Taking the wheel of the GTO for the first time, Stanley Hoss briefly continued north on 219 before heading west on 322. Here he came to dot-on-the-map Rathmel in rural Pennsylvania. At a gas station there, Dallas LeRoy Douthit was bent over some repair work in one bay when he heard a car pull in. Straightening up and rubbing his hands with an old cloth, he walked toward the customer.
“Evenin’,” Douthit said, still wiping grime from his hands.
“Listen,” said the driver, smiling, friendly-like, “I need to ask ya something, a favor really. I just come in from Franklin, took my wife to her mother’s.” Throwing a thumb toward the backseat, the customer continued, “We’re goin’ back to Franklin to get ready for a birthday party.” Bending down a bit to look inside, Douthit’s eyes followed the thumb’s direction to see a little girl with long blonde hair sitting in a car seat. “Now, guess what?” said the driver. “My wife told me the credit card was in the glove box but, wouldn’t ya know, can’t find it. Don’t have any money on me, so I was wonderin’ if I could leave you my spare tire for a tank of gas? If that’s all right I’ll be back soon with the money an’ get my tire.”
Douthit appraised the man: mid-twenties, brown hair cut short, army fatigue jacket, three or four days’ of beard—a “workin’ guy,” who wouldn’t be pulling a scam, not with his daughter with him.
“Sure,” said Douthit, “reckon we can do that.”
“Great, this is a big help. What time do you close?”
“In three hours, at 9 o’clock.”
Douthit watched the man get the tire from the backseat of the automobile and roll it into the service station. Douthit filled the tank, then made out a charge slip for $6.50. The jacketed man signed the slip “Bill Young.” He then mentioned to Douthit that his daughter was hungry and asked if there was anything to eat at the station. Douthit told him there were some crackers. “Bill” went inside and bought some cheese crackers. He told Douthit all he had was thirty cents.
“Bill” waved at Douthit before hopping behind the wheel. Douthit noticed that during the whole ten-minute encounter, “the little blonde girl remained in the car seat. She had her hand up to her mouth and was silent the whole time.”
Douthit gave no thought to why the spare tire was in the backseat, but he would have been dumbstruck to know the tire could no longer fit in the trunk, not with the little girl’s mother thrown back there, growing colder by the minute.
Hurrying out of Rathmel, Hoss did indeed drive to Franklin, as he’d told Douthit. A mile south of town, about 8:15 P.M., Hoss pulled up to the Idle-wood Motel. Inside the office, he asked assistant manager Bonnie Engels the price of a room, adding that he’d been working on a car in the area but would need lodging since the work wasn’t done and promising to return shortly with the money. During their conversation, Engels noticed the man had left his car’s motor running. She saw no other individuals in the car.
Hoss had made a plan to get money, but first he had to steal another car. He drove through Franklin until he found a suitable place to strike.
Earlier in the day, Hazel White had returned to her home at Franklin’s Terrace Garden Apartments. She parked her 1963 white Chevy in stall 7, then went inside. Every Monday night, Hazel watched her favorite show, Laugh-In, which began at 8:00 P.M.
Somewhere in the middle of Hazel’s TV show, Stanley Hoss walked into the parking lot of the Terrace Garden Apartments. He’d left the GTO parked in an isolated spot several blocks away. He did not know what had yet been reported in Cumberland, Maryland, but he did not want to risk exposing his location by any sightings of the car.
William Howard stopped at the Minut Man Service Station in Franklin to grab a Coke and shoot the breeze with two friends, Terry Wymer and Robert Smith, who were the station’s attendants. At 9:00 P.M., a ’63 white Chevy pulled up and stopped in front of the office, the car engine left running.
The next thing Howard knew, the driver
was standing behind me and I heard him say, “This is a holdup. Everybody in the back room.”
I turned around, and there’s this guy, holding a revolver. Well, I, Terry, and Bob started laughing at him, thinking he was someone else’s friend, but the guy pushed me, then shouted, “I said move!” So we walk into the back room with the gun held on us. We were ordered to lay on the floor.
The guy yelled, “I want all your money.” We fished around in our pockets and gave him three or four dollars. Next, the guy asked where the rest of the money was, so Bob said it was out front. Bob had to get up and open the cash register, so the guy took all that money. He shoved Bob back in with us. Everything up till then happened so fast, but we’re wondering if now’s the time we’ll be shot, but what we hear was, “Don’t anybody move for five minutes or I’ll come back and blow your heads off.”
Winding his way back to the Terrace Garden Apartments, Hoss parked the Chevy in stall 2, then trotted away. When he got back to the GTO, parked in deep shadow off the beaten path, he walked around the car, listening carefully. He heard nothing. He unlocked the driver’s door and sat inside, counting his loot from the robbery: $144, plus a $10 roll of quarters. He then walked behind the car and opened the trunk, lifting out Lori Mae, away from her dead mother.
By 10:00 P.M., Hoss had returned to the Idlewood Motel, again greeted by Bonnie Engels.
“I’ll take that room now, and do you have a cot or something for my little girl?”
“Why, of course. We keep rollaway beds on hand for people who need them.”
Hoss sat Lori Mae down on the countertop to get out his wallet. Bonnie Engels gently poked Lori’s tummy, exclaiming, “Aren’t you a princess?”
“Yes, she is,” Hoss replied. “Her mother—my wife—was recently killed in an auto accident, so that’s why she’s with me now.”
Bonnie’s mother-in-law, Gertrude, had gotten up from an easy chair to help by opening the registration book. Bonnie said, “Gert, did you hear that? This little one’s just lost her mama in an accident.” Both women clucked sympathy. “Oh, for goodness sakes, what is her name?” Bonnie asked.
In the role of grieving but stalwart young father, Hoss replied, “Lori, Lori Mae.”
Hoss signed in as “Bill Young,” then asked about eating places. Bonnie pointed to the adjacent Idlewood Restaurant where, Gertrude piped in, “You’ll not find better meatloaf anywhere.”
“While you’re at the restaurant, Mr. Young,” Bonnie thought to say, “I’ll have my husband get the rollaway set up, so when you get back everything will be all ready for you.”
Inside the restaurant, Hoss took a table where he could observe the intersection of routes 8 and 62, as well as the motel parking lot. Hoss told the waitress, Zeedith Hoover (Zeda, to her friends) that his wife had stuck him with the kid and asked Zeda what a two-year-old wants to eat. Zeda suggested mashed potatoes with gravy and chocolate milk. Hoss ordered a roast beef sandwich, mashed potatoes and gravy, and two cups of coffee. After bringing the meals over, Zeda sat beside the little girl to help feed her. As she did so, she noticed that the man, presumably the child’s father, was “extremely unkempt, inasmuch as his hair was ungroomed and he needed a shave and a good shower.” Conversely, recalled Zeda, “the child did not appear to be dirty at all but her hair did need a combing. When I was feeding her, she called me ‘mommy’ several times.”
It was late, past 11:00 P.M., when Hoss turned the key to his motel room. The proprietors had set up the separate bed for Lori Mae. He’d situate her shortly, but first he’d lie down, close his eyes for a minute. It had been a long day.
Not to mention earlier misdeeds, the past twenty-four hours had seen Hoss in four states, staying ahead of the law. He had raped Karen Maxwell, stolen the Impala in Wheeling, stolen the GTO in LaVale, kidnapped Linda and Lori Mae Peugeot, murdered Linda, scammed an attendant for gasoline, stolen the white Chevy in Franklin, and pulled an armed robbery. Yes, quite a day.
At 11:45 P.M., he opened his eyes. Lori Mae was beside him, sleeping. He got up to put her on the rollaway but first, vigilant and ever-wary, Hoss pulled the front curtain aside for a look outside. He saw a black car in the parking lot. It was nondescript, but to Hoss it smelled cop. Sure enough, moments later Hoss saw a state trooper walk into the motel office. He didn’t know if the trooper was checking license plates, reviewing guest registrations, or just making rounds, but it didn’t matter. Within minutes, Hoss had thrown Lori Mae in the backseat and eased the GTO out of the parking lot onto Route 8 south. He kept going.
After awhile, by a series of back roads, Hoss traveled west into Ohio, turning onto Route 224, a road that traces a straight line across the breadth of northern Ohio—and one on which, in the near future, sheriffs and FBI would converge, mark, trace, and investigate.
South of Akron on 224, Hoss saw a motel. He slowed, thinking to turn in, but drove on a minute or or so before turning right onto an unnamed dirt road. After another ten minutes, he had passed only one cottage. Soon the car was swallowed up by wild brush and the night. He stopped, checked on Lori Mae, who was quiet in the back, then got out and stepped to the rear of the car. In the darkness he had to hunt and peck with the key before the trunk finally popped open.
Fifteen minutes later, Hoss returned to the GTO. If ever Hoss got a hold of another spare tire, it would now fit nicely in the trunk.
In the earliest hours of Tuesday, September 23, Hoss returned to the motel he’d seen on Route 224. He checked in with Lori Mae. Moments later, he was sleeping like a baby.
At the same time that Hoss was falling asleep in Ohio, back in Cumberland, Maryland, Deputy Sheriff Richard Buckel slowed his cruiser along Route 40. A lone vehicle in Kings parking lot caught his eye. He pulled in to check it out. The doors were unlocked, the ignition popped. The information Buckel got back on the Super Sport with Ohio plates shocked him.
The criminal investigator of Allegany County answered his bedside phone before the second ring. Not bothering with apologies for the early hour, Trooper Milton Hart said, “Bill, we got something here. Deputies found an abandoned car in LaVale. Got word it was stolen yesterday morning in Wheeling by a cop killer from Pittsburgh. That happened Friday. We got a bulletin on that. Suspect is Hoss, Stanley. Anyway, we got the car. Can you come in to the front of Kings?”
“Give me ten minutes.” Bill Baker rolled out of bed, got on some clothes. His pretty wife, Erma Jean, used to odd-hour phone calls, was sleepy but awake. “Honey,” her husband said, “that was Milt. Not sure what we have yet but I’ll call after you get up.” Baker kissed his index finger then placed it against Erma Jean’s forehead. He slipped on a coat, then, with his Smith and Wesson and twenty-seven years’ experience, headed out the door.
William F. Baker was a lawman Maryland’s Allegany County was glad to have. He’d joined the state police in 1942 but was soon called to duty with naval intelligence for the duration of the World War II. In 1946, Baker was reassigned to the state police where, excepting a stint with the Secret Service protecting President Harry S. Truman, he served until assuming the important position of county investigator, a liaison between police authorities and the state’s attorney. Astute, curious, meticulous, Baker was key to the county’s success in cases from apprehension through trial. A lifelong resident of Allegany County, Baker knew 80 percent of the people he dealt with, or at least knew of them. “When we have a murder around here,” Baker said, “it’s usually a family situation. Most of the time the killer is waiting for me when I arrive.”
This time, though, when Baker arrived at Kings parking lot, the suspected cop killer hadn’t been so obliging as to wait around. Approaching the cluster of cops, Baker spoke first with Sheriff Paul Heberlein.
“I don’t think much but the car. You aware about this?”
“Yeah, Milt filled me in, and I knew by the bulletins Pennsylvania is looking for this guy. This for sure the car?”
“Well, we’ll take it in for processing, maybe we can get prints, but yeah, hot-wired, same Ohio plate, even the owner’s registration in the glove box. This is it.”
“Okay, as soon as Kings opens, we’ll talk to the manager and anyone who worked yesterday, see if anyone saw anything. Pittsburgh notified?”
“Milt’s on that. He just left for the barracks. He wants you to go over when you’re done here.”
The sheriff looked at the white car, then to Baker. “Can you imagine, Bill, a cop killer driving right through here?’
“I’d just like to know what he’s driving now. From yesterday on, do we have any reports of stolen cars?”
“Nothing from noon yesterday.”
Five minutes later, at the LaVale barracks, Baker sat down with Trooper Hart.
“Milt, do we know anything else?”
“Not much. We’re watchin’ for stolen car reports. We might get something in a couple hours when people leave for work. Pittsburgh and Wheeling offices are sending agents here. They should arrive soon.”
“Any missing person reports?”
“Not really, but there was one call earlier, last evening. A mother called in, said her daughter and granddaughter had gone shopping and hadn’t returned when expected. We logged it and told her to be patient. The mother, an Edna Thompson, called again at 8:30 P.M. There were no accident reports, nothing, so … She called us again at midnight, worried, distraught really.” Fingering the Hoss bulletin on his desk, Milt caught Baker’s eye.
“You don’t think … ?”
“Don’t know what to think. It’s a long shot, but I don’t like the coincidence. If we learn nothing more by daybreak, we’ll call the mother.”
Milt swung his feet up on his desk, leaned back, and lit up a Lucky. “Bill, the cop in Pittsburgh … when’s the funeral?”
“Today.”
. . .
“There is nothing finer than a good policeman. Such a one was Joseph Paul Zanella. Today, this splendid young man is dead. Now, more than ever, we realize the terrible risks our policemen take every day to protect us.” So wrote the Advance Leader the day after Joe was shot down. Citizens of the twin boroughs took up collections for Joe’s widow and children. The common spirit was, ‘Where can I send my contribution?’
There was a tremendous show of sympathy for the fallen officer and his family. On Sunday, the first day of viewing, hundreds of friends and townsfolk came to Burket Funeral Home in Oakmont to pay their respects. Joe’s four sisters, Barbara, Patricia, Shirley, and Debra, suffering themselves, were worried about their parents. “Dad held up okay in the public eye,” Barbara said, “but in private he openly grieved. Mom wept over and over, ‘My Sonny, what am I going to do?’ Mary Ella’s family stayed with her at all times. Lord, with the babies to take care of …”
By Sunday evening, there was no room inside the funeral home. The line of mourners wound its way outside for blocks. The Eagles service organization arrived but had to form up across the street for words and prayer. On Monday, the second day of viewing, fifteen hundred mourners passed by the casket. That evening, five hundred uniformed law enforcement officers gathered outside the funeral home to attend the Fraternal Order of Police services.
On Tuesday, the day of the funeral, Verona stood still. The procession left the funeral home to proceed along Allegheny River Boulevard, which was lined with American flags. Groups of residents stood along the funeral route, men saluting and women dabbing their eyes as the hearse passed by. At the borough building, Lieutenant Ken Sechoka led a sixteen-man honor guard, their rifles cracking in salute to their friend and colleague.
At St. Joseph Roman Catholic Church, Father Carl Gentile led the mass. Following the gospel, he spoke of Officer Zanella and asked why this tragedy had happened. “For many here, the sorrow of this occasion will last for today, but for Officer Zanella’s family, it will always be.” At the close of mass, the pallbearers delivered the casket to the waiting hearse. St. Joseph Cemetery was a short distance away.
Joy Zelek, who was seven years old on the day of the Zanella’s funeral, recalled the occasion through a child’s eyes.
We were at Cribbs Field, a ball field and playground. I was in my brownie uniform with the other girls in my troop. We watched as a long, long line of cars went by, heading up the hill. In one of the cars was our school nurse, Rita Kelly: lovely woman, vibrant red hair, so she stood out. We yrecognized her and started running through the playground toward her car, yelling, “Mrs. Kelly! Mrs. Kelly!” We were feeling exuberant, but the scout leaders corralled us and told us to hush, then explained what we were seeing and how it called for respectful silence. We grouped together to hold hands and bow our heads, because we wanted to be respectful.