The Boy Nevada Killed

by Janice Oberding

  Halfway around the world, Austrian archduke Ferdinand and his wife were assassinated in Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Repercussions were far-reaching. Three years after the assassinations, the United States declared war on Germany, and a wartime draft was enacted. Ray Loveless was called up and stationed in Texas, where he trained as a bugler. He wouldn’t witness the devastation being played out on the other side of the world. Over 1,400 young Indiana men would lose their lives fighting in this war. This, then, was the new century. For the first time, deadlier weapons like tanks, airplanes and poisonous gas would be used in warfare. It would be called the war to end all wars. It wasn’t.

  Ray Curtis Loveless as a young man. Photo courtesy of Mike Loveless.

  With the Great War over, those who had fought in distant places came home as heroes. Settling into lives forever changed, they looked toward futures also altered. Men like Hazel’s brothers Elmer and Harry served much closer to home. At the war’s end, they would return home honorably discharged. Some would never return. They would spend eternity in distant graves in a strange land far from homes and loved ones.

  At nineteen, Ray Loveless fit neither category. According to Stockwell gossip, his short hitch in the army ended with his being dishonorably discharged. Ray, they whispered, was involved in a bloody barroom brawl that left one man dead. It was just another reason to fear Loveless, who had the reputation as a burglar and a bully.

  Surely Hazel Frey knew Ray Loveless’s reputation. She may have found this intriguing and romanticized that her love would change him.

  On August 5, 1920, two days before Hazel’s twentieth birthday, Indiana executed its youngest person, eighteen-year-old William Ray. Ray had killed a man during a robbery. Hazel would be long dead when the state again electrocuted an eighteen-year-old, James Swan, for murder.

  In an era when girls aimed for marriage, children and little else, Hazel had few options. If she didn’t get married, what would she do? No matter what townspeople said about Ray, she wanted to be his wife. They were twenty-two when they drove to nearby Lafayette and married in a civil ceremony that neither of their families attended.

  Early in life, Hazel had learned to wait her turn. The youngest of eight brothers and sisters, she had little choice. Ray was different. He’d been spoiled, some said, by an adoring mother and easygoing father.

  Ray and Hazel’s marriage was doomed from the start. Parenthood only made it worse. The spring of 1926 came and went in a flurry of rainstorms and tornadoes that roared through Indiana, devastating everything in their paths. Safe from the rising banks of the Wabash, the little town of Stockwell was considered fortunate to receive rain without the terrible effects of the tornadoes. With August came heavy rains that seemed to never let up. Fort Wayne received nearly five inches of rain in a day. If this was worrisome, money was not. Ray provided for them by working at a nearby ice cream store. But there was his quick temper. Whenever it flared, he lashed out and found himself without a job. Even in these times, there was always another job. And if there wasn’t, they would still eat. His parents would see to that. She and Ray fought bitterly, but she adored the elder Lovelesses and got along well with them.

  Leonard and Nettie Loveless in a professional studio photo. Photo courtesy of Mike Loveless.

  Floyd and Robert Kay Loveless on their tricycles. Photo courtesy of Robert Kay Loveless.

  In the early morning hours of November 2, 1926, Hazel and Ray’s third child, Floyd Burton Loveless, was born. Much to his mother’s delight, everyone who gazed at the dark-haired baby agreed that he was the spitting image of her. Baby Floyd was barely one year old when his maternal grandmother, Abbie Frey, died. Hazel was heartbroken.

  HAZEL

  In June 1930, farmland was losing value by the day. Once secure jobs vanished as factories and mills closed. The country was in the midst of the Great Depression. On her last day on earth, June 15, Hazel Loveless was surrounded by hopelessness. Never had she felt so trapped. Voluminous gray clouds that had loomed overhead most of the morning finally broke open, spilling rain throughout the day. She didn’t have far to walk. Every Sunday, she, Ray and the boys had dinner at his parents’ home just across the tracks. Her mother-in-law, Nettie, was probably busy with her kitchen chores as Hazel gathered her sons and started out. She walked quickly, pulling the three youngsters along as they tried their best to keep up with her purposeful strides. At the Main Street railroad crossing, she stopped and listened. There it was—freedom. The southbound Big Four freight train was racing toward them.

  Suddenly, she let go of the little boys’ hands and admonished them, “You stay here!”

  Then without so much as a backward glance, she ran into the path of the oncoming train. The train slammed into her and continued on its journey. As their mother was tossed into the air, the boys screamed in terror. It was half past six in the evening, dinnertime at the Loveless home. Hazel died even as the ambulance whisked her broken body toward Home Hospital in Lafayette.

  Hazel Loveless in front of the Loveless home with her three sons. Floyd Loveless is on the right. Photo courtesy of Robert Kay Loveless.

  The Loveless home as it appears today. Photo by Bill Oberding.

  Hazel Belle Loveless’s death left unanswered questions. Accidental death was the finding of the acting Tippecanoe County coroner. Yet many of those who had grown up with Hazel and Ray believed differently. Gossips said that she had committed suicide as a means of escaping an unhappy marriage and the responsibilities of raising three children. There was also the possibility that she was pregnant with a fourth child and unable to cope with that eventuality.

  The spot where Hazel Loveless died, as it looks today. Photo by Bill Oberding.

  Whether or not she took her own life, her death would have a devastating effect on the lives of her two younger sons. More than fifty years had passed when Robert Kay Loveless was asked if he believed that his and his brothers’ lives would have turned out differently had their mother lived. He answered without hesitation, “Yes.”

  Did he believe her death was a suicide? Again, he answered, “Yes.”

  Hazel’s funeral was held at the same church she had worshipped in as a child. At nearby Fairhaven Cemetery, mourners remembered that only a few years ago, they had come to Mulberry to bury Hazel’s mother, Abbie Frey. In their sorrow, they never would have thought that the baby would be the first of them to go. On this day, they stood on the grassy slope and bid Hazel Belle goodbye.

  Ray Loveless looked at his small sons, the hot Indiana sun bearing down on them. Left alone with three kids, what would he do? Kindly friends and relatives patted the Loveless boys on their heads. Whatever thoughts they may have held, none dared whisper suicide here. It was a terrible accident, and that was that.

  Three months after his sister was laid to rest, John Frey appeared in the Tippecanoe County Circuit Court as guardian of her three minor children. The Frey family heirs owned several acres of land in and around Stockwell. Indiana was as deep in the midst of depression as the rest of the country; a $6,000 mortgage, plus interest, was well past due on the lands. Rents on the lands barely paid the interest and taxes. Like so many other Indiana landowners, the Freys were no longer able to make the payments. They hoped to sell before the bank foreclosed on the land their father had worked so hard to own.

  Fairhaven Cemetery. Photo by Bill Oberding.

  Hazel Loveless’s and Floyd Loveless’s graves. Photo by Bill Oberding.

  The Loveless boys stood to inherit their mother’s share. In order to sell, they needed a legal guardian. A year later, the deal was struck, their interests were sold and each boy received $25.21 after expenses; it was a lot of money in the brothercan-you-spare-a-dime era of the Great Depression. Still feeling guardian-like, Frey suggested the court put each boy’s money in a savings bank or trust company in the county until he reached the age of twenty-one. The court agreed.

  Ray Loveless and his mother, Nettie Loveless, with a chicken. P
hoto courtesy of Mike Loveless.

  Frey had done the best he could by his nephews. Now his job was done. He had agreed to be their guardian only long enough to oversee their interests in the sale of the land. The land was sold, and the boys were on their own.

  By 1933, unemployment had reached 25 percent. Indiana was still largely agricultural. As prices for agricultural products tumbled, poverty spread across the state. Small towns like Stockwell were hit especially hard. With the buying power of approximately $1,213.72 in today’s dollars, that $75.63 the boys had in the bank would come in handy for buying groceries and paying bills.

  There was also the growing fear of bank closures. The money could be lost forever. At Ray Loveless’s urging, John Frey petitioned the court to release the money so that “your petitioner have and use the same to provide necessities for said minor children.”

  The court agreed.

  ANOTHER CHANCE

  Ray remarried two years after Hazel’s death. He needed a wife, and his boys needed a mother. While the new Mrs. Loveless treated her stepsons well, she and her spouse were not happy in the marriage. The ink on their divorce decree had hardly dried when Ray’s eyes fell on the much younger Dorothy Fickle. After the briefest of courtships, she became the third Mrs. Ray Loveless.

  Unlike his two previous marriages, this was a happy union that would last the rest of their lives. As happy as she made Ray, Dorothy and her stepsons didn’t always get along. This was especially true of Floyd.

  Some said it was because Floyd looked like his mother. Others said it was because he was spoiled by his grandmother Nettie and aunt Ruby. No one could deny that Floyd was a budding thief, just as his father had been. But his stepmother probably didn’t think of that when ticking off the child’s faults. According to Nettie, the stepmother simply didn’t like Floyd. The feelings were mutual; he avoided her whenever he could.

  By some accounts, Floyd looked up to his brother Kay, who at ten seemed worldly and grown up. When the boys started getting into trouble, most of the family agreed that it was Kay’s idea. The stealing, the burglarizing of neighbors’ farmhouses and the shoplifting at every store in town were nothing more than Kay’s leading Floyd astray. Only Dorothy disagreed. Floyd, she insisted, was the strong-willed one. Leave it to him to talk his brother Kay into their childish crime sprees. And leave it to the family to blame Kay.

  Young Dorothy Fickle Loveless in a flapper-style hat. Photo courtesy Mike Loveless.

  At nine and ten years of age, the two younger Loveless sons had reputations as a couple of mischievous youngsters who weren’t receiving the proper guidance from the adults in their lives. Much of what they did was chalked up to their being motherless. As young as they were, the boys took full advantage of the community’s pity. They attended the Methodist church every Sunday morning. The lessons being dispensed there were of no interest to them. They had discovered an easy way to get what they wanted. And it didn’t include do unto others. As they grew older, the Loveless boys’ crimes would become more blatant. By then, the town’s pity was spent.

  Dorothy Fickle Loveless as a young woman. Photo courtesy of Mike Loveless.

  By the summer of 1938, area farmers had enough of the Loveless brothers breaking into their farmhouses and stealing whatever they could get their hands on. There was nothing to do but file complaints against the boys. The judge was kindly; the youngsters caught a break when he decided jail was not the place for them. These youngsters, he reasoned, might benefit from living with their aunt Ruby rather than their father and his wife.

  And so they moved into the two-room cottage with their aunt. But she couldn’t keep the boys out of trouble any better than their father could. She finally gave up and moved away, leaving them behind. Their mother was dead. Their father had a new family and had all but abandoned them. Without adult supervision, they spent their nights burglarizing homes in Lafayette. In their bravado, the boys started hopping freight trains and playing with guns.

  “The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree,” people told each other knowingly.

  There was barely enough money to live on, let alone buy the things on display at Horwitz’s Variety Store. It was hard enough just to scrounge up a few pennies for Floyd to pay for his soda pop and his candy, let alone the gleaming pocket watch that caught his eye as he glanced at the display of candy.

  Floyd Loveless with the family dog. Photo courtesy of Robert Kay Loveless.

  While he pretended to decide which candy he would buy, Floyd fumbled for coins and then quickly grabbed a candy bar and shoved it into his pocket. He was thirteen; he might have gotten away with his crime. He didn’t.

  The clerk saw him. “Put that candy back where you found it, young man. And then you may leave the store.”

  His face flushed red with humiliation, he flung the candy down. At least she didn’t call the police on him. It was better than reform school and jail. Floyd ran from the store, cursing her and his own ignorance. Kay had warned him if he was going to do things against the law he had better wise up, quick. With the memory of the angry storekeeper fresh in his mind, Floyd decided that now might be a good time for wising up.

  Chapter 2

  1942

  NIGHTS IN LAFAYETTE

  On December 7, 1941, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, bringing the United States into another war. On the homefront, the war effort took center stage and rationing was the order of the day. Sugar, flour, gasoline, meat, butter—everything was needed to fight the war. Shortages weren’t the only effect of the war. According to the National Probation Association 1943 Yearbook, the first two years of World War II saw a surge in juvenile delinquency. In May 1942, a convention that addressed the issues of juvenile delinquency was held in New Orleans. Some parts of the country were beginning to take a different, more enlightened, approach toward probation and youthful offenders.

  THE CAT BURGLAR

  In April 1942, Floyd thought of nothing but the ring with the large amber stone. Flush with cash, he stopped at Horwitz’s. Slipping the ring onto his middle finger, he pulled a bill from his pocket and placed it on the counter. While the cashier made change, he grabbed a ladies’ watch from the display and stuffed it into his pocket. But there was something more important on his mind. The idea of being shipped overseas sounded exciting. The radio carried news of the war every day. Men were needed to fight; his older friends and cousins were enlisting. He wanted to join the armed forces, too. Girls were impressed by a fellow in a uniform, and just think of the strange lands he’d see as a sailor. He’d be sixteen in six months, and he could fight as well as the next guy. He took all the tests and passed. He was ready to join the navy. He only needed his dad’s OK.

  To his surprise, his father refused to sign. Ray didn’t want his son going off to war. Too many boys were already getting killed. Floyd wouldn’t be one of them. He would have to wait until he was old enough to see action. Hopefully, he would change his mind before that time came. Floyd was crushed. Neither he nor his father would ever forget this night.

  Police called him the cat burglar. His crime spree began in May 1942 in the Oakland Hill area of Lafayette. Men working the night shift nervously checked their doors and windows before heading off to work. For the next nine hours, they and their wives would worry lest the prowler choose to break into their homes. The burglar struck after midnight and always when a woman was home alone. The crimes turned violent on June 20. Kids his age were home and in bed. Floyd was in Lafayette looking for something to steal. As long as it added to his and Kay’s cache of stolen goods, he was happy.

  In his later confession, Floyd stated:

  On June 19, 1942 I came to Lafayette and was on my way home at about 1 A.M. on June 20, 1942. I walked out on Kossuth Street in Lafayette when it occurred to me that I could make some easy money by getting into a house. A few houses west of Mrs. Soller’s residence at 2215 Kossuth Street, I took two quart milk bottles from the porch. In my pocket I had a skeleton key which I had found o
n my brother’s place. I was getting pretty close to Main Street and Kossuth when I spotted a house which I later learned was Mrs. Soller’s residence, 2215 Kossuth Street. I walked over to the side door of this house and tried the door. I then unlocked the door with the skeleton key I had and left this door open. I went into the house and sat down on the davenport. I got up after about ten minutes, looked into a room at the end of the hall and I noticed a woman asleep in this room. I then looked into the other room and saw another woman sleeping in that room. I then turned the light on in that room and the woman woke up and I turned the light off and stepped out in the hall. I had a handkerchief over the lower part of my face and covered part of my nose. I fixed this handkerchief while I was sitting on the davenport. This lady then stepped out of her bedroom and then I hit her with one of the milk bottles I had.

  She staggered and the other woman came out. The lights were turned on by someone and the woman whom I hit with the bottle asked me what I wanted and I said I wanted some money. This woman went into her room, took a pocketbook and gave me two twenty dollar bills. I took the money and asked her if that is all she had and she said yes. I then told them to get back into their rooms and then I left through the side door by which I entered. Alongside the filling station on Main Street at Kossuth I threw the second milk bottle I had over a fence and it hit some tracks and it busted. I then walked out on Main Street and caught a ride home near Huttons. Robert Kay Loveless my brother borrowed twenty dollars of this money and I spent the other twenty on shows and I don’t know what all. When I got home that night I told Kay all about what happened and he knew that the twenty he borrowed from me was stolen.