Born to Lose

by James G. Hollock

  Radage said to Nancy, “Officer Simonetti has a list of some things stolen, at least the items Rusty could help him with, but as soon as you can, would you and your husband compile a detailed list, with descriptions, of everything missing?” Referring to thieves in general, Radage explained, “These guys usually fence the stuff, sell it. A lot of times that’s how we catch them.”

  The door opened, followed by the sound of quick footsteps to the living room. Nancy’s husband hurried to the couch. She fell into his arms and cried again.

  Radage and Simonetti returned to the station. Once in his office, Chief Radage removed his hunting jacket, poured coffee, and handed a cup to Simonetti. “Don, this robbery, I don’t like it one bit. We’ve been lucky around here, surrounded as we are with coal mines and farms. We don’t have the city crimes, but I’m worried about this one. It’s not murder, not even a shooting, but damn cold all the same. And the time: so early. Most of the shits we know don’t get up till noon. These two are planners, ambitious. The house, it seems, was a specific target. They knew the husband would go to work but they knew Nancy was home, and they busted in anyway. Don, I want you to get a hold of the other townships. Tell them what happened and see if they got anything similar.” Radage tapped his fingers on his desk three times, then, referring to Allegheny County’s Detective Bureau, said, “I’m going to call Bill Jennings.”

  Within an hour of Radage’s call, William Jennings, the chief of county detectives, along with Detective Dick Byers, were in the Falconer home. If the West Deer Township cops had been thorough, the county detectives were exacting. A comprehensive list of missing items was compiled. Most of the Falconers’ clothing had been taken, even baby articles. A description of their car and their license number—6C8639—were put out on the air again; Radage had already broadcast them once. Also gone was an RCA color TV, a four-inch-screen portable TV, several radios (including a Master Police Band), a small amount of cash, and Nancy’s engagement and wedding rings (taken from her left hand). Most worrisome for the police were the stolen guns: a Remington deer rifle, a relic German Lugar, and a J. C. Higgins .22 caliber pistol. It was a considerable haul, which the robbers had piled into both their own—or stolen—’63 or ’64 dark red Chevrolet convertible and the Falconers’ yellow, wood-paneled Mercury station wagon, whose keys were always left in the ignition.

  Promising to return the next day for a follow-up, Detectives Jennings and Byers were saying their good-byes when Nancy said, “Wait, I remember something else. When the husky one had the knife against my face and later, when he was tying me up, although he had a mask on, I looked at his eyes. They were green.” Byers wrote it down.

  Back at the West Deer Station, Officer Don Simonetti completed his paperwork on the Falconer case. He thought of Nancy, the terror she’d experienced, and wondered again, ‘Who could do this?’ On his form, Simonetti filled in the spaces for date and year: March 27, 1969.

  . . .

  Descriptions of the car involved in the robbery and the Falconer automobile were aired on the police network for all Allegheny County, but for two days, nothing. In the early evening of the third day, a cop patrolling the East Liberty section of Pittsburgh was on Larimor Avenue when he noticed a late-model Mercury wagon, yellow with wood paneling, parked along the curb. The car looked sharp, too nice really for the area, which had seen better days. The cop, O’Mally by name, couldn’t remember seeing it around before. He parked his cruiser nearby and checked his list of “stolens.” There it was: 1967 yellow Merc station wagon, PA 6C8639. O’Mally called it in to the East Liberty Station. In a couple minutes, the officer got a call back instructing him to wait with the automobile.

  O’Mally was surprised when Bill Jennings and Dick Byers showed him their badges. “Well, well, detectives here to see a stolen car! Does it belong to the mayor or something?”

  Byers shook his head. “Nah. It came from a nasty robbery a few days ago up in the country, West Deer Township. Pregnant girl was bound up, gagged, threatened with a gun. Two guys cleaned the house out and took the family car. Now you found it. Good work.”

  Chief Jennings, with his usual, unlit Garcia Y Vega in his mouth, looked through the station wagon. It was left unlocked, but the keys were gone. No noticeable damage inside. Jennings turned to Byers and O’Mally. “Knock on some doors. See if anybody saw the driver. I’ll start with these houses,” Jennings said, with a sweep of his hand. But, as usual, no one questioned saw anything.

  Jennings was disappointed. This looked like a dead end. They had the car but no suspects. He flicked his engraved silver lighter, lit his cigar, and took a few puffs. Byers and O’Mally lit cigarettes, each smoking half before Jennings offered, “Okay, we’ll get the car towed to the pound and have it dusted for prints. I’ll fill in Radage, then let the Falconers know their car’s been found.” Jennings stubbed out his cigar against the sole of his shoe, leaned against the yellow station wagon, and gazed at the rooftops. Without looking at Detective Byers, he said, “Here’s what, Dick: tomorrow we check the pawnshops. A fence has to sell his goods.”

  . . .

  On March 28, 1969, a day after Nancy Falconer was accosted in her home, the local newspaper printed an article with a bold headline: “Bandits: Mother bound, gagged in daylight robbery.” Nancy was quoted throughout: “The robbers were in my home for what seemed like an eternity.” This was alarming news for the folks of the Bairdford area, the rolling countryside where the Falconers lived. West Deer Police Chief Steve Radage and Officer Don Simonetti had notified the neighboring townships with a description of the subjects and any follow-up information, which wasn’t much. With so little to go on, the Falconer robbery might well have gone unsolved save for one thing: Kathy talked.

  Kathy Defino was very frightened. After the rape and Bill’s threats to her, Kathy was mystified to find her home dark and everyone asleep. It was 2:30 A.M., hours past her curfew. No one waiting up? No one looking for her? Hadn’t her friend Sharon called to ask her mother if Kathy was still coming over? By a strange quirk, Kathy’s mother had presumed her daughter had gone to sleep over at Sharon’s, while Sharon, noticing the on-and-off rain, had concluded that Kathy had changed her mind about coming, and never called to make sure. So throughout Friday night no one had worried over Kathy’s whereabouts.

  After her initial confusion, Kathy decided this was just as well: she had decided to suffer on her own. If she revealed the rape to her parents, they would naturally call in the police, and this, she knew, would provoke Bill’s wrath and retaliation. Another thought swirled in her young mind. Twice, at least, Kathy felt she’d taken her last breath—but she had survived. The initial mantra of survival—“He didn’t kill me”—shifted in the roil of her emotions, ranging from relief at still being alive to torment for her own and family’s safety, to “He let me live.” This was compounded by her youthful sense of honor. She had promised never to tell. With little understanding that a promise made under duress cannot be binding, Kathy settled on sparing herself and her family any frightful eventuality by keeping her ordeal secret, forever buried in her martyred soul.

  The following day, Kathy was pale and subdued, her posture slumped. By late afternoon she was so jittery that she dropped a fine china serving plate, which shattered on the floor. Kathy’s brother, Tom, pulled her aside. Eventually, in gasps and sobs, Kathy told Tom what had happened to her. Over her protests, Tom told their parents and the police were called.

  Although Kathy Defino lived in Shaler Township, her abduction occurred in Indiana Township and the rape took place in East Deer Township. Despite these jurisdictional overlaps, the various police departments coordinated their response well. All the cops of the various townships knew each other, at least by name and in most cases personally. It was Officer Dick Curti of Indiana Township who took the first action, noting it as follows: “Received call from base to call Officer Hoffman (Shaler PD) who told me a res. of theirs was raped. Act was thought to take place in Indiana twp. This off
icer, Curti, called and talked with victum’s mother. She was upset and could only tell me her daughter was raped last night but waited till today to tell them. I then talked to Kathy who verified she had been raped. I asked her to come to the station this eve. to give a statement.”

  At 6:30 P.M. on April 5, 1969, Curti noted: “This officer took statement by the victum. Victum taken to St. Francis hosp. by parents to be examined. End.”

  In her statement to Curti, Kathy described both the suspects and their car. Curti put the essentials out on the air soon after: early 1960s Corvette, red exterior and interior; two white males, one with a muscular build, reddish-brown hair, and a thin mustache, wearing a green-and-gold-print shirt, and the second six feet tall with a skinny build and light brown hair.

  Forty-year-old patrolman Melvin “Red” Orris was halfway through his twenty-year career. He’d chase the scoundrels, check the merchants’ locks at night, and make peace between belligerents. Patrolman Orris read about the Falconer robbery, of course. He also received any official reports of the matter through his East Deer stationhouse, although over the preceding couple of days there had been no more news, certainly no fresh leads. Patrolling the township on this April 5, Red Orris received a radio call from his chief, Walter “Cutsy” Usiadek: “Red, a call came in at 1830 hours from Dick Curti over in Indiana. He said a teen girl reported she was raped. Happened last night and into the early hours today in the Murray Hill area. She was taken there from Shaler, where she lives.” Chief Usiadek gave Orris the victim’s name and descriptions of the suspects and the car they were driving.

  Patrolman Orris knew that much of good police work was “waitin’ and watchin,’” and this was what he decided to do early Saturday evening, within half an hour of receiving the rape report. Orris drove his patrol car to the little town of Creighton, to a junkyard called P. J. Greco’s Steel. Orris backed his car into a driveway, so that a building shielded one side of his car and a brick wall the other; the nose of his cruiser only yards away from Route 28, commonly called Freeport Road. From his strategic spot, Orris could see traffic from either direction. He watched the cars pass for an hour or so, but saw nothing.

  The following day, Easter Sunday, Patrolman Orris attended church with his wife and two boys and managed Easter dinner before the start of his three to eleven shift. Just as he had the evening before, Orris decided to sit surveillance for the wanted Corvette. He knew it could be in Maine or Florida by now, but then, who knows? Maybe this pair of no-goods were brash enough to still be driving around in it. Happens all the time. Orris didn’t have the precise year of the car or the license plate number, but in these parts, he thought, how the hell many red Corvettes could there be? With sunset an hour away Orris returned to his hidden spot at P. J. Greco’s Steel and settled in to wait and watch. Ten, thirty, forty-five minutes passed. Then, as Orris would later tell the story:

  All of a sudden I see this red Corvette go by with a couple young guys inside, so I pull out behind them. Inside a half mile I hit my lights and pull them over. I walked up to the Corvette and asked the driver for his license and owner’s card. Can’t find the owner’s card but he shows me his license and it says: Stanley Hoss.Well, I knew him. I hadn’t arrested him before but I knew of his reputation. Car thief, mostly. The other guy said his name was [Richard] Zurka. I told ’em to follow me on account of no owner’s card. I didn’t mention a rape. They pull in right behind me and I lead them to the East Deer Station. There is nobody there but ol’ man Amel, who takes care of the radio calls. I told him privately to watch these guys while I go call the victim and see if she can come in and ID Hoss and Zurka. If she’d come down we’d whip up a lineup. I got ahold of the parents of Kathy Defino and they were going to bring her in. I come out of that room and there is Stanley Hoss sitting by himself. I said to ol’ Amel—who by the way died of a heart attack about three months later—I says, “What the hell happened? Why didn’t you just holler for me?” The old man says, “I was scared. This one here,” nodding at Hoss, “took a gun out of a shoulder holster under his coat, put it on the table and slid it over to the other one, Zurka. Well, Zurka took the gun, looks at me, and I thought I was a dead man. Then Hoss says to Zurka to take the gun and get outta’ here. Zurka stood up with the gun in his hand, takes a last glance at Hoss and me then runs out the door. I guess the keys were left in the ignition ’cause all I heard was the car door slam and him takin’ off.”

  Upon hearing this, a sick feeling swirled in the gut of Patrolman Orris.

  Christ, a career of being careful—a cop has to be careful—think ahead, think eventualities, think the worst. Look what I’ve done! Coulda’ got this old man shot, by my stupidity, or taken a piece of lead myself. Shoulda’ frisked ’em both. That’s elementary but I just plum didn’t. Thank God it didn’t turn out worse. As it was, Hoss was sittin’ at that table, stretched out, relaxed, and wearin’ an empty shoulder holster. I said to him, “So, carryin’ a concealed weapon, huh?” He looks at me all innocent and says, “What weapon?” Then, ya know, that’s the last I seen of Zurka till the county boys picked him up weeks later … and never did find the car. What a mess. I learned, though. From then on, at half a notion I’d frisk your grandmother.

  So anyhow, the Defino girl comes in with her parents and a brother. She was real scared. Father and brother were not allowed in the room with her ’cause they said they were gonna kill Hoss. I’d earlier got a hold of Detectives Bill Jennings and Dick Byers and they came in, too. So did my chief, Cutsy Usiadek, who was none too happy Zurka had bolted with a gun. The East Deer Stationhouse ain’t that big but we had the Definos in one room and Stanley Hoss in another. Cutsy says to get a lineup goin’ so I go over to the firehall, which is the same building, next door you could say, and round up two firemen to stand in with Hoss. Hoss had a coat with him and he was told to put it back on to cover up the shoulder holster he was wearin’. Didn’t want to prejudice the proceedins,’ you see. Then later we were gonna take pictures of him wearin’ the shoulder holster. So the guys formed the lineup and we had the Defino girl stand next to the door, pretty much out of sight but she’d peer around the corner, take a peek.

  Kathy Defino remembered this differently. She said she was placed in the very same room with Stanley Hoss, who gave her a murderous look that had her knees buckling. In any case, according to Orris, “The girl without hesitation pointed out Hoss, so that’s how we got him. She was clear and definite with her ID, and you’d think just bein’ fingered for rape woulda’ broke Hoss’s composure or knocked down that damn cockiness of his, but not so. After we sent the Definos on their way, sayin’ we’d be in touch, Jennings, Byers, Cutsy, and me sat Hoss down for some questioning. We wanted to ask him about a few other crimes in the area, too. ’Course, he didn’t know nothin’. Then he says, calm as you please, that the Defino girl’s a liar, plain and simple.”

  Hoss was seated at the far end of a long, battered oak table. He was surrounded by cops, for by this time two Indiana Township officers, Charles “Spitzy” Pizzuto and Auggie Celo, and their chief, Wilbur Bliss, had dropped in, along with East Deer Township’s Kenneth McKenna and John Novosak. In past years, most of these cops had had some dealings with Stanley Hoss. Zurka was younger and relatively unknown, but Hoss had long enjoyed a cat-and-mouse game with the police. Even so, they had never pegged him as a rapist.

  At the start of questioning, Hoss cleverly deflected minor grilling about his suspected involvement with other unsolved crimes. He even affably asked Officer Novasak, who lived near his own home in Tarentum, “So, John, how’s the wife and your boy? Hell, betcha he’s startin’ school soon, huh?” He then got several in the room to break out laughing when, to no one in particular, he asked, “Ever find that missin’ police cruiser?” It was well known that Hoss had stolen the police car in question from right in front of the East Deer Station, and then had literally buried it in the ground for a month, before digging it up, dismantling it, and selling all the parts. The small
talk and joking was all show, though. Stanley Hoss detested the police, all of them.

  With the laughter in the room and the accused acting smug and easy, Chief Usiadek recognized the interview had been sidetracked. He slapped his hand down on the table and said, necessarily loudly, “Hold up, here!” All smiles vanished. At the same time, Stanley Hoss’s relaxed demeanor switched to a stony stare. He was not intimidated; he merely understood that the cops were now getting down to business.

  Before the Defino family arrived, Chief Usiadek had Mirandized Stanley Hoss. The Miranda ruling was relatively fresh from the Supreme Court and was widely resented by the police, who viewed the warning as pandering to miscreants. Nevertheless, Chief Usiadek had read perfunctorily from a card he’d withdrawn from his wallet: “You have the right to remain silent …”

  Now, sitting at the oak table, Usiadek began the questioning. “Stanley, this girl’s made some serious charges against you. Want to talk about it?”

  “Sure. I got nothing to hide. She’s a liar … didn’t do a damn thing to her.” Hoss hunched forward and opened his hands plaintively on the table. “Look, I was at the Eat ’n’ Park on Route 8 having coffee. She, Kathy—I didn’t know her, though—was talking to some of the waitresses. After a while we left the place.”

  “Who, you and Kathy?” Usiadek asked.

  “No, me and my buddy.”

  “Zurka?”

  “Since you already know his name, yeah, Zurka.”

  Detective Dick Byers, who’d been appraising Hoss very closely, interjected, “Okay, so you and Zurka leave. Where’s the girl come in?” Hoss made casual eye contact with Byers.

  “Well, we walked out but we’re still in the parking lot when she comes out by herself. She’s a good-looking chick and she’s standing right by us. I started talking to her and after a few minutes asked if she’d like to take a ride. I pointed to the Corvette, which she went nuts over, saying she was never in a ’vette before. So we all get in and go for a ride and ended up near a coal mine, I think the Harwick mine, where the car started actin’ up. I drove it to Cheswick, where I adjusted the carburetor, then we later walked up to a gas station for some pop. After this we took the girl home, but I can tell you that me or Rich [Zurka] never touched the broad.”