Born to Lose (21 page)

It was sometime past 5:00 P.M. when Linda could take no more. They had just passed through, in quick succession, the hamlets of Bells Landing, Hepburnia, and Grampian. Linda was increasingly frantic about Lori Mae. It broke her heart when her daughter would hold her little arms out, wanting to be picked up. A greater burden, though, was when Lori Mae, instead of crying or otherwise acting out, sat quietly, stupor-like, puffy eyes showing profound incomprehension.

Forced to pursue a relentless drive to … To where? Canada? Somewhere else? Well, he could go to the North Pole for all Linda cared, but she wouldn't be driving him. She was so very tired of his demands, and she
needed
to hold her baby.

Out of desperation, Linda pulled off Route 219 onto a gravelly berm and came to a hurried stop. She did not know how the man running from the
law would react, but, like Hoss's previous kidnap victim, Karen Maxwell, Linda could not face another minute as a hostage. The same argument ensued that they'd had a few times before. Hoss wanted her to “keep the hell movin'”; Linda wanted to go no further.

With words flying between them, Hoss finally said, “Okay, I'm done with you, but you're not gettin' out on the main road. Pull up some and turn down that little road right ahead.”

Staying on the berm, Linda eased her car forty yards further, then turned onto a single lane of gravel and dirt. A quarter-mile away, Linda could see a barn and, sitting lower, the roof of a farmhouse. Heart beating in anticipation of imminent freedom, Linda moved the car forward. Oh, to be on that farmhouse porch, knocking on the front door!

The narrow lane slanted down and they'd gone around a slight bend. Behind them, Route 219 could no longer be seen. Still a long way from the barn and house, Linda was told to stop the car. Doing so, she turned to see Lori Mae and gave her child an encouraging smile. “There, there, sweetheart, Mommy's going to get you now.” She then faced the man who had ripped her from all harmony to endure hours of threats, deceit, and peril. On tenterhooks but with rallying hope, Linda sat quiet.

Hoss peered in all directions before turning toward her. He appraised her a moment before saying, “I think I'll keep you awhile longer,” the words tantamount to a gavel slammed to tabletop after a terrible verdict. Linda's hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles bloodless, her beautiful face contorted. With complete exasperation, Linda yelled out, each word distinct, “You can't do this!”

The bullet ripped through her flesh and bore into her ribcage. She put her hand to her side and felt warm blood soaking her sweater. More from shock than pain, Linda screamed, which jolted Lori Mae to cry out wildly from the backseat. Then Stanley Hoss took deliberate aim before firing again.

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.”