Born to Lose (50 page)

Delker was facing trial for the September stabbing death of Whiskey Sermons and the attempted murder of Brady Jackson. Then, “at the end
of November,” recalled inmate John Keen, “me and David Rydell went to court in Montgomery County and while we was there Danny Delker's brother got shot to death by a man—a black man—in Delker's hometown. When Rydell and me get back to Western, I didn't say nothin' but Rydell razzed Delker, ‘Hey Danny, your brother got killed by a black dude, how do ya feel 'bout that?' Soon after, we heard those white boys made a plan to take a guard hostage then kill Rydell and every other black who was gettin' under their skin.” Delker's anger was further fueled when, on November 28, prison counselor Gary Boyd informed Delker that he would not be allowed to attend his brother's funeral. Delker said to Boyd, “Yeah, well, I'm gonna hurt somebody.” This was duly noted, but threats by inmates, particularly after not getting their way, were typical.

This time though, barred from a final goodbye to his brother and enraged by the color of his killer, Delker's commitment to the murder plan was sealed.

In the same week that Delker learned of his brother's death and was denied permission to bury him, Dr. Herb Thomas, the prison's psychiatrist, called for Stanley Hoss to be brought to the hospital. “I'd been working with Hoss the past three years so I knew him well,” said Thomas.

Hoss was hugely impulsive with lowered ability to control his behavior when ruled by some emotion. Once he got here after killing that young mother and her child, I spent a lot of hours with him. He told me he didn't know where he buried the bodies, said he was drinking, exhausted, and hardly knew where he was 90 percent of the time. I don't know, though. From what I saw of him, Hoss was so trapped by his rage for authority figures that anything that sounded like he was going over to the other side … I mean, to do the right thing … would be tantamount to becoming a law-abiding decent citizen, and there was no way he was going to do that. He was going to play his role out to the end.

On this Saturday afternoon, two corrections officers arrived at the hospital with Hoss. Though perhaps an unwise practice, Thomas would never see men unless their shackles were removed. “So Hoss came to this room,” said Thomas,

and the officers went upstairs. After just a moment I realized I was in great danger. Hoss was beside himself with rage, pacing back and forth. At first I thought it was about my decision to not allow the marriage between
him and a girlfriend, but he never mentioned it. He was, though, upset that the administration transferred out his friend Frankie Phelan, and other things were getting to him. I'd never seen him so agitated. I felt at any moment he'd grab something as a weapon. Even if he just slugged me I'd be in trouble as he was so powerful. Then Hoss voiced his chief complaint. He was worried he'd never be allowed out of the Home Block, and it was a public fact that custody was going to keep him there forever. Hoss said officers would tell him this, like with Kozak's phrase, “We're going to weld your door shut.”

Returned to his cell, Hoss smoldered. He was sure the prison wanted to bury him. When he thought about it, maybe Diane did too. Furious and frustrated, Hoss dashed off a letter to her.

I know what you did with the picture I sent the kids. You stinking bitch, you fat cum drunk whore. I've put up with your bullshit long enough. I couldn't stand living with you all those years but did it for the kids. Your sister was around too. That was nice for me. I'm sure this is no surprise, is it? Just ask her why she went to New Jersey that one time to live for 4 months.

I never loved you. The kids know who their father is so there's no reason to hide anything but believe me they will come to know what a fat, stinking pig their mother is. Just look in the mirror, bitch. Take a good look at yourself before you blame me for being bad for the kids. I'm sure they know the little bastard you brought home ain't one of them. I can say one thing. I never brought my sins home to the kids. You should have flushed the little bastard down the toilet. Who the fuck would want you? Well, when the boys get older they can always put your stinking ass out on the streets and have you sell that stinking pussy of yours. Goodbye, you lousy cunt.

Dark mood prevailing, Hoss, the most Machiavellian of the three plotters and chief engineer of the murder scheme, was determined to wreak a general vengeance and, if nothing else, sustain the notoriety he held so dear.

And what of the third schemer, George Butler? He wouldn't falter, he swore to himself. At 5 feet, 4 inches, he was just happy to be associated with the big dogs. He didn't want to admit it, but just to be seen talking and laughing with Hoss and Delker draped a protective veil over him: Don't fuck with me. I'm with them.

Hoss, Delker, and Butler got busy with specifics. When and where, the exact role of each plotter, what weapons and who would use them—all these details were discussed and decided, as well as the central problem: how to get Lt. Peterson in their presence. This reminded Hoss that he'd more than once called the lieutenant a nigger to his face, so he determined to moderate his manner, to lull Peterson to a more benign appraisal of him.

Despite the secrecy of the plotters, rumors sprouted. Snippets of dubious information began to surface within the routine mixture of hearsay and tattle in this house of whispers. Inmate “Georgia” Buoy heard something.

“Georgia” Buoy liked Peterson. Unlike some blacks, who'd sneer at Peterson as an “Uncle Tom,” Buoy was proud of Peterson, that he'd made lieutenant. A few days into December, Buoy saw Peterson crossing the yard, and called to him. “‘Hey Pete, got a minute? Listen, be careful down there. Some shit may happen. Just don't get caught flat-footed.' Pete says back, ‘Wait, what are you talking about?' an' I said, ‘Pete, just listen to what I tell ya. Watch yourself.'

“But damn, a few hours later Pete brings me into the captain's office,” Buoy continued. “Everybody sittin' there an' Pete says, ‘Okay, tell them what you told me.' I looked at Pete an' said, ‘What I said was for you, not these people. I'm not your rat. Fuck you.' An' I left.”

Buoy's wasn't the only warning, though. In the following days, CO Jimmy Weaver heard that Peterson had found a note on his time card that read, “Watch your ass. They're going to get you.”

If Lt. Walter Peterson was worried over the recent scuttlebutt, he set it aside, rationalizing it as no more than other staff had gone through. Still, Asaline, his wife of sixteen years, knew better:

Though my husband talked little about his work, I could tell when there was trouble. When you live with a man so long, you can read him. I wanted him to get out, really, but it was his profession. He'd been commended for his work with dangerous inmates but there'd been a subtle change over the past year. Yet only once did I see him visibly upset, and that's when the Supreme Court banned capital punishment. Speaking of his job, he said, “Where does that put us? We won't get any protection now.”

Though it was a longer drive for Walter, we stayed in Clairton, buying the place we'd been renting on Mitchell Avenue. Family, friends, our church, we wouldn't leave. And by this time our only child, Walter Neil, was eight and well situated in school. Everything was good, but gradually I noticed Walter had fewer smiles, less twinkle in his eyes. He was always
a strong man and I knew of occasions where he'd have physical confrontations in that prison, but now Walter was into his forties…. I worried.

On December 7, Superintendent Walters signed a memorandum to the deputy commissioner at Camp Hill headquarters. His opening lines clarified the issue. “As I have previously indicated to you, our institution has received an overload of problem cases from other bureau institutions without any degree of relief from the present problem cases we continue to hold. I therefore request that certain problem cases be transferred from our institution….” Listed in the memorandum were ten troublemakers, including the inmate suspected of passing a shiv to Danny Delker, who a minute later used it to murder Whiskey Sermons and nearly kill Brady Jackson.

The top four of six other problem cases cited were Stanley Hoss, George Butler, Daniel Delker, and Robert McGrogan, but “these men we are keeping and are not requesting transfer.”

Also by this Friday, December 7, Peterson's mood had brightened. Maybe it was the season. Christmas trees were going up in the big blocks, but no tree had ever been put in the Home Block. Maybe now, as a lieutenant running the place, he could see about that. Maybe a more conciliatory manner in Stanley Hoss helped too. Stanley Hoss seemed to have come around these past days toward the Home Block staff, and even more so toward Peterson.

“Hoss was out of his cell a good bit, cleaning the steps and ranges,” recalled CO Horvat.

He took to talking with Pete, something he'd never done before, Pete being black. I watched this exchange for about a week. After the insults Pete had earlier taken from Hoss, I don't know how Pete could be receptive to Hoss's friendly talk, but we all knew of inmates who credited certain officers with helping them turn their lives around, even if it's just a better attitude, and maybe Pete thought he was doing some good. I even saw Hoss show pictures of his kids to Pete, and on this Friday, just before Pete's shift ended, I heard Hoss say, “Okay, Lieutenant, have a good weekend, see ya Monday.” Hoss just wasn't normally that chummy. Only later did I piece this together.

December 10, 1973.

“We're gonna kill Peterson today.”

If that had been spoken by just about anyone else, it would have been a joke, but Bob McGrogan knew Danny Delker meant it. If certitude was needed, standing with them in the basement, not five feet from Delker, was a mirthless Stanley Hoss, who appraised McGrogan for any reaction.

Having spent thirty-four of his fifty years behind bars, McGrogan was thin but wiry and categorized himself as “one of the 15 or so thoroughbreds at Western.” He was known as a good shank man and had twice killed in prison. But that was then. Facing Hoss and Delker, McGrogan knew he was out of his league. “Hoss kept staring at me,” said McGrogan, “while Delker said, ‘Got it, Bob? You want in on it?'”

McGrogan knew there'd been rumors he was working with the administration. That he was an admitted homosexual didn't help either, not circled by these Nazis. McGrogan reasoned to himself that he was a killer like them, and he was white. Still, he sensed they didn't trust him.

“What's it gonna be, Bob?” asked Delker.

“You're kiddin,' right? I mean, why do you wanna do this?”

“Peterson's always fuckin' with us,” Delker answered flatly, “givin' us a hard time upstairs, but as soon as we can get him down here …”

“Look, why not wait a couple days and I will think on what I wanna do?”

After conferring with Hoss but not Butler, who was further off to the side, Delker told McGrogan, “All right, we'll do that.”

Voices were kept low, for aside from the four inmates, one other man stood nearby, Officer Patrick “Bus” Reilly.

Once the basement hole had been reinvented as a rec room, it was thought wise to post an officer there as an observer. For his own protection, Officer Reilly was situated at the far end of the rectangular area, in a small room separated from the corridor by bars. During his shift he was locked in; he had no keys to let himself out, but he did have an intercom that connected
him with upstairs. Bus Reilly was unarmed. To the conspirators, his presence posed no threat.

Upstairs, Lt. Peterson was working the 8 A.M. to 4 P.M. shift, but Sgt. Doug Cameron and three others had just come on for the 2 P.M. To 10 P.M. shift.

“Once I got seated,” Cameron recalled,

I took care of the log and started to ready for the meal which would be sent over early, about 3:15, and me and Pete was catching up on the weekend. Pete said he was busy with family things and that he'd come to the prison Saturday night for the Lifers banquet, then on Sunday he had an uncle's funeral, but like always he still looked better than anyone else. Shoes like mirrors, pressed creases, spit-polished brass, squeaky sharp … damn, if he sat down he'd break.

Pete tells me a couple inmates are out cleaning the range, a couple showering, and the white guys are downstairs with Reilly. Pete also said Reilly called up about 1:30, saying Hoss wanted to see him about someone's illness, so Pete called Hoss's counselor Gary Boyd to see if he could check it out. Routine stuff.

“By two o'clock I thought they'd forgotten about killing Peterson,” said McGrogan. “I'm talkin' to them about just anything to keep their minds off that. I had a visit comin' around two-thirty and I was just prayin' I'd be called so I could get the hell out of there. Then Hoss said to me, ‘We're not waitin', we're killin' him now. If you don't want in on it, you better go upstairs.' I figured that was a set up against me in that if I went to leave they would try to kill me. I didn't say I wanted in or out. I just stood there.”

“We gotta hurry,” said Hoss. “Get everything ready.” George Butler knelt down at a bucket on the floor. He pulled out a bed sheet, put it in a wall sink and turned on the water. Watching from a distance, Bus Reilly saw nothing unusual. Inmates were always bringing things into the basement to wash.

In another attempt to lure Peterson to the basement, Delker moved a small table beneath an electrical outlet on the ceiling, stood on the table, and, taking the plug from his radio, held it near the outlet but did not insert it. Hoss then asked Reilly, at the far end of the corridor, to summon Peterson to fix the outlet. Reilly relayed the message but the scheme was foiled when Peterson replied he'd send down an electrician to check the plug.

Ignoring McGrogan, Hoss, Delker, and Butler discussed the situation, then Delker stood on the table again, inserted the plug and turned on the radio, Hoss telling Reilly, “It's okay, we got it working.”