 12-18-24 5-9-26 8-5-26 2-15-33 7-16-45 12-28-28 3-3-29 6-9-37 5-1-32 3-4-31 6-28-31 7-9-33 2-19-35

280

JERSEY TROOPERS

Number 599 633 654 668 685 824 902 905 943 947 974 999 1093 1190 1191 1382 1399 1435 1481 1534 1605 1671 1754 1809 2353 2579

Date Yenser, W. Vosbein, V. C. Gregerson.J. I. Otte, W. B. Walter, J. C. Doolan, W. J. Gawryla, W. R. Kopf, C. Wirth, J. D. Conn, S. A. Bock, E. J. Simcak, M. Earle, C. H. Welenc, H. Anderson, J. Staas, J. W. Fiola, R. P. Fuchs, F. P. Dancy, G. R. Gray, R. E. DeFrino, J. P. Abagnale, A. B. Lukis, A. Kavula, T. W. Prato, R. J. Moesta, R.J.

Murdered Motorcycle accident Airplane crash Motorcycle accident Auto accident Auto accident Motorcycle accident Auto accident Auto accident Motorcycle accident Motorcycle accident Auto accident Auto accident Auto accident Murdered Auto accident Auto accident Auto accident Auto accident Auto accident Auto accident Auto accident Murdered Auto accident Auto accident Auto accident

11-9-35 6-19-38 4-28-41 1-24-40 9-7-52 10-23-44 4-21-50 9-27-48 11-25-51 8-27-51 5-26-51 6-11-62 12-18-57 11-20-59 11-1-55 12-3-61 2-19-62 12-19-57 5-28-56 12-1-58 6-11-62 6-11-62 5-4-66 9-19-68 12-21-69 11-19-70

Selected Bibliography Books Allen, Frederick Lewis. Only Yesterday. New York: H a r p e r & Row, 1931. . Since Yesterday. New York: H a r p e r & Row, 1940. Bloodgood, Fred L. The Quiet Hour. T r e n t o n : MacCrellish & Quiqley Co., 1940. Brant, J o h n . True Story of the Lindbergh Kidnapping. New York: K r o y Wren, 1932. Condon, J o h n F• Jafsie Tells All. New York: J o n a t h a n Lee Pub. Corp., 1936. Cook, Fred J. The Secret Rulers. New York: Duell, Sloan & Pearce, 1966. Crystal, George. This Republican Hoffman. Hoboken: Terminal Pub. Co., 1934. Davis, Kenneth S. The Hero. New York: Doubleday, 1959. Haring, J o h n V. The Hand of Hauptmann. Plainfield: H a m e r Pub. Co., 1937. Hayden, T h o m a s . Rebellion in Newark. New York: Vintage Books, 1967. Mayo, Katherine. Justice for All. Boston: H o u g h t o n , Mifflin, 1940 (5th ed.). McKean, Dayton D. The Boss, The Hague Machine in Action. Boston: H o u g h t o n , Mifflin, 1940. Murray, Robert K. The Red Scare, A Study in National Hysteria. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1955.

282

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Shonbach, Morris. Radicals and Visionaries. Princeton: D. Van Nostrand, 1964. Shoenfeld, Dudley D. The Crime and the Criminal. New York: CoviciFriede, 1936. Smith, Bruce. The State Police. New York: Macmillan, 1925. . Police Systems in the United States. New York: Harper & Row, 1949 (rev. ed.). Sullivan, Harold W. Trial by Newspaper. Hyannis: Patriot Press, 1961. Vollmer, August and Alfred Parker. Crime and the State Police. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1935. Waller, George. Kidnap. New York: Dial Press, 1961. Whipple, Sidney B. The Lindbergh Crime. New York: Blue Ribbon Books, 1935. . The Trial of Bruno Richard Hauptmann. Garden City: Doubleday, 1937.

Index Abagnale, Arthur, 212-213 Addonizio, Hugh, 251 Adonis, Joe, 177 Albrecht, Gus, 81-83, 183 Alessi, Anthony, 84, 8 6 - 8 9 Alessi, Samuel, 84-86, 89 Allen, William, 118 Allocco, Dominick, 169 Alvarez, Sammy, 197 Anderson, John, 80, 195, 197 Andover, 151 Andrews, Robert, 238 Arena, James A., 274-275 Arthur Kill, 67 Asbury Park, 196 Atkinson, Fred, 156 Atlantic City, 168, 216-225, 231, 258, 264-267 Atlantic City Gazette-Review, 73 Atlantic Highlands, 92, 94 Backy, Michael, 13 Bading, Herman, 71 Baxter, Othel, 3 9 - 4 0 Bayonne, 80, 201, 203 Bell, Charles H., 38, 46 Bellarosa, Nicholas, 212 Belvidere, 92 Bergen County, 175, 176, 211 Berlin Township, 191

Bernhardt, Ted, 237 Berwick, Pa., 89 Bethlehem, Pa., 144 Bitz, Irving, 110 Blairstown, 204, 206 Bock, Emil, 191 Boonton, 93 Bordentown, 156 Bornmann, Lewis, 103, 123-124, 127, 135-136, 271 Bound Brook, 143 Boyer, Frank, 146, 149 "Brass Button Bandits," 11 Breckenridge, Henry, 102, 107, 110, 117 Bridgeton, 51, 71, 177 Brinkert, Ernest, 120 Broadhurst, Thomas, 27, 29 Bronx Home News, 113 Brunette, Harry, 144-145 Burlington County, 8 , 9 4 , 1 3 2 , 2 3 6 Burrage, Guy, 115, 118 Cahill, William T., 277 Camp Edwards, 38, 42 Campbell, Frank, 57, 90 Cape May, 94, 118 Capello, Dominick R„ 214-216, 226 Carpenter, Edward, 78

284 Carter, William, 141 Carteret, 84 Case, Clarence F., 25, 28, 63-64, 71 Castricum, Marion, 50 Castro, Fidel, 204 Cedar Grove, 259 Cessitore, Santo, 13 Chamber of Commerce, N.J., 6, 7, 18 Chandler, George, 26 Charles, William, 75 Chatsworth, 53 Civil Defense Council, 152, 156 Clarke, Edith, 206 Clarke, Francis M„ 206-207 Clarke, Paul E„ 271-272 Clayton, 71 Cliffside Park, 176 Clinton, 75 Coakley, Kate, 177 Condon, John F., 112-114, 116117, 122, 127 Coolidge, Calvin, 100 Copeman, Richard, 275 "Cossacks," 11 Court, U.S. Supreme, 6 Coyle, Robert, 79-80, 271 Cumberland County, 8 Cunningham, Raymond, 172 Curtis, John H., 115, 117-119

Dalton, Cy, 54-55 Daly, Matthew, 75-76 DeFrino, Joseph, 212-213 DeGaetano, Nicholas, 87-88, 94, 103, 123, 170, 271 DeLuccia, "Slam Bang," 85-86

INDEX

Dickman, Henry, 60 Dickman, Joseph T., 32 Dill, William, 25 Divers, John, 139 Doak, August, 164-166 Doak, Constance, 164-165 Dobson-Peacock, Harold, 115,119 Donahue, Albert, 212-213 Dore, Dennis, 126 Driscoll, Alfred, 173, 176-178, 182, 188, 192 Duck Island, 157-158 Dunham, George, 207 Dunn, Dan, 51, 53 East Amwell Township, 102, 111 East Newark, 231 Eatontown, 194 Edge, Walter E„ 14 Edison, Charles, 154 Edwards, Edward I., 4, 23-27, 35, 70, 90, 277 Edwards, Irving, 35 Elizabeth, 181, 206 Englewood, 101, 119 Englishtown, 83 Erickson, Frank, 177 Essex County, 19, 25 Fekecz, Michael, 206-207 Fisch, Isador, 127, 129 Fisher, Lloyd, 129 Flemington, 65, 129, 165 Flint Hill, 144 Fort Dix, 152, 272 Fort Lee, 194 Franklin Township, 207 Freehold, 66 Fuchs, Carl, 85

285

INDEX

Gaskill, Edmund, 26 Gay Head, 117 Genese, David, 80 Genz, John, 178 German-American Bund, 151, 153 Gibbstown, 238 Gibson, Jane, 61, 64 Gill, Edmund A„ 274 Gill, John, 18 Gladys, Peter, 83 Gleason, John, 253 Glassboro, 239-244 Gow, Betty, 101, I I I , 118 Graff, Howard, 258 Grand Ridge, Fla., 236 Grange, N.J. State, 14 Gregovesir, John, 79-80

150-

Hackensack, 96 Hague, Frank, 15-17, 24, 27-28, 111 Haines, J. C., 156 Hainsville, 192 Hall, Edward, 59 Hall, Mrs. Edward, 61 Hamilton Township, 157, 159 Hammerstein, Oscar, 94 Hammonton, 46 Hampton, 53 Hauck, Anthony, 130 Hauptmann, Bruno Richard, 125— 137 Haussling, Eugene, 271 Haywood, "Big Bill," 11 Hazlet, 169, 274 Henderson, Peter, 258-259 Hialand, Justice of the Peace, 50 Hicks, Robert, 135

Highland Park, 207 Hightstown, 50, 84, 264 Hilfers, Henry, 17-18 Hill, Clarence, 159-160 Hindenburg (dirigible), 146-147 Hobart, George, 18 Hoboken, 211 Hoffman, Harold G., 132, 135137, 141, 145-146, 148, 190191 Holmdel, 195 Home Defense League, 14 Home Guard, 24 Hoover, Herbert, 90 Hoover, J. Edgar, 111, 145 Hopewell, 101-105,109-111,115, 118, 120, 122, 128, 165, 268 Horn, William, 125, 271 Horseneck Beach, 117 Howell Township, 276 Hudson County, 19, 25, 27-28, 44, 62, 161 Hughes, Howard, 65 Hughes, Richard J., 226, 241, 251 Hunterdon County, 74, 118, 129, 184 Industrial Workers of the World, 11 Ingenito, Ernest, 171-173 Ingenito, Theresa, 171 Jersey City, 15, 16, 29, 80, 107, 109-110, 179, 275 Jersey Journal, 13, 27-28, 36, 40, 44 Jeru-Ahmed, Hassan, 245 Johnson, Bertha, 92 Johnson, Henry, 101, 111-112 Johnson, Les, 156

INDEX

286 J o h n s o n , L y n d o n B., 222-224, 239-244 J o h n s o n b u r g , 205 J u t l a n d , 74

216-217,

Kalinowski, H e n r y , 1 9 5 - 1 9 6 Keaten, A r t h u r , 92, 96, 103-104, 108, 112, 118, 126, 136, 143, 174, 199-200, 271 Keaton, Pansy, 84 Kell, George, 1 6 4 - 1 6 6 Kelly, David B„ 2 2 6 - 2 3 2 , 234, 241, 248, 251, 255, 258, 2 6 0 262, 277 Kelly, Frank, 103-104, 135 Kelly, J i m , 50 Kenvil, 1 5 2 - 1 5 3 Key port, 169, 170 Kimberling, Mark O., 38, 4 6 - 4 7 , 76, 97, 141-143, 148-149, 154 Kingston, 38, 73 Knights of Ku Klux Klan, 6 8 - 7 0 Koehler, A r t h u r , 123-124, 127, 131, 1 3 4 - 1 3 6 Kolodner, H e r b e r t , 171 K o n d r u p , Victor, 32, 183 Kosygin, Aleksei, 2 3 9 - 2 4 4 K r e m e n s , Daniel, 2 3 7 - 2 3 9 LaBeau, Arline, 144 L a G u a r d i a , Fiorello H „ 176 Lake H o p a t c o n g , 194 L a k e h u r s t , 146-147, 208 Lakewood, 50 Lamb, J o h n J., 60, 108, 112, 118, 143, 271 Large, G e o r g e H., 7 5 - 7 6 , 130 Larsen, A., 7 4 - 7 6 L a u e r m a n , Lorraine, 194 Layton, 81 Lebed, J o h n , 207

Leon, Samuel, 271 Levitano, Salvatore, 1 2 4 - 1 2 5 Life Magazine, 250 L i n d b e r g h , A n n e Morrow, 100137 L i n d b e r g h , Charles A., 9 8 - 1 3 7 , 139, 141, 148, 190, 271 Lippincott, J o s e p h , 13 Little Falls, 148, 259 Logan, J . J., 1 9 5 - 1 9 6 Loney, Arch, 136 Long, A l f r e d , 1 5 6 - 1 5 7 L o n g Beach Island, 211 Lore, F r a n k J., 8 - 9 Lukis, A n t h o n y , 2 3 7 - 2 3 9 Lyle, Walter, 125 Lyons, J o e , 156 Lyons, J o h n , 125 M a d d e n , A r t h u r , 116 Malaga, 171 Mantua, 2 3 7 - 2 3 8 Maple Shade, 174 Marrs, Stanley, 2 0 4 - 2 0 6 Marshall, William, 32, 79 Masin, Lou, 165 Matey, J o h n , 139 Matthews, J o h n , 17 Mays L a n d i n g , 93, 171 Mazzoli, Mike, 1 7 1 - 1 7 2 Mazzoli, Pearl, 173 M c C r a n , T h o m a s F., 24 McCormick, J a m e s , 66 McCormick, S. C., 123 McManus, Charles, 8 4 - 8 6 , 89 Meakin, J o h n , 2 7 5 - 2 7 6 Meaney, Beatrice, 75 Meaney, J a m e s , 7 5 - 7 6 Meaney, T i m o t h y , 7 4 - 7 6 Mercer County, 8, 137, 199

287

INDEX

Meyner, Robert B., 189, 192, 216 Middlesex County, 11, 59, 67, 141 Middletown, 259 Miller, "Ernie," 12 Mills, Mrs. James, 59 Minitola, 171 M o n m o u t h County, 169 Moore, A. Harry, 62, 73, 76, 107, 111, 150 Moorestown, 71, 237 Moretti, Sol, 177 Moretti, Willie, 176 Morris Plains, 273 Morrow, Anne, 100 Morrow, Dwight W., 122 Mott, Wilbur A., 61 Mount Holly, 18, 237, 239 Mount Hope, 118 Mount Horeb, 80 Nasti, Angelo, 208-209 National Guard, 10, 12, 14, 38, 66, 150, 152, 181, 246, 248-252, 254 Netcong, 46 Newark, 22, 27, 30, 107, 110, 118, 120, 179, 181, 203-204, 212, 244-254, 273 Newark Evening News, 25 Newark Star-Eagle, 35 Newark Sunday Call, 72 New Brunswick, 22, 59, 206 New Brunswick Daily Home News, 62 New Republic, 7, 14 New Village, 7 New York American, 113 New York City, 23, 26, 67, 100, 125-127, 134-137, 175-176, 208-209, 259

New York Daily Mirror, 62 New York Herald, 48 New York Times, 8, 26 New York World, 13 Nicol, William, 67, 90, 93 Norfolk, Va., 115 Norin, Abraham, 67 North Arlington, 210 North Brunswick, 139 O'Donnell, Cornelius, 161-162 Olaff, Eugene, 248 Orange, 161 O'Reilly, Philip P., 273 Osborne, Albert, 121, 126-127 Pagano, Lester, 204-206, 272 Palmer, A. Mitchell, 22 Parker, Ellis, 8, 9, 18, 60, 71, 132137 Parker, Ellis, Jr., 137 Parry, William H „ 25, 28 Parsons, T h e o d o r e , 173 Passaic, 22 Paterson, 10-11, 22, 84, 86-87, 187 Patterson, Claude, 271 Paulsboro, 237 Paxton, Glenn, 66 Penns Grove, 92 Pennsylvania State Police, 17, 45 Pennypacker, Samuel Whitaker, 3, 20 Perkins, Robert, 259 Perone, J o h n , 114 Perry, Frank C., 161-162. Pershing, J o h n J., 33, 46 Perth Amboy, 10, 67, 68, 179 Perth Amboy Evening News, 10 Pesko, Max, 208

288

INDEX

Peters, Raymond, 212 Philadelphia, 18, 144 Pierce, Carlton B., 14 Piney Hollow, 171 "Pineys," 9 Pioppi, J o h n , 172 Pitts, Raymond, 236 Plainfield, 80, 170, 253-256 P o m p t o n Lakes, 194 Princeton, 151, 204, 241, 274-275 Princeton University, 188 Pulio, Frank, 238

Saul, Dory, 237 Sayreville, 93, 212 Scalzone, Anthony, 195 Schoeffel, Charles, 32, 97, 103104, 119, 141, 143, 154-156, 160, 163, 167, 173, 174, 176, 183-184, 186, 194 Schwarzkopf, H. N o r m a n , 28-40, 43-50, 54-55, 69-74, 77, 79, 95, 97, 107-109, 111-112, 115116, 118, 121-123, 133, 136139, 141, 184, 189-190, 2 6 1 262, 271

Quinn, A r t h u r , 16-17

Schwarzkopf, Lt.-Col. H. N o r m a n , 261 Scribner's, 48 Sea Bright, 70, 93 Sea Girt, 38, 40, 66, 186, 234, 257, 260, 271 Shafroth, J o h n F., 3 Sharpe, Violet, 119 Shrewsbury, 196 Silverman, Lester, 204-205, 271 Silzer, George, 80 Simcak, Milan, 2 1 2 - 2 1 3 Simpson, Alexander, 19, 25-28, 62-63 Simpson, Walter, 83 Skillman, 108 Smalley, Donald, 171 Smith, J o h n , 246 Smith, Raymond S., 2 7 4 - 2 7 5 Snook, Russell A., 96, 152, 184186, 188, 191-192, 231 Somerset County, 25, 59, 164 Somerville, 63 Sourland Mountains, 9, 101 South Amboy, 67, 177, 190 Spitale, Salvatore, 110 Stamler, Nelson, 176

Ramsey, William E., 12-13 Rancocas Creek, 93 Raritan Bay, 91, 177, 210 Raritan River, 67 Raser, Edward, 81 Raser, Mrs. Edward, 83 Record, George, 16 Red Bank, 150 Reich, Al, 114 Reilly, Edward J., 129 Reilly, George, 50 Richman, Grover C., Jr., 189 Richroath, Richard, 274 Rider, A. D„ 17-18 Ringwood, 53 Ritchie, T o m , 126 Rittenhouse, Ernest, 161-162 Robinson, Thomas, 241 Rogers, Dan, 7 5 - 7 6 Rosner, Morris, 110 Royal Canadian Mounted Police, 29, 43, 45 Rutter, J o s e p h D„ 192-194, 199, 213-214 Ryan, Bill, 53

289

INDEX

State Gazette, 18, 35 State Police Academy, 37 State Police College of Criminal Justice, 263 Stevens, Henry, 61 Stevens, William, 6 1 - u 5 Stockburger, Hugo, 146, 151, 173 Sussex County, 13, 15, 81 Suydam, Jim, 2 0 4 - 2 0 5 Sweeney, James, 259 Teaneck, 176 Ten-Mile Run, 90 T h o m p s o n , Fred, 2 0 8 - 2 0 9 T h o r p e , William, 44 Tomasik, Richard E., 276 T o m s River, 149, 208 Toth, J o h n , 204 Townsend, Barry, 237 T r a u g e r , Richard, 237 T r e n t o n , 18, 29, 39, 47, 69, 111, 146, 159, 190, 276 T r e n t o n State College, 263 Truitt, William, 237 Tullytown, Pa., 158 Turnbull, William S., 143-144 T u r n p i k e , New Jersey, 182-183, 238-239 Ullrich, Charles, 84-86, 89 Umholtz, Leroy, 168 Union County, 14 Vandenbush, Merle, 144-145 Van Ness, Jennie, 90 Van Riper, Walter, 173 Van Sickle, Frank, 8 2 - 8 3 Vorberg, Raymond, 172 Vought, Bart, 209

Wallace, J o h n , 96, 126 Wallace, William, 126 Walsh, Dennis, 53, 83 Walsh, Harry, 80, 112, 118, 120, 271 Ware, David, 84 W a r r e n County, 7, 161, 162 Weinmann, J o h n C., 39, 46 Welles, Orson, 151 Wendel, Paul, 136-137 West Deptford, 238 West New York, 80 Wharton, 11 Whately, Elsie, 101 Whately, Oliver, 101-102 Whippany, 51 Whirligig Society, 5 Whritenour, Edward, 196-197 Wilburtha, 54, 103 Wildwood, 94 Wilentz, David T., 129, 136 Wilke, Ed, 196 Williams, Richard, 154 Wilson, Charles, 80, 271 Wilson, Frank, 116 Wilson, Philip S„ 15 Wilson, Woodrow, 21, 23-24, 31 Wolfe, Harry, 102-103 Woodbridge, 179, 203 Woodbury, 5 Woodsville, 184 World's Work, 48 Yachimak, J o s e p h I., 273 Yarrow, George, 19 Yeager, George, 171 Yenser, Warren, 139-140 Zapolsky, Andrew, 88-89, 94,118, 271

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Leo J. Coakley was born in South Amboy, New Jersey. After high school and a hitch in the Navy, he worked as a laboratory technician, and attended Brown University and Seton Hall University. In 1953 he enlisted in the New Jersey State Police. Sergeant Coakley is presently assigned to Division Headquarters at West Trenton, and makes his home at Bricktown, New Jersey.

The text of this book was set in Basherville Linofilm and printed by Offset on Lindenmeyr's CQ Offset. Composed, printed and bound by Quinn ö3 Boden Company, Inc., Rahway, N.J.