Punks

They were nothing but punks—callow, sullen, foul-mouthed youths. Tuberculous, bespectacled Johnny West was 22; he had a thin, bony body, a big nose, a girl's mouth, and a mind as weak and erratic as a bat's. Stocky, thick-lipped Robert Daniels was 24; there was a look of dull, animal vigor about him and he loved flashy clothes. But he had a psychopathic impulsiveness, an inability to consider consequences.

They met in Ohio's gloomy, overcrowded Mansfield Reformatory. After they were paroled, they joined forces, accumulated an arsenal and stole a 1947 Pontiac.

One night early this month they walked drunkenly into a Columbus tavern, yanked out automatic pistols and took $800 in cash and checks from the till. Half an hour later they walked into another bar and began shooting. They killed the owner, wounded a woman customer, jubilantly scooped up another $400.

"This Is a Stickup." Then they were seized with a magnificent idea. Why not go back to Mansfield and kill some reformatory guards? At 1:30 one morning last week they parked their car below the home of the reformatory's farm superintendent, a burly, middle-aged man named John E. Niebel. They rang the doorbell.

When Niebel looked out, Daniels politely asked permission to use the telephone. Then he stepped inside, pulled his pistol, snarled: "This is a stickup." While West covered the superintendent, Daniels went upstairs, got Niebel's dumpy wife and his plump, redheaded 22-year-old daughter Phyllis out of bed. The two killers gloated over their frightened victims like vicious children; demanded that Niebel order a guard named "Red" Harris to come to the house.

Niebel refused. The pair ordered the big farmer and the two white-faced women outside and into the car, told them to take off their clothes. The automobile moved off through the darkness, finally pulled up beside a cornfield. Daniels forced the Niebels to walk out among the rustling stalks. "Kneel down," he ordered. They knelt—naked, shivering, sick with terror. West shot Mrs. Niebel in the stomach. His pistol jammed. Daniels shot her in the head. He fired twice more, and Niebel and his daughter toppled over, dying. The two gunmen walked back to their car and drove away.

"I'll Take Care of Him." The next evening Johnny West began asserting himself. He forced a sedan to the side of the road in the hope of getting false identification and a new getaway car. He leaped out, looked in at a man and woman, said: "You're going too fast—give me your driver's license." The driver, a farmer named James Smith, refused. Johnny West pulled a pistol, shot him through the head.

As the killers roared away, still without a new car, they began quarreling bitterly. Daniels, suddenly fearful, railed against West's wild stupidity. But West was still snarling with braggadocio a few minutes later when they spotted a perfect getaway car—a big Dodge haulaway truck with four new Studebakers on its rear decks—parked in some trees near the town of Tiffin. The truck driver was asleep. West said: "I'll take care of him," and yanked out his pistol again.