True Crime Books by Jason Lucky Morrow

Welcome to [Est. 2013], where you will discover forgotten crimes and forgotten criminals lost to history. You will not find high profile cases that have been rehashed and retold ad infinitum to ad nauseam. This blog is the official website for true crime writer Jason Lucky Morrow, author of four books including the popular series: Famous Crimes the World Forgot, Volume I and Volume II. If you would like to send me a comment, old crime tip, or exchange links with a related website, Contact Me Here. - Please follow this historical true crime blog on FACEBOOK.

The Price of His Inheritance, 1995

Home | Feature Stories | The Price of His Inheritance, 1995

This story is newer than most, but it’s also better than most, in the worst ways possible.


New Year’s Eve is a celebration of hope. For most, that hope is a resolve we make to begin again. To renew ourselves. To improve who we are, and be better than we were. To make resolutions, set new goals, and to achieve what we could not in the past. Hope like that flies a little higher for those who just want the world to be a little nicer to them in the New Year.

But it doesn’t always work out that way. On New Year’s Eve, Sunday, December 31, 1995, residents of Bastrop, Louisiana, were horrified to learn that an elderly couple, well known in the community, was found shot to death inside their modest home on Collinston Road. The bodies of Lee Elvin Morris, 69, and his wife, Helen Louise Morris, 68, were discovered by their son, Mark Morris, 39. The day before, on Saturday, December 30, Mark had dropped off his son, Ryan Mark Morris, 9, to spend the night with his grandparents. His parents were there, but his son was gone.

Because the bodies were found on New Year’s Eve day, a Sunday, and search teams looking for Ryan were deployed on Monday, New Year’s Day,  January 1, 1996, most Louisianans did not learn of the tragedy until Tuesday, January 2. Northern Louisiana is sparsely populated with small cities and towns where local newspapers offices were closed for the holiday.

However, the lack of initial news coverage didn’t even matter. What did matter, investigators soon discovered, was that the bodies of Lee and Louise Morris were discovered on the last day of the year.

On Wednesday, January 3, the Associated Press released an article by an unnamed reporter who traveled to Bastrop the day before to cover the story. One of the few people he interviewed was Mark Morris, who spoke a little too freely.

“I came in and the door was open. I walked in the house and found my mom and dad lying face down in the master bedroom.”

Mark added that when he saw his parents, the blood on their faces was only a small amount, and he couldn’t tell if they had been shot or stabbed to death. Before his interview was over, Mark made a strange comment that raised eyebrows across Louisiana.

“Somebody has killed my family and taken my boy,” he began. “If they took my little boy and killed him, there’s not going to be any plea bargaining. There’s going to be no plea bargaining to recover his body.”

Recover his body?

As investigators, reporters, and even his friends would soon learn, that bizarre, ‘why would you say that?’ remark was only the first time he did so during the case. It would happen forty more times.


Stranger still, the AP article appeared at the bottom of page 30 of Alexandria’s Town Talk newspaper. The second article above the Morris case was an ironic coincidence nobody would understand until much later.

“More than 24 new state laws now in effect”

One of those laws was the catalyst to the entire case.

On the same day Mark’s odd remark began appearing in newspapers, another news story said that authorities had questioned him and named him a suspect. Mark shrugged it off, said the questions were routine, and his suspect status was part of the process. “They say it’s normal because if they catch the guy, his attorney will scream ‘Why haven’t y’all investigated the family?’”

What Mark did not understand was that he had unsavory reputation within his own family and among many others scattered throughout Bastrop’s population of 13,500 at the time. (It has since dropped to 10,023 in 2019).

The Morris family was well known in Bastrop. Mark’s father, Lee, was born there in 1926, lived there his whole life, and died on the same day as his wife. Lee’s own father and mother, Avery and Mae Bell Morris, also lived in Bastrop and died there together on the same day, July 15, 1977. It’s unclear how Mark’s grandparents happened to die on the same day, but all four of them, Avery and Mae Bell, and Lee Elvin and Helen Louise, were laid to rest at Bastrop’s Christ Church Cemetery.

Lee and Louise had two children together, Linda (Morris) Stewart, born in May 17, 1954, and Mark B. Morris, born April 3, 1956. In 1995, Linda Stewart, lived in Bastrop with her three children.

Mark was married for thirteen years until his ex-wife, Norma, divorced him in 1991—a few years after she suffered a debilitating stroke. She returned to her hometown of Minden, Louisiana, where she could be closer to her family whom she needed. Unfortunately, her long-term illness forced her to leave behind the couple’s two children. Kristy Morris, fourteen or fifteen, and Ryan, 9, were left in the care of her ex-husband Mark. With many of his family members living there, perhaps she counted on her in-laws more than she did her ex-husband.


For all that January, authorities were focused on finding Ryan, and unmasking the killer. For some reason, as indicated by newspaper reports, none of them ever considered that Ryan might still be alive. When his own father blundered by saying there would be no plea bargain for Ryan’s body, Morehouse Parish Sheriff Frank Carroll and his deputies understood they were looking for the boy’s body.

However, the terrain where a body might be hidden outside of Bastrop was difficult to explore. A leading member of the search team told reporters that in some areas, they could not get in there with a horse, and in others, they could not get there on foot. It could take a while, he cautioned.

The owner of an oxidation pond behind the couple’s home was dragged when the owner, Ray Wall, found suspicious disturbances in the soil. “There was evidence someone had been around that pond,” Wall said.

He may have been right.

On January 27, Ryan’s pajama clad body was discovered by a local teenager in a drainage culvert below the Naff Street Bridge, three miles from his grandparent’s home on Collinston Road. He had been shot once in the head with a .22 caliber firearm; just like his grandparents.

For nearly four weeks, hundreds of local and parish residents had searched for the reddish, blond haired Ryan Morris. It ended how they expected it would. With that mystery gone and the unimaginable grief began to settle in their hearts, those same people “bedecked the town in little yellow ribbons.”

Click to view larger images.

One month later, on February 27, around 11:30 a.m., Mark Morris was arrested by parish deputies inside of a convenience store on Collinston Road that had been a gathering place for all those who searched for his son. Across the street was his parents’ home: quiet, empty, and impossible to look at without imagining what happened in there.

When deputies walked up and began reading him his rights, Mark Morris looked like he was in shock, but he regained his composure later that day during a court hearing. Inside the courthouse, he showed no emotions and when he was led out, told somebody he knew, “Bring me cigarettes,” and smiled.

On Thursday, February 29, he was indicted by a grand jury for three counts of murder.

Finally able to reveal more information, Sheriff Carroll gave reporters some interesting details he could now share.

The first was that Mark was their number one suspect from day one, but they also had to consider his ex-wife, Norma, a suspect. She hated her ex-husband and when told by an FBI agent that Mark had been arrested and indicted for three counts of murder, Norma said her expectation all along was that he would be charged with the crime.

“I was just waiting for police to arrest him,” she said. Norma also made it clear that if he were found guilty, the only acceptable punishment for what he did to her son, and her former in-laws, would be the death. “He should be sent to the electric chair.”

The most interesting part of the investigation was the self-incriminating comments Mark had made before his arrest. A witness told deputies, and repeated at his trial, that when Mark was riding in his pick-up, they drove over the Naff Street Bridge, and Mark said, “My son could be under this bridge right here!”

Besides speculating on the exact location his son was later found, his friends were disturbed by other things he said.

One friend recalled that Mark had said he was going to be written out of his father’s will, and that the new one would go into effect January 1, 1996.

“That’s why I shot him, the dumb ass,” Mark said.

Another self-incriminating remark he made to a friend before his son’s body was found was that it might have been discovered in a shallow grave, but “that was before I moved him.” (He moved the boy several times, apparently).

Mark told friend Harvey “Scooter” Goleman that he had shot his dad in the eye, and his mother in the temple.

Those weren’t even the most heartless things he said before he was arrested. Bill Hall, an employee of a small local casino, said he saw Mark Morris there Saturday night, the day he dropped his son off with his parents. Morris was playing video poker and the two had a brief chat.

When he spoke again with Mark a few days after his parents were discovered, “I asked him if they were still looking behind (Lee and Louise Morris’) house, and he said, ‘They’re wasting their time looking there because they’re going to find him about three miles from here…. I don’t think it. I know it,’” Hall repeated.

Those were just a few of the self-incriminating statements Mark Morris blurted out. By January of 1997, Mark was up to forty. A few weeks earlier, a pretrial motion was held before State District Judge John Joyce who was asked to decide on the admissibility of those forty statements. The prosecution wanted them in, the defense wanted them out.

Judge Joyce filed his decision in mid-January; thirty-six statements were in, four were out.

But 1997 was just a passing year on the long road to Mark’s trial. Firing lawyers and using every delaying tactic he could find, including a change of venue to Lake Charles, 220 miles south of Bastrop, Mark’s trial finally began on October 18, 1999—three years and nine months after he murdered his son and his parents.

District Attorney Jerry Jones asked for the death penalty in his opening statement and made it clear the motive was money; he wanted his inheritance now, not later. Mark Morris was deep in debt over a failed business venture. Initially, his parents were supporting him out of interest for their two grandchildren, but became outraged upon learning their son was wasting it on video poker and other self-indulgences. After many heated discussions, they realized Mark had no ambition to dig his way out the problems he created.

Lee was so disgusted with his son, he stopped supporting him, and told Mark he would be disinherited when their new will went into effect January 1, 1996.

Fearing for his future if he was cut out of the family will, Mark Morris decided to kill his parents before new one could go into effect. In an ironic twist, the January 3rd article, ‘More than 24 new state laws now in effect’ placed above the AP story on the Morris case had the answer.

In 1995, his parents were legally obligated to divide their estate equally among their children. That mandated obligation was nailed in place by a 187-year-old state legal doctrine called ‘forced heirship.’ Lee and Louise Morris had no choice but to allow their prodigal son to inherit an equal share of their estate.

But that law came crashing down in October of that year when state residents overwhelmingly voted to repeal ‘forced heirship.’ Its relevance would cease to exist on December 31, 1995. After that date, parents could shape their estate trusts and wills however they wanted. And Mark’s parents didn’t want him to receive a dime. He didn’t deserve it.

Before New Year’s Eve, his parent met with their attorney, a new will was drafted, signed, notarized and filed at the courthouse. It would go into effect January 1, 1996, and there was nothing Mark could do about it.

It was a great plan, but not a bulletproof plan. Their son made sure his parents died on the very last day of a 187-year-old legal doctrine.

District Attorney Jerry Jones then had to tell the jury nine-year-old Ryan was murdered simply because he was a witness. “I cared about that little boy,” Jones later said.

For his closing statement that came one week later, Monday, October 25, Jones told the jury that Mark “had dreams of high living on a food-stamp salary. But he couldn’t buy a corvette and feel the leather on his back. He couldn’t buy a fancy home on Frenchman’s Bend.” That was where all the rich people lived.

Between the opening and closing arguments, those thirty-six self-incriminating statements Mark made to friends were presented as evidence, with many of them called to recount for the jury some of the best ones.

However, the best of all of them, the golden ticket for a conviction, was not a person, it was a routine courtroom audio recording made during a December 4, 1996, pretrial hearing where Mark is overheard talking to his defense attorney, admitting to the murders. “I want to go on and confess. I did it.”

He later fired that court-appointed attorney, hired and fired several more, and, apparently, lost his attorney/client privilege. The courtroom audio recording was ruled admissible.

His trial attorney argued that at the time, Mark was being sarcastic. Bombastic. He was that way, after all. Nobody should take him seriously.

But they did take him seriously. One week after it began, the trial ended on Monday, October 25, 1999. The jury deliberated for fours and at 9:45 that night, Mark Morris was found guilty of three counts of first-degree murder.

In death penalty cases, a punishment trial occurs after the criminal trial. The punishment phase for Mark Morris began on Wednesday and ended on Thursday.

When the verdict was read aloud, Mark Morris was the luckiest man in the world that day. Faced with the choice of life in prison with no chance of parole, or death in the state’s electric chair, the jury could not come to the unanimous decision necessary to recommend a sentence of death. Although most of Louisiana wanted it to happen, one or more of the jurors were staunch, anti-death penalty supporters and they didn’t budge.

+ + +

As of May 2021, Mark Morris is sixty-five-years-old and resides at Louisiana State Prison Angola, where he lives out his days as inmate number 00419088.

If no family members claim his body when he dies, Mark Morris will be buried in the prison cemetery known as Point Lookout #2.

He will receive an impressive funeral for an inmate convicted of three counts of murder. His body will be placed inside of a prisoner made wood coffin adorned with prisoner made shrouds.  And then, his body will be carried to his grave inside of,

“A black, horse-drawn hearse modeled after a 1800s vintage funeral coach. It is pulled by two large white Percheron horses and driven by an inmate dressed in a black tailcoat and a black top hat. Six pallbearers follow the coach on the road to the cemetery and assist with the burial. Inmate ministers conduct the service.”



All the dignity of his death will end there. His grave will be filled with dirt, and his unmarked tombstone—a small, white cross made of concrete—will be put in place.

 Nobody will know he was even there.

Angola Cemetery ‘Point Lookout #2.’ Graves with white crosses have no names and no inmate numbers.

Final Note: Lee and Louise’s daughter, Linda Morris Stewart, passed away in 2019. She was sixty-five-years-old. She is buried in Bastrop’s Christ Church Cemetery.


Story Author: Jason Lucky Morrow

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Free Audiobook Sample Chapter Available
‘The Carver Family Hatchet Murders, 1930’

Home | Feature Stories | Free Audiobook Sample Chapter Available
‘The Carver Family Hatchet Murders, 1930’

Last year, 2019, I was approached by former Broadway actor and audiobook narrator Charles Huddeston, who offered to narrate my two books in the Famous Crimes the World Forgot series. I’ve been approached before by other narrators, but passed on their offers for one reason or another. I’m so, so thankful that I did not so with Mr. Huddleston’s offer as you will soon learn that his rich, baritone voice is the stuff of legends. My personal opinion is that he is one of the top 10 narrators in the world.

He is just that good. 

When I listened to Mr. Huddleston narration for Volume I, I was so captivated in the telling of the story that I actually forgot for a time or two that I wrote the book. My self-dialogue was (Wow. This is a really good story…. Long pause… Oh, wait, I wrote this story!) Lost in the story as told Mr. Huddleston, I truly forgot I wrote it. When something that is read becomes something you listen to, its a different experience. 

I have posted the audio file for Chapter 3 of Volume I, ‘The Carver Family Hatchet Murders,’ to the blog, seen below. Downloadable audio files are also available. You can listen to the story from the blog, or download the audio files to your device.

I’m confident you will enjoy the 45 minute experience of a world class storyteller.

Click to Play or Download 62mb File as MP3 or WAV

Purchase This AudioBook for ONLY $7.49



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Serial Killer’s Anonymous: Chapter 4 ‒ The Mystery of the Hobo Jungles, 1950-51

Home | Feature Stories, Serial Killers Anonymous | Serial Killer’s Anonymous: Chapter 4 ‒ The Mystery of the Hobo Jungles, 1950-51

Hobocidal Maniac Lloyd Gomez Killed Nine Men in 15 Months

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October 15, 1953
San Quentin Prison, California

Six hundred and thirty days after he confessed to California authorities to murdering nine men between 1950 and 1951, Lloyd Gomez was about to get what he wanted: put out of his misery.

He hated life. During his twenty-nine years, the constant struggle to survive had worn him down to the nub. It had done bad things to him and he had done bad things to it. His confession was a suicide. He didn’t care anymore. Get it over with.

For the past thirteen years, when he wasn’t in prison or jail, young Gomez was what polite folks would call an itinerant farm worker, picking fruit or vegetable crops when in season. In between those seasons, his nomadic lifestyle riding freight cars up and down California labeled him a hobo. Today, they would call him a bum.

When not riding freight cars, he lived as a hobo—buying food if he had money, stealing some if he didn’t. Eventually, he killed nine men to get money. If he needed that money to eat or not, is up for debate.

During his lifetime, many of the larger cities in California had encampments of hobos that were a little community unto themselves, with shelter, food, and alcohol shared between them. Called hobo jungles by many, these campsites were always outside city limits, near railroad tracks or rail yards, and near a river, lake, or pond if possible.

The Nevada born Gomez was the son of a Shoshone woman and a Mexican father. His mother died when he was young and his father was a strong influence on him during his early years, but not a good one. Like most Native-Americans, Gomez had a stoic personality, which never betrayed what he was thinking. If he did speak, more often than not it was to answer a question. Before he replied, Gomez would look at something else, gather his thoughts, and answer in a calm voice.

Behind his quiet demeanor and calm voice, however, was a hobocidal maniac who bashed in the heads of eight middle-aged men, which netted him a total of $62.26. The ninth man he killed, the one for which he would be executed for the following day, died a different sort of way.

Since his arrival to San Quentin’s Death Row on June 10, 1952, Gomez never had a visitor and no one ever wrote to him. Despite numerous requests for an interview from newspaper and radio reporters, he always turned them down. But on the night before his October 16, 1953 execution, Gomez made an exception and agreed to an interview with staff reporter Stanley Wilson from the Sacramento Bee.

Wilson was permitted to sit with Gomez in his death cell a few hours before midnight. Just outside his cell, a curtain obscured his view to the apple green octagonal gas chamber.  When Wilson asked Gomez if he was scared of what waited for him just behind that curtain, his nonchalant reply was typical for the Native American.

“Scared? Naw, I ain’t scared.”

1939 – 1951

The Mystery of the Hobo Jungles

In 1939, with a fourth grade education and an IQ of 61, seventeen-year-old Gomez left his home in Lincoln County, Nevada, to explore California by riding freight cars. From the start, he didn’t seem to fare-to-well in the hobo lifestyle. When he wasn’t picking crops, he was loafing and like most loafers, he got into trouble.  Between 1939 and 1941, he was arrested several times for minor offences including vagrancy, for which he served a thirty-day jail sentence.

Another arrest soon followed in January 1942 when Sacramento County deputies held him for a few days for suspicion of dodging the draft. He was soon released for unknown reasons only to be arrested two months later in Nevada for highway robbery. The way he told it to investigators and a Sacramento Bee reporter ten years later, was that in March 1942, he had acquired a revolver, and he was determined to use it.

“It was near my home in Nevada, (Pioche). It was on the highway and the fellow had a car. I went up to him and pointed the gun at him. I got nearly $1,000.”

But that’s not what happened. Gomez was lying. According to a one-paragraph story that appeared in the April 27, 1942 edition of the Reno Gazette, the offense was attempted robbery. The charge against him stated he threatened the life man of a named Bruce Olson and took his guns and ammunition. He was sentenced to serve a minimum of two and one-half years to twenty-years in the Nevada State Penitentiary.

The Gazette’s short report never mentioned if Gomez had used a firearm, nor anything about $1,000 cash taken from the victim. A thousand dollars cash back then is the same as $16,000 today, and most people don’t carry that much money with them, then, or now.

If he was lying, it’s not clear why.

Nineteen months later, young Gomez was joined by his father, Manuel Gomez, who received a life sentence for the 1943 New Year’s Day murder of Jesus Garcia in Carlin, Nevada. Both men, along with several others, were part of a railroad crew working at the time in the small town twenty-three miles west of Elko. Witnesses told deputies they saw Gomez beating Garcia over the head with a pick-axe handle. They did not know any of the details that led to the fight.

Señor Gomez claimed he killed Garcia in self-defense after Garcia tried to stab him with a butcher’s knife.

Eleven months later in November, an Elko County jury disagreed and found him guilty of first-degree murder. However, instead of recommending to the judge that he should die in Nevada’s famous gas chamber (the first in the country) they recommended a life sentence and in early December, father and son were reunited in prison. If he told his son his side of the story, and using pick-axe handle to bash in Garcia’s head, it apparently made an imprint on the young man’s mind for crushing heads with repurposed caveman weapons became his modus operandi for the murders he would commit seven years later.

After serving four years on the attempted robbery charge, young Gomez said goodbye to his father when was released from prison in May 1946 due to overcrowding. Freedom gave young Gomez the opportunity to grow his rap sheet and a few months later, he was arrested and released in San Bernardino, California, for investigation of strong-arm robbery.

He dodged that bullet but caught another one on January 12, 1947, when he broke into the American Can Company’s Sacramento warehouse where he was caught by the night watchmen breaking into a candy vending machine.

A short article about his arrest appeared in the Sacramento Bee the following day.

“The police reported that Lloyd Gomez, a Mexican transient, who was booked yesterday for a burglary of the American Can Company, has admitted to burglaries in Los Angeles, Madera, Stockton, San Joaquin County, and in a sheep camp near the North Sixteenth Street Bridge in North Sacramento.”

He received a seven-month sentence to the county road camp for burglary.

Two patterns appear in that one-paragraph report that would mirror the future of his short life: being arrested in Sacramento, and spontaneous confessions. In fact, that was just the second time he was arrested in Sacramento.

The third time he was arrested in Sacramento came in May 1948. Convicted of assault, Gomez was sent back to the Sacramento County road camp to serve a sixty-day sentence building roads for the county. For some unclear reason, he walked away from the road crew a few weeks before his time was completed. Considering this fact, it’s probable he would have only left if his life was in danger.

But freedom and Lloyd Gomez were not a good match and that July (the same time he would have completed his road crew sentence) he was arrested in Las Vegas for counterfeiting and sentenced to serve one year and one day at the McNeil Island Federal Prison Penitentiary in Washington state.

After his release from McNeil Island in July 1949, Gomez stayed out of the law’s reach for more than fifteen months, his longest stretch. During that time, he started killing hobos.

The first one he killed was never identified. Gomez said he was a Native American man in his mid-40s, and he killed him near the railroad yards just outside of Oroville, California during the summer of 1950. He said the man had a bottle of wine and wanted to take him to his shack.

“When he was ahead of me, I picked up a rock up a rock and hit him on the head (six times). I got the bottle of wine and five cents.”

The man’s body was found six months later on November 27 one-half mile west of the Western Pacific yard by two pheasant hunters. At the time, the county coroner reported the he had been killed by a large, bloodstained rock found nearby, and that he had been dead for approximately six months. He was never identified.

By the time this discovery was made, Gomez had killed two more men.

On the afternoon of November 11, 1950, Gomez was visiting with John Joe “Cabbage” Kapusta inside his shack in the hobo jungle on the banks of the American River near Sacramento, when forty-three-year-old Warren Hood Cunningham spotted Gomez and charged at him, accusing him of stealing.

“He went after me with two pocket knives,” Gomez told a Sacramento Bee reporter shortly after his confession was released fourteen months later. “Some guy down there had squealed on me and told him I stole his two cans of beer about four days before that.

“I ran. Boy, how I ran, and he was still after me. I got away and I waited about three hours, I guess. I got mad. I got so mad I couldn’t stop. I had a gun buried over by the American River and I went back to his place with it.”

The gun was a .22 caliber rifle. From the tree line 60 to 100 feet away, he spotted Cunningham sitting by his shack with Cabbage Kapusta where the two were listening to a radio. Gomez took aim, fired three shots, and watched as Cunningham fell over. He then approached Cunningham and shot him three more times.

Kapusta who was nearly blind, couldn’t describe to police what the shooter looked like.

“I knew what I had done,” Gomez continued. “I ran. I went to Fresno. Then to Los Angeles. The idea was to go somewhere. Just keep going.”

Gomez did go to Fresno, and eventually Los Angeles, but between those two cities is the small town of Mojave where he bludgeoned Earl Franklin Woods to death with a stone on November 19, just eight days after he killed Cunningham. Gomez had asked him for a match and the fifty-year-old “grouchily refused.”

Gomez didn’t like his tone. He only found three cigarettes in the dead man’s shirt pocket.

A few days after murdering Woods and a few miles from Los Angeles, Gomez was arrested by Burbank city police for vagrancy. He served thirty days. Before his arrest, he had dismantled his rifle and gotten rid of it.

Released in late December, Gomez went for six months without killing anyone. When he did start up again, he killed six men in three months. On May 29, Gomez found Elmer M. Cushman sitting on an open-top rail car. He picked up a rock, approached without being seen, and beat the man to death with that rock. He pocketed $16.50.

Ten days later, he found an unidentified man sleeping in the tall grass near the railroad tracks by Stockton. Gomez killed him with a rock and a wood plank. Searching through his pockets, he found $20.

On June 22, Gomez was picking peaches near Merced, California when he spotted George Jones walk into the hobo camp there. The sixty-year-old found a spot he liked and began cooking some food. Gomez snuck up behind him and broke his skull with a rock. In the man’s wallet, he found $24.50.

On July 17, Gomez dropped a twenty-pound rock on the head of Arvid Ostlund near the railroad tracks leading out of Roseville. The forty-year-old only had one dollar on him.

His eighth victim was an unidentified man he found sleeping in his underwear one hundred yards from the railroad tracks near Marysville in early August 1951. “I threw sand in his face and hit him with a brick,” Gomez later said. His life was worth 21-cents.

On August 16, forty-six-year-old Roy Chester Hanson was minding his own business when Gomez found him sitting on a railroad car on the Southern Pacific tracks northeast of Sacramento. Hanson was his ninth and final victim. He couldn’t even remember if the man had any money or not.

The murders did not go unnoticed.

In June 1951, two criminal investigators with the California State Department of Justice spotted the pattern. Although the classification of serial killer was more than twenty-years away, they correctly assumed they were looking for one man, a hobo, who was killing other hobos with caveman weapons‒stones and wooden clubs. Looking through their files, they found victims killed in the same manner as far back as 1939.

Shortly after Hanson’s body was found, they publicly announced their investigation and several newspapers, including the Sacramento Bee, dubbed it “The Mystery of the Hobo Jungles.”

Their news release revealed that the murders of dozen men going back twelve years had seven things in common.

  1. All of the men were in late middle age,
  2. had done manual labor,
  3. and lived alone in hobo jungles.
  4. Their bodies were found in rail cars, near railroad tracks, or in hobo settlements.
  5. The victims were struck from behind with clubs or rocks
  6. and the beatings continued long after death. (Overkill.)
  7. They ruled out robbery and sex as possible motives and couldn’t piece together the killer’s compulsion other than he was possibly a madman – a hobocidal maniac.

1951 – 1953

Confession Time

On January 15, 1952, Gomez was arrested by Sacramento County lawmen for the fourth and final time. The charge, vagrancy. In custody, deputies looked into his record and realized he had walked away from a county road crew back in 1948. He was given a sixty-day jail sentence on the vagrancy charge and would soon be charged for escape.

Nine days later, on January 24, Gomez passed a note to one of the guards that read:

“To Jailer:

“All in California. I killed 1 Indian at Oroville 1951 (it was in 1950). I killed 1 white men (sic) at Marysville. I killed one man at Roseville 51. I killed one man at Stockton. I killed 1 man at Merced. I shot 1 man six time in jungle Sacramento.”

Sacramento authorities contacted the two state investigators who rushed over to partake in the long questioning that soon followed. Their interest was in the twelve men murdered with rocks and clubs over the last thirteen years. Gomez’s initial confession included five of them and with aid of the victim files, he copped to three more, but not the four others they assumed he was responsible for killing. Gomez’s memory wasn’t the best but he did give them enough details for eight of them, which led them to later conclude he was telling the truth.

The bullet-riddled body of Warren Hood Cunningham was not on their list. He was, however, at the top of Sacramento County’s list. The following day, January 25, deputies took Gomez to the ‘jungle’ and there, not far from the riverbank, he pointed to a demolished cardboard shack where Cunningham was sitting when he shot him from 60 to 100 feet away. Of all the men he killed, Gomez remembered every detail of killing Cunningham, which was more than enough to satisfy the district attorney who charged him with first-degree murder that same day.

To back up their case, they found two men who were there: John Joe “Cabbage” Kapusta and Mike Gilbert. They knew Gomez as a man they called, ‘Indian.’ Although Kapusta was nearly blind, he recognized Gomez’s voice and said his general physical description was the same as the man who walked over and put three more bullets into Cunningham.

Gomez’s spectacular confession left investigators and newspaper reporters with two burning questions: why did he do it and why did he confess?

“I got hungry,” he told a San Francisco Examiner writer, who, like many others, asked him the ‘why he did it’ question. “I needed money to eat. I never was mad at the men.”

His food bill was $62.26 and eight dead men. He may have not been mad at them, but he was mad enough at Cunningham to shoot him six times.

When asked by a Sacramento Bee reporter, “How does it feel to voluntarily admit to nine murders?” a “dirty, ragged, unshaven” Gomez, noted for having “slender, strangely smooth hands” cast his “dreamy-like” eyes towards the long jail corridor and said, “in a low, calm voice:”

“I see the same thing every year. Life is no good. Both times I was in prison it was no good—it was tough. I don’t care what happens. Life is bad.”

Later, during that same interview, when asked if he understood what could happen to him, Gomez again turned his head to look at something only he could see, thought for a moment, and in the same low, calm voice replied:

“Maybe it means more time. Maybe it means the gas chamber or electric chair. I don’t care. If they gas me or put me in the electric chair that’s all right. I’m better off dead anyway. I don’t want to live.”

Lloyd Gomez meant what he said. Over the course of the next 631 days of his life, he only appeared to flip-flop once. On the first day of trial, after sitting next to his attorney for twenty minutes during jury selection, he saw an open door, pushed his chair back, and took off running.

He was recaptured before he could get out of the building.

The Interview

On the night of October 15, twelve hours before he was executed, Gomez gave his consent to an interview request by Bee reporter Stanley Wilson.

“The admitted slayer of nine men reclined nonchalantly on his prison cot and replied to questions, Wilson began after a long introduction. ‘Scared? Nah, I ain’t scared.’

“Gomez. who previously was described as having the mind of a child, was asked if he knew why he was in that particular cell (the death cell where condemned men are places the day before their execution).

“‘Sure. I’m going in there tomorrow,’ he said as he pointed to the green gas chamber where the cyanide pellets soon were to be dropped to end his life.

“‘Have you seen a chaplain?’” Wilson asked.

“No, I don’t want to see no chaplain.”


“I believe the same thing Dad does. He don’t believe in no religion.”

His reply about religion confirmed a statement he made shortly after his confession when he told a reporter he believed in God, but not religion. His dad, sixty-three years old at the time, was still in the Nevada prison where he last saw his son nine years earlier.

It was also the last time he communicated with him.

“Gomez continually blinked his eyes, reminiscent of the manner in which he responded to questioning during his trial,” Wilson continued. “However, he seemingly was unconcerned about his fate today (tomorrow morning). He answered to another question:

“’No, I don’t have any friends, I haven’t written and I haven’t got any letters from any friends or relatives,” Gomez replied. “I don’t want any friends. I don’t need ’em.'”

When Wilson asked him if he thought he had a fair trial, “Gomez reflected for several moments before he repeated the question as though talking to himself.”

“Yeah, I think so. I don’t think the attorneys can do any more.”

When the interview had begun, Gomez was eating his last meal, which consisted of fried chicken, fried potatoes, peas, a tomato and lettuce salad, toast, apple pie and coffee. The food and a warm bed were two things he liked about being incarcerated.

“Am I keeping you up, Lloyd?” Wilson asked after he had finished eating.

“No, I’ll sleep all right tonight. Don’t worry about me.”

“He never seemed to lose his nonchalance,” Wilson wrote near the end of his article.

The man’s indifference to his own fate seemed to bother the reporter, who noted it several times in his story published the following afternoon. In fact, it was made clear to readers in the first and fourth sentence of his article.

“SAN QUENTIN—Lloyd Gomez, 29 year old phantom hobo killer, walked to his death in the San Quentin Prison gas chamber this morning with the same calmness he exhibited during his trial in Sacramento a year and a half ago…

“When the condemned man walked the traditional last mile to the gas chamber, actually only a few steps, he was composed, seemingly alert and showed no emotion. He exhibited his typical and long-standing stoic attitude.”

 At 10:12 that morning, Lloyd Gomez was pronounced dead.

It was over with.

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The Knight Family Massacre, 1958

Home | Mug Shot Monday, Short Feature Story | The Knight Family Massacre, 1958

On Tuesday, April 22, 1958, twenty-nine year-old David F Early was freed from Fort Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary where he served time for aggravated robbery. In a pre-release letter to the parole board, Early stated he wanted to return to his home state of Colorado where his attorney and ‘uncle,’ Merrill A. Knight, had befriended him and promised to help him upon his release from federal prison. In the letter, Early described Knight as “the only friend he ever had.”

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From Kansas, Early traveled by bus to Denver where he registered at the downtown YMCA on Thursday, April 24. The following day, he took a taxi to Knight’s home located in the “posh” Greenwood Village suburb where he arrived around noon. Finding no one home, Early entered the house through an unlocked basement door and immediately began going through the home looking for money, jewelry, and valuable items he could later pawn for cash. But when he discovered Knight’s .22 caliber rifle in the back of a closet, Early loaded the bolt-action rifle, made himself comfortable in Knight’s favorite chair, and chain smoked cigarettes as he waited for the family of four to return home.

Later described by newspapers as a “ne’er-do-well,” David Early had been in and out of jail or prison for most of his life. In addition to his federal time, Early had served time in Pennsylvania, Oklahoma, and Colorado where he had completed a prison sentence in 1955, and then another in 1957.

It was during that time that Merrill A. Knight had become acquainted with his ‘distant relative,’ whom he represented in court. Out of pity or a feeling of personal responsibility, the forty-seven year-old lawyer had taken an interest in the troubled young man who he had invited to his home several times in the past.

It was an unfortunate decision that led to a crime so horrible it would be compared to the Clutter Family murders that occurred in Holcomb, Kansas, nearly nineteen months later. Although prison doctors at Colorado State Penitentiary in Cañon City had diagnosed Early as a “dangerous psychopath” and  included their findings in his prison file, it is unclear if Knight was aware of client’s condition.

Mrs. Regina Knight was the first to return home. With the rifle pointed at her, Early forced her to a bedroom where he tied her hands and feet. He told her he needed money. She said there was $60 in her purse. Early yelled at her that it wasn’t enough. He wanted more.

More would come.

As he was trying to squeeze more money out of her, Mrs. Knight’s two step-children walked through the door. When they saw their father’s former client pointing a rifle at them, they were too confused and too shocked to run back out of the house. He led fifteen-year-old Karen to her bedroom where he tied her to the bed with stockings. He then took seventeen year-old Kenneth to his mother’s room where he tied him up with stockings near the foot of the bed.

Not long after, Merrill Knight returned home sometime between 5:30 and 5:45 p.m. Like the others, David Early forced Knight into a third bedroom where he ordered the attorney to tie his feet own feet together. He then told him to lay flat on his stomach, but before he could tie him, he saw the man’s wallet, took it, and put $127 in pocket. He then bound the man’s hand together behind his back.

Early collected another $77 dollars from the family, and told them to stay still and he would leave when it got dark.

But then, something else happened.

Varian L. Ashbaugh, a forty-seven year-old contractor, had met with Knight at his office earlier that day. Knight was handling the legal matters of an important business transaction for Ashbaugh, who later gave the following statement to police.

“I had talked to Merrill earlier in the day about an important business transaction he was handling for me. He asked me to bring or mail the papers to him so he would get them before he left for Las Vegas Saturday morning. (The entire family was going).

“I forgot to mail the letter during the day, but I knew we were going to the Wilson’s for dinner, so. I decided to drop it off on the way. (A few minutes before six o’clock) I walked to the door and rang the bell. When there was no answer, I tried the door and it was unlocked. I pushed the door open a ways and saw this young man approaching.

“He was very polite and calm. I asked him if Mr. Knight was home, and he said, ‘Yes, hut he is in the bathtub.’

“I then asked him if Mrs. Knight was home and he told me she was busy. I then asked him if he would give the letter to Mr. Knight and he told me he would be glad to do so.

“He was casually dressed, and I thought he was probably someone the Knights had hired to watch their home while they were in Las Vegas.”

A few minutes after Ashbaugh left, Early went to check on his captives. During the distraction with Ashbaugh, Knight had gotten loose and lunged at a surprised Early who said, “I started shooting without thinking.” Knight was shot three times and died later that night.

Not wanting to leave witnesses behind after mortally wounding the father, Early then went to the mother’s bedroom, stepped over Kenneth, and shot Regina Knight once in the head. Stepping back over the boy, he went to Karen’s room, and shot her once in the head.

In the short amount of time between moving from one bedroom to the next, Kenneth freed himself and was running out of the house when Early fired one bullet at him. He missed, and the rifle jammed.

Kenneth ran to the Wilson’s house, where they were hosting the dinner party Ashbaugh was attending. Inside, the high school senior screamed, “Mother and dad have been shot!”

Several of the men ran outside and noticed a car leaving the Knight residence. William Pumpelly and Ashbaugh got into a car and gave chase. Armed with only an empty shotgun, they did the only thing they could; they rammed their car into the stolen vehicle. Early jumped out and started running but was soon overpowered by Pumpelly and Ashbaugh. Others from the party, including Kenneth, soon arrived, and although it is not clear from newspaper reports, someone held the unloaded shotgun on him. Early, thinking it was load, stopped struggling.

Officers soon arrived, as did a newspaper reporter who asked Early why he shot the Knights.

“Because I needed money,” Early answered.

“What for?” the reporter asked.

“What does anybody need money for?”

Early was taken to the Arapahoe County Jail where he first dictated a confession taken in shorthand, and wrote out another one by his own hand.

“Early, pasty-faced and chain smoking, smiled as he listened to officers describe the crime to reporters,” the Associated Press reported in an article distributed nationwide. Early was also interviewed by a newsman for a Littleton radio station, which broadcasted Early’s interview later that day.

“After his radio interview, Early told the newsman: I did a favor for you on the radio, now get me some smokes,” the AP report continued.

In a separate story released by the Associated Press that day, Sheriff Charles Foster quoted Early as saying: “I’d do it again under the same circumstances.” Foster then referred to the letter Early had submitted to the Leavenworth parole board in which he wrote, “Knight was the only friend he ever had.”

On his first night in jail, Early slept soundly that night and ate everything he was offered the following day. He rejected any kind of reading material, including a Bible. He only wanted cigarettes. When a jailer gave him a half-package of his own, Early grabbed them and never said thank-you as he turned to walk away.

On December 3 of that same year (1958), a jury only needed twenty-five minutes to return with a guilty verdict and the judge sentenced him to death. During the short trial and throughout the appeals, Early’s legal battle was fought by psychiatrists for the state, and those for the defense. The state won each time and Early’s execution was set for August 11, 1961.

During his two years on death row, no visitor ever came to see him and none of his relatives wrote him a letter.

On his last evening alive, the warden went to his cell and read aloud the death warrant. Early was then taken out “and guided up the ramp to the ‘penthouse’ where the hexagonal gas chamber was located. He was ordered to strip down and given prison issued white shorts to wear inside the chamber. After he was seated and strapped into the steel chair, Early said out-loud, “I’m sorry I did it.” A Catholic priest administered last rights. His final statement was, “I hope God will forgive me.”

At 7:59 pm, the door was sealed. One minute later, the sodium cyanide pellets dropped into a vat of sulfuric acid. As the room filled with white gas, Early tried to hold his breath. He lasted for about one minute then compulsively took a deep breath and was unconscious within ten seconds. At 8:05, his body was wracked with convulsions and then he was still for two minutes. He was pronounced dead at 8:07 pm.

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Mugshot Monday! The Redemption of Wilbert Rideau, 1961

Home | Mug Shot Monday | Mugshot Monday! The Redemption of Wilbert Rideau, 1961

In 1961, nineteen-year-old Wilbert Rideau shot and killed Lake Charles bank teller Julia Fergusen, who was twenty-years-old. Rideau’s first trial included an all-white, all-male jury who sentenced him to death. That verdict, and two more which came in 1964 and 1970, were eventually overturned on constitutional grounds. Nevertheless, he remained on death row until 1972.

In 1975, he was assigned to be the editor of the The Angolite, an uncensored prison newspaper. During his nearly 30-year tenure as editor, he won numerous prestigious journalism awards including: the Robert F. Kennedy Award, the George Polk Award, and the Sidney Hillman Award. He was the first prisoner ever to win the American Bar Association’s Silver Gavel Award. During the time, he also was co-producer for two Academy Award nominated documentary films: The Farm, and Angola, USA.

In 1993, Life Magazine called him the “most rehabilitated prisoner in America.”

In December 2000, the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals in New Orleans threw out Rideau’s 1970 murder conviction because of racial discrimination in the grand jury process in Calcasieu Parish, Louisiana.

Although he had already served 39-years in prison, the local prosecutor chose to retry the case

Wilbert Rideau Autobiography

and Rideau was re indicted in July 2001.

During his fourth murder trial in 2005, Rideau’s defense team included Johnnie Cochran, nationally renowned civil rights attorney George Kendall, and famed New Orleans defense attorney Julian Murray, who all worked on his case for free.

The 2005 jury, which included men and women of mixed racial backgrounds, convicted him of manslaughter, for which he was sentenced to serve 21 years in prison. Since had already served 44 years, he was freed immediately.

In 2010, he published his memoir entitled: In the Place of Justice: A Story of Punishment and Redemption.

Wilbert Rideau has a detailed and interesting Wikipedia page which you can find here.

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