Post by tim on May 23, 2007 19:30:18 GMT -5
World War II had ended a short six months earlier. The people of Texarkana, as those of every city, town and don't-blink-your-eyes crossroads, were savoring the newly established peace. The returning veterans and their war brides were busy conceiving the generation that would come to be known as the Baby Boomers.
Servicemen were reacquainting themselves with family, hunting for jobs and buying or constructing homes of their own. Many were attending college under the new G.I. Bill. Factories, once churning out the hardware of combat, turned to consumer products and created jobs that sustained the hope of continued prosperity.
In such an atmosphere of peace and plenty, no one could envision or predict the evil that would stalk Texarkana and the surrounding area for the next seventy-one days.
Without warning and for reasons only his sick mind could comprehend, a madman started a reign of terror, leaving five people brutally murdered and three others seriously injured. Ruthless. Premeditated. Cunning. Texarkana would assume a siege mentality as its citizens began to look over their shoulders and jump at bumps in the night.
Who was the perpetrator of these brutal acts? A transient? A thrill-killer seeking out virgin territory? Perhaps a veteran who had been horribly affected by what he had witnessed on far-distant battlefields.
Or, possibly, something even more frightening plagued the little town. Could the killer be a trusted neighbor who, until his bloodthirsty desires overcame him, had been perfectly normal in his everyday behavior?
Whatever the case, doors and windows were locked and double checked, porch lights were left on at night, and a brisk business ensued in the sale of guns and ammunition.
The "Phantom Killer", as he would quickly become known, made his terrible debut on the night of February 22, along a tree-lined stretch of road known as "Lovers' Lane." Spring Lake Park, a popular recreational area, was adjacent. Stars winked in a clear sky. Traffic hummed on the not-too-distant Highway 67. Although giving the appearance of being isolated, the lane was well within the reaches of Texarkana's nightly glow.
The area had always been safe, but, at times, it could seem a little eerie.
On that fateful night, twenty-three-year-old Jimmy Hollis drove into Lovers' Lane, accompanied by nineteen-year-old Mary Jeanne Larey. Jimmy stopped the car, turned off the headlights and ignition, and the couple began to talk. Trees cast skeletal shadows on the lane. A still night. A peaceful night. Just another still, peaceful night in a string of still, peaceful nights made for romance.
Then, suddenly, out of the darkness, a figure appeared at the driver's side window. In the only observation that Jimmy and Mary Jeanne agreed on, the man wore a white handkerchief over his face. Crude holes had been torn out for his eyes and mouth.
Shining a flashlight in their faces, he ordered them out of the car in a gruff voice. The couple, reluctant at first, was quick to comply when the man brandished a revolver.
Hollis was told to drop his trousers and when he did, the revolver was brought down hard against the back of his head. Mary Jeanne would later testify that she heard the crack of bones and knew the force had been more than required if intended as a knockout blow. The object was murder. Hollis fell to the ground as if he had breathed his last.
After giving Jimmy a savage kick, the assailant turned his attention to the terrified Mary Jeanne. The kerchief hiding his face sucked in and puffed out in his savage excitement. In the same gruff voice, he ordered her to run away. Miss Larey, hoping against all odds that there was a chance for escape, did as she was told. Her shaking legs moved as fast as she could pump them as she stumbled up the rough road toward safety.
The man waited a few moments, and then broke into a run, easily overtaking her and knocking her to the ground with the butt of his revolver. As she lay helpless, he leapt on top of her and began to simulate a rape. As thoughts of rape and painful death raced through her brain, headlights flashed in the distance and her attacker vanished as quickly as he had appeared. Regaining her senses, Mary Jeanne cowered in the bushes until she thought the coast was clear and staggered in search of help.
In the hospital, x-rays determined that Hollis had been struck so hard with the revolver that his skull and several vertebrae were fractured. Luck, even though he may not have thought so at the time, had been with him. He would be the first and last man to survive the Phantom Killer.
Bruised, battered, and emotionally scarred, Mary Jeanne Larey was hospitalized for an extended period while doctors kept a close tab on her injuries.
When questioned by the police, the couple could not agree upon or remember a single similar aspect of their attacker's description. Hollis thought that the man was white. Mary Jeanne insisted that he was black.
How tall was he? They couldn't say. Was he of large, medium or slight build? They couldn't remember. Was he wearing gloves? Neither noticed. In the end, the police decided to keep mum about the attack in the hopes that without any widespread publicity they would have a better chance of apprehending the assailant. It proved to be the worst decision they could have made.
The next attack took place on the night of March 24. Richard Griffin, twenty-nine and a recently discharged Seabee, drove the seventeen year old Polly Ann Moore to the Lovers' Lane area. Griffin's 1941 Oldsmobile was located not more than 250 feet from busy Highway 67. The next morning, their bodies were found, each having been killed with two .32 caliber bullets to the head. Any gossip as to the difference in the victims' ages was quickly replaced by the rumors regarding the sheer brutality of their deaths.
The news spread through Texarkana like a wild fire through dry kindling. Residents, never notified of the first attack, were now aware of both. People were outraged and rightly so. Later, the critics speculated that if the first attack had been publicized Griffin and Moore might have been still alive and well.
The local authorities were soon augmented by a number of Texas Rangers and police from neighboring towns. Unfortunately, hundreds of the morbidly curious had flocked to the scene, trampling any possible foot and tire impressions and smearing any latent fingerprints that may have existed.
Without any clear-cut direction in which to proceed, the investigation soon bogged down. The Texas Rangers, whose talents were never fully appreciated, were sent on their way with assurances from the Texarkana police that they were more than capable of handling matters. Or so they thought.
The third attack came three weeks to the day on April 14. A seventeen-year-old boy, by the name of Paul Martin, and his fifteen-year-old date, Betty Jo Booker, had left a dance where she had played her alto sax with a band called "The Rhythmaires." It was late. They drove straight to Spring Lake Park, arriving around two o'clock in the morning. Despite the hour, the Phantom Killer was patiently waiting.
What possessed them to go to that spot after everything that had happened, will never be fully understood. Was it teenage complacency? Had they simply forgotten in their eagerness to snuggle? Or perhaps they had gone there with the youthful attitude: "Ah! There's nothing to worry about. Those terrible things could never happen to us."
Whatever the case, Paul Martin's body was found roadside the next morning, nearly a mile from where he had parked his car. He had been shot in the face and, again, in the back of the head. After an extensive search, the police located Miss Booker's body. The killer had taken her up a dirt road and into a secluded field. She, too, had been dispatched with a bullet to the back of the head. It appeared that the killer had forced his victims into his car to dispose of them in a more leisurely manner.
This time, panicked and a lot less cocky, the local police were more than willing to relinquish jurisdiction. The Texas Rangers were called in. Captain Manuel "Lone Wolf" Gonzaullas headed up the investigation.
Gonzaullas appeared to be somewhat of a grandstander, with his natty dress and his penchant for diamonds. He couldn't hide the fact that he loved to see his name in print. Yet, he was humble about his past exploits and never bragging about the cases he had cracked, the wounds he had received, or the men he had been forced to kill while carrying out his duties. He was fearless, dedicated and as crafty as a fox. The Lone Wolf could be as smooth as silk, or, when circumstances demanded, as rough as sandpaper. Along with such other standouts as Frank Hamer and Clint Peoples, he was one of the premier Texas Rangers of his time.
Gonzaullas, a strong advocate of scientific crime detection, was eager to explore the areas where the bodies had been located. But, as before, spectators of the gruesome had contaminated the scene. There was precious little to go on but the Rangers, no strangers to long and frustrating work, followed each and every lead, no matter how trite and insignificant. Over a thousand people, including some two hundred sexual perverts, were checked out as to their whereabouts at the time of the murders. Not a single lead panned out. Every rock had been turned over but not a single guilty worm was found.
Decoy teams, comprised of an officer in civvies and another dressed as a woman, were sent to Lovers" Lane and Spring Lake Park. The decoys waited night after tedious night to no avail. The Phantom Killer failed to walk into their trap. Did he possess a sixth sense? Unnerved by all the activity, had he decided to move on or was he bidding his time until the fervor abated? Or, even more chilling, was he close enough to the investigation to be aware what was going on? It didn't take the Lone Wolf long to realize that he was dealing with an individual of above average intelligence.
The bootleggers and bank robbers that he had dealt with in the past were one thing, but this mysterious killer was an entity unto himself.
After the most recent killings, no one dared to go anywhere near the Spring Lake Park area. Nightlife in Texarkana dwindled to a trickle, except for the most stalwart of hearts or those too drunk to care.
Paperboys waited until daylight to make their rounds and Western Union stopped delivering telegrams after nightfall, due to an antsy homeowner shooting at one of their messengers. When the sun went down, Texarkana took on the visage of a ghost town. All that was needed to complete the transformation was some tumbleweed blowing down Main Street. Only the police and Texas Rangers were braved the night.
If Gonzaullas thought matters were frustrating, he hadn't seen anything yet. With the fourth attack, the Phantom Killer tossed his modus operandi to the wind and did a complete about-face. Instead of in or around the Lovers' Lane area, his next strike came in Miller County, Arkansas, a good ten miles to the northeast of Texarkana. And this time, his victims were not young lovers sitting in a car, but a husband and wife relaxing in the supposed safety of their own home. Nor did he choose his usual .32 caliber revolver. For this dirty deed, he came prepared for some long-range work with a .22 caliber rifle. In this case, the killer either knew his victims, or had made some previous observations as to their habits and schedules.
On that fateful night of May 3, Virgil Starks was sitting in an easy chair in his living room, listening to the radio. The chair was situated directly in front of a window with the shade all the way up. Virgil was well aware of the terrible events that had unfolded in Texarkana but, residing in a farm neighborhood some ten miles distant, he presumed that he had nothing to fear.
Meanwhile, his wife had gone to the bedroom and undressed, slipping on a nightgown to relax in bed. The light was on. The window shades, as those in the living room, were raised. Like her husband, she'd heard about the trouble in Texarkana and had, similarly, dismissed it.
Little did either realize that the Phantom Killer was observing, waiting for the right moment in which to strike.
Not long after reclining on the bed, she heard the unmistakable sound of breaking glass. She jumped up and hurried to the door in time to see her husband lurch to his feet with a look of horrifying puzzlement on his face. He tottered for a few moments, blood pumping from his head, before collapsing. The night was as black as pitch beyond the shattered glass.
Rushing to her husband's side, Mrs. Starks quickly grasped what had happened and made a mad dash for the wall phone to call for help. It was an old-fashioned instrument, still common in rural Arkansas. She cranked twice for the operator but, before she could make a connection, a .22 caliber slug shattered her jaw. Staggered, she had no sooner dropped the receiver than a second bullet struck her in the face.
Racked by pain, bleeding profusely and on the brink of hysteria, she stumbled into the bedroom, changed direction and headed for the darkened kitchen. There, she realized that her assailant was tearing at the screen of the kitchen window in an attempt to gain entry into the house.
Luckily for her, the back door had been locked. In a desperate bid for survival, she dashed through the living room and out the front door, with little regard as to what might be waiting. Fortune was again with her. The path clear, she ran to a nearby house, banging on the door but no one was at home. Mustering what little strength she had remaining, she rushed to the next house and collapsed into the arms of a startled neighbor.
The Miller County sheriff's office was notified but, by the time they reached the scene accompanied by Lone Wolf Gonzaullas, the Phantom Killer was long gone. They found that he had gained entry through the kitchen window, tracking blood from Virgil's wound throughout the house. In a ghastly turn, he had taken the time to stop and smear his hands in the blood.
The Lone Wolf had been slapped with yet another wakeup call. Not only was he dealing with the most psychotic killer of his long career but also the most cunning, the most self-assured and, without a doubt, the most brazen.
His mobility created another variable in an already dangerous equation. If the killer had limited his bloody work to the Spring Lake area, Gonzaullas would have eventually been able to kill or apprehend him. Where would the killer strike next? As far away as Dallas or Little Rock? Or would he commit his atrocities in tiny community in the middle or beyond?
Even if they could rely on local law enforcement to notify them of similar murders, the Rangers would never be able to sufficiently cover such a vast and diverse area. There would also be the delicate question of jurisdiction.
Gonzaulles waited in dread for the next murders without any idea of what he could do when the killer resurfaced or how long an interval there'd be. No one could have foretold it at the time, but the Phantom Killer would never strike again. One month passed, two, six, and twelve. The horror, for some inexplicable reason, had ended as quickly as it had started. Again, there were enough unanswered questions to make a person's head spin. Had the killer moved on to virgin territory in another state, or, perhaps, clear across the country? Had he been arrested for another crime? Had his blood lust sated? Had he had decided to repent and assume a normal life.
The mangled body of a man was found on a railroad track near Texarkana on May 7. A Kansas Social Security card identified him as Earl Clifton McSpadden. Could he have been the Phantom Killer? And, if so, had the train struck him by accident or, disturbed by the atrocities he had committed, had he intentionally stepped in front of the locomotive? To add yet another aspect to the mystery, a suspect was apprehended and brought in for questioning by the police. Youell Swinney was a very suspicious individual with a long arrest record, including counterfeiting, car theft, burglary and assault. When he was taken to Little Rock for a shot of sodium-pentathol, he was inadvertently given too much and he fell asleep. For reasons never given, the authorities failed to follow up their investigation. However, Swinney was arrested for car theft, tried and sent to prison, not winning release until 1974. Had he been the Phantom Killer? The Arkansas State Police believed he was but the Texas Rangers, foremost Lone Wolf Gonzaullas, had serious doubts.
There was good reason to doubt. In October of 1946, as Swinney idled in jail awaiting trial, a double homicide took place in Fort Lauderdale, Florida that greatly resembled the Texarkana murders. The victims - Elaine Eldridge of Massachusetts and her boyfriend Lawrence Hogan, a Miami native - were found shot to death in a car, which was parked in a secluded spot near the ocean. Ballistics determined the bullets to be the Phantom's favorite .32 caliber. No fingerprints and no other clues had been found.
Had the Phantom Killer moved on to new territory? Were there other similar killings in yet other parts of the country? Was this hit and run technique of evading the consequences of his actions part of his, so far, very successful modus operandi?
In those days, before computer databases, expert profiling, and a distinct innocence about the depths of human depravity, there was no system of information sharing across jurisdiction or between local law enforcement and federal agencies. Serial killers could disappear without a trace and continue their psychopathic pastime in another location with little chance of anyone associating the previous crimes with the present ones.
People were left wondering. The police were left without a conviction or even a suitable explanation. Unsolved mysteries and their unanswered questions have a habit of cropping up again from time to time.
Many years after the killing spree, the Old Spring Lake Park School was being prepared for demolition. Workers, clearing the building, found bloodstained clothes concealed in the attic. Did these belong to the Phantom? Could modern DNA technology advance the case? Unfortunately, the opportunity never arose.
The Spring Lake Park School garments and all the other evidence gathered by the various law enforcement agencies have vanished, sparking conjecture that the killer's identity had been discovered and covered up because of his family's influence.
Though evidence is occasionally misfiled or discarded by mistake, in cases of this nature, such occurrences appear calculated or intentional. The Texarkana Murders share a popular place in infamous 'ruling family' conspiracy theories with Jack the Ripper. The cover-up in the Phantom Killer case, if real, has been just as successful.
Manuel "Lone Wolf" Gonzaullas retired from the Texas Rangers after thirty years of distinguished service, on July 31, 1951. He went on to a career as a Hollywood technical adviser. Nine days short of thirty-one years since the first Lover's Lane shootings, he died at the age of eighty-five on February 13, 1977.
Although the Lone Wolf hated to admit to the fact, it was one of the few cases that he had failed to bring to a satisfactory conclusion. He would make a comment in his later years that he had had a good idea who the killer was but could not make an arrest due to the lack of conclusive evidence. In his usual tightlipped manner, he chose not to elaborate and never revealed a name or any details in the matter. Gonzaullas would go down as one of the finest and most able investigators in the Texas Rangers.
Servicemen were reacquainting themselves with family, hunting for jobs and buying or constructing homes of their own. Many were attending college under the new G.I. Bill. Factories, once churning out the hardware of combat, turned to consumer products and created jobs that sustained the hope of continued prosperity.
In such an atmosphere of peace and plenty, no one could envision or predict the evil that would stalk Texarkana and the surrounding area for the next seventy-one days.
Without warning and for reasons only his sick mind could comprehend, a madman started a reign of terror, leaving five people brutally murdered and three others seriously injured. Ruthless. Premeditated. Cunning. Texarkana would assume a siege mentality as its citizens began to look over their shoulders and jump at bumps in the night.
Who was the perpetrator of these brutal acts? A transient? A thrill-killer seeking out virgin territory? Perhaps a veteran who had been horribly affected by what he had witnessed on far-distant battlefields.
Or, possibly, something even more frightening plagued the little town. Could the killer be a trusted neighbor who, until his bloodthirsty desires overcame him, had been perfectly normal in his everyday behavior?
Whatever the case, doors and windows were locked and double checked, porch lights were left on at night, and a brisk business ensued in the sale of guns and ammunition.
The "Phantom Killer", as he would quickly become known, made his terrible debut on the night of February 22, along a tree-lined stretch of road known as "Lovers' Lane." Spring Lake Park, a popular recreational area, was adjacent. Stars winked in a clear sky. Traffic hummed on the not-too-distant Highway 67. Although giving the appearance of being isolated, the lane was well within the reaches of Texarkana's nightly glow.
The area had always been safe, but, at times, it could seem a little eerie.
On that fateful night, twenty-three-year-old Jimmy Hollis drove into Lovers' Lane, accompanied by nineteen-year-old Mary Jeanne Larey. Jimmy stopped the car, turned off the headlights and ignition, and the couple began to talk. Trees cast skeletal shadows on the lane. A still night. A peaceful night. Just another still, peaceful night in a string of still, peaceful nights made for romance.
Then, suddenly, out of the darkness, a figure appeared at the driver's side window. In the only observation that Jimmy and Mary Jeanne agreed on, the man wore a white handkerchief over his face. Crude holes had been torn out for his eyes and mouth.
Shining a flashlight in their faces, he ordered them out of the car in a gruff voice. The couple, reluctant at first, was quick to comply when the man brandished a revolver.
Hollis was told to drop his trousers and when he did, the revolver was brought down hard against the back of his head. Mary Jeanne would later testify that she heard the crack of bones and knew the force had been more than required if intended as a knockout blow. The object was murder. Hollis fell to the ground as if he had breathed his last.
After giving Jimmy a savage kick, the assailant turned his attention to the terrified Mary Jeanne. The kerchief hiding his face sucked in and puffed out in his savage excitement. In the same gruff voice, he ordered her to run away. Miss Larey, hoping against all odds that there was a chance for escape, did as she was told. Her shaking legs moved as fast as she could pump them as she stumbled up the rough road toward safety.
The man waited a few moments, and then broke into a run, easily overtaking her and knocking her to the ground with the butt of his revolver. As she lay helpless, he leapt on top of her and began to simulate a rape. As thoughts of rape and painful death raced through her brain, headlights flashed in the distance and her attacker vanished as quickly as he had appeared. Regaining her senses, Mary Jeanne cowered in the bushes until she thought the coast was clear and staggered in search of help.
In the hospital, x-rays determined that Hollis had been struck so hard with the revolver that his skull and several vertebrae were fractured. Luck, even though he may not have thought so at the time, had been with him. He would be the first and last man to survive the Phantom Killer.
Bruised, battered, and emotionally scarred, Mary Jeanne Larey was hospitalized for an extended period while doctors kept a close tab on her injuries.
When questioned by the police, the couple could not agree upon or remember a single similar aspect of their attacker's description. Hollis thought that the man was white. Mary Jeanne insisted that he was black.
How tall was he? They couldn't say. Was he of large, medium or slight build? They couldn't remember. Was he wearing gloves? Neither noticed. In the end, the police decided to keep mum about the attack in the hopes that without any widespread publicity they would have a better chance of apprehending the assailant. It proved to be the worst decision they could have made.
The next attack took place on the night of March 24. Richard Griffin, twenty-nine and a recently discharged Seabee, drove the seventeen year old Polly Ann Moore to the Lovers' Lane area. Griffin's 1941 Oldsmobile was located not more than 250 feet from busy Highway 67. The next morning, their bodies were found, each having been killed with two .32 caliber bullets to the head. Any gossip as to the difference in the victims' ages was quickly replaced by the rumors regarding the sheer brutality of their deaths.
The news spread through Texarkana like a wild fire through dry kindling. Residents, never notified of the first attack, were now aware of both. People were outraged and rightly so. Later, the critics speculated that if the first attack had been publicized Griffin and Moore might have been still alive and well.
The local authorities were soon augmented by a number of Texas Rangers and police from neighboring towns. Unfortunately, hundreds of the morbidly curious had flocked to the scene, trampling any possible foot and tire impressions and smearing any latent fingerprints that may have existed.
Without any clear-cut direction in which to proceed, the investigation soon bogged down. The Texas Rangers, whose talents were never fully appreciated, were sent on their way with assurances from the Texarkana police that they were more than capable of handling matters. Or so they thought.
The third attack came three weeks to the day on April 14. A seventeen-year-old boy, by the name of Paul Martin, and his fifteen-year-old date, Betty Jo Booker, had left a dance where she had played her alto sax with a band called "The Rhythmaires." It was late. They drove straight to Spring Lake Park, arriving around two o'clock in the morning. Despite the hour, the Phantom Killer was patiently waiting.
What possessed them to go to that spot after everything that had happened, will never be fully understood. Was it teenage complacency? Had they simply forgotten in their eagerness to snuggle? Or perhaps they had gone there with the youthful attitude: "Ah! There's nothing to worry about. Those terrible things could never happen to us."
Whatever the case, Paul Martin's body was found roadside the next morning, nearly a mile from where he had parked his car. He had been shot in the face and, again, in the back of the head. After an extensive search, the police located Miss Booker's body. The killer had taken her up a dirt road and into a secluded field. She, too, had been dispatched with a bullet to the back of the head. It appeared that the killer had forced his victims into his car to dispose of them in a more leisurely manner.
This time, panicked and a lot less cocky, the local police were more than willing to relinquish jurisdiction. The Texas Rangers were called in. Captain Manuel "Lone Wolf" Gonzaullas headed up the investigation.
Gonzaullas appeared to be somewhat of a grandstander, with his natty dress and his penchant for diamonds. He couldn't hide the fact that he loved to see his name in print. Yet, he was humble about his past exploits and never bragging about the cases he had cracked, the wounds he had received, or the men he had been forced to kill while carrying out his duties. He was fearless, dedicated and as crafty as a fox. The Lone Wolf could be as smooth as silk, or, when circumstances demanded, as rough as sandpaper. Along with such other standouts as Frank Hamer and Clint Peoples, he was one of the premier Texas Rangers of his time.
Gonzaullas, a strong advocate of scientific crime detection, was eager to explore the areas where the bodies had been located. But, as before, spectators of the gruesome had contaminated the scene. There was precious little to go on but the Rangers, no strangers to long and frustrating work, followed each and every lead, no matter how trite and insignificant. Over a thousand people, including some two hundred sexual perverts, were checked out as to their whereabouts at the time of the murders. Not a single lead panned out. Every rock had been turned over but not a single guilty worm was found.
Decoy teams, comprised of an officer in civvies and another dressed as a woman, were sent to Lovers" Lane and Spring Lake Park. The decoys waited night after tedious night to no avail. The Phantom Killer failed to walk into their trap. Did he possess a sixth sense? Unnerved by all the activity, had he decided to move on or was he bidding his time until the fervor abated? Or, even more chilling, was he close enough to the investigation to be aware what was going on? It didn't take the Lone Wolf long to realize that he was dealing with an individual of above average intelligence.
The bootleggers and bank robbers that he had dealt with in the past were one thing, but this mysterious killer was an entity unto himself.
After the most recent killings, no one dared to go anywhere near the Spring Lake Park area. Nightlife in Texarkana dwindled to a trickle, except for the most stalwart of hearts or those too drunk to care.
Paperboys waited until daylight to make their rounds and Western Union stopped delivering telegrams after nightfall, due to an antsy homeowner shooting at one of their messengers. When the sun went down, Texarkana took on the visage of a ghost town. All that was needed to complete the transformation was some tumbleweed blowing down Main Street. Only the police and Texas Rangers were braved the night.
If Gonzaullas thought matters were frustrating, he hadn't seen anything yet. With the fourth attack, the Phantom Killer tossed his modus operandi to the wind and did a complete about-face. Instead of in or around the Lovers' Lane area, his next strike came in Miller County, Arkansas, a good ten miles to the northeast of Texarkana. And this time, his victims were not young lovers sitting in a car, but a husband and wife relaxing in the supposed safety of their own home. Nor did he choose his usual .32 caliber revolver. For this dirty deed, he came prepared for some long-range work with a .22 caliber rifle. In this case, the killer either knew his victims, or had made some previous observations as to their habits and schedules.
On that fateful night of May 3, Virgil Starks was sitting in an easy chair in his living room, listening to the radio. The chair was situated directly in front of a window with the shade all the way up. Virgil was well aware of the terrible events that had unfolded in Texarkana but, residing in a farm neighborhood some ten miles distant, he presumed that he had nothing to fear.
Meanwhile, his wife had gone to the bedroom and undressed, slipping on a nightgown to relax in bed. The light was on. The window shades, as those in the living room, were raised. Like her husband, she'd heard about the trouble in Texarkana and had, similarly, dismissed it.
Little did either realize that the Phantom Killer was observing, waiting for the right moment in which to strike.
Not long after reclining on the bed, she heard the unmistakable sound of breaking glass. She jumped up and hurried to the door in time to see her husband lurch to his feet with a look of horrifying puzzlement on his face. He tottered for a few moments, blood pumping from his head, before collapsing. The night was as black as pitch beyond the shattered glass.
Rushing to her husband's side, Mrs. Starks quickly grasped what had happened and made a mad dash for the wall phone to call for help. It was an old-fashioned instrument, still common in rural Arkansas. She cranked twice for the operator but, before she could make a connection, a .22 caliber slug shattered her jaw. Staggered, she had no sooner dropped the receiver than a second bullet struck her in the face.
Racked by pain, bleeding profusely and on the brink of hysteria, she stumbled into the bedroom, changed direction and headed for the darkened kitchen. There, she realized that her assailant was tearing at the screen of the kitchen window in an attempt to gain entry into the house.
Luckily for her, the back door had been locked. In a desperate bid for survival, she dashed through the living room and out the front door, with little regard as to what might be waiting. Fortune was again with her. The path clear, she ran to a nearby house, banging on the door but no one was at home. Mustering what little strength she had remaining, she rushed to the next house and collapsed into the arms of a startled neighbor.
The Miller County sheriff's office was notified but, by the time they reached the scene accompanied by Lone Wolf Gonzaullas, the Phantom Killer was long gone. They found that he had gained entry through the kitchen window, tracking blood from Virgil's wound throughout the house. In a ghastly turn, he had taken the time to stop and smear his hands in the blood.
The Lone Wolf had been slapped with yet another wakeup call. Not only was he dealing with the most psychotic killer of his long career but also the most cunning, the most self-assured and, without a doubt, the most brazen.
His mobility created another variable in an already dangerous equation. If the killer had limited his bloody work to the Spring Lake area, Gonzaullas would have eventually been able to kill or apprehend him. Where would the killer strike next? As far away as Dallas or Little Rock? Or would he commit his atrocities in tiny community in the middle or beyond?
Even if they could rely on local law enforcement to notify them of similar murders, the Rangers would never be able to sufficiently cover such a vast and diverse area. There would also be the delicate question of jurisdiction.
Gonzaulles waited in dread for the next murders without any idea of what he could do when the killer resurfaced or how long an interval there'd be. No one could have foretold it at the time, but the Phantom Killer would never strike again. One month passed, two, six, and twelve. The horror, for some inexplicable reason, had ended as quickly as it had started. Again, there were enough unanswered questions to make a person's head spin. Had the killer moved on to virgin territory in another state, or, perhaps, clear across the country? Had he been arrested for another crime? Had his blood lust sated? Had he had decided to repent and assume a normal life.
The mangled body of a man was found on a railroad track near Texarkana on May 7. A Kansas Social Security card identified him as Earl Clifton McSpadden. Could he have been the Phantom Killer? And, if so, had the train struck him by accident or, disturbed by the atrocities he had committed, had he intentionally stepped in front of the locomotive? To add yet another aspect to the mystery, a suspect was apprehended and brought in for questioning by the police. Youell Swinney was a very suspicious individual with a long arrest record, including counterfeiting, car theft, burglary and assault. When he was taken to Little Rock for a shot of sodium-pentathol, he was inadvertently given too much and he fell asleep. For reasons never given, the authorities failed to follow up their investigation. However, Swinney was arrested for car theft, tried and sent to prison, not winning release until 1974. Had he been the Phantom Killer? The Arkansas State Police believed he was but the Texas Rangers, foremost Lone Wolf Gonzaullas, had serious doubts.
There was good reason to doubt. In October of 1946, as Swinney idled in jail awaiting trial, a double homicide took place in Fort Lauderdale, Florida that greatly resembled the Texarkana murders. The victims - Elaine Eldridge of Massachusetts and her boyfriend Lawrence Hogan, a Miami native - were found shot to death in a car, which was parked in a secluded spot near the ocean. Ballistics determined the bullets to be the Phantom's favorite .32 caliber. No fingerprints and no other clues had been found.
Had the Phantom Killer moved on to new territory? Were there other similar killings in yet other parts of the country? Was this hit and run technique of evading the consequences of his actions part of his, so far, very successful modus operandi?
In those days, before computer databases, expert profiling, and a distinct innocence about the depths of human depravity, there was no system of information sharing across jurisdiction or between local law enforcement and federal agencies. Serial killers could disappear without a trace and continue their psychopathic pastime in another location with little chance of anyone associating the previous crimes with the present ones.
People were left wondering. The police were left without a conviction or even a suitable explanation. Unsolved mysteries and their unanswered questions have a habit of cropping up again from time to time.
Many years after the killing spree, the Old Spring Lake Park School was being prepared for demolition. Workers, clearing the building, found bloodstained clothes concealed in the attic. Did these belong to the Phantom? Could modern DNA technology advance the case? Unfortunately, the opportunity never arose.
The Spring Lake Park School garments and all the other evidence gathered by the various law enforcement agencies have vanished, sparking conjecture that the killer's identity had been discovered and covered up because of his family's influence.
Though evidence is occasionally misfiled or discarded by mistake, in cases of this nature, such occurrences appear calculated or intentional. The Texarkana Murders share a popular place in infamous 'ruling family' conspiracy theories with Jack the Ripper. The cover-up in the Phantom Killer case, if real, has been just as successful.
Manuel "Lone Wolf" Gonzaullas retired from the Texas Rangers after thirty years of distinguished service, on July 31, 1951. He went on to a career as a Hollywood technical adviser. Nine days short of thirty-one years since the first Lover's Lane shootings, he died at the age of eighty-five on February 13, 1977.
Although the Lone Wolf hated to admit to the fact, it was one of the few cases that he had failed to bring to a satisfactory conclusion. He would make a comment in his later years that he had had a good idea who the killer was but could not make an arrest due to the lack of conclusive evidence. In his usual tightlipped manner, he chose not to elaborate and never revealed a name or any details in the matter. Gonzaullas would go down as one of the finest and most able investigators in the Texas Rangers.