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Editors Note; Th,s is the thrd of a series of Gang Busters broadcasts reprinted in R^"'" ^^'\«°^. ''"2"^? ' ^ special pernussion of the program and Philips H. Lod^ who directs this half hour of exaUng entertainment every Wednesday night over the CBS network.
I HATE cops! Hate every flat-footed dick that ever pounded a pavement! 1 want to kill them! 1 want to blow their heads off-see them buried six feet in the
^'Zlario Borgio was not quite a madman. But out of his tortured mind he had evolved a scheme which was maniaca in its sweep, its grandiose simplicity. He hated cops All his friends hated them. Then why not kill them all, one by one? It was as direct as that, and as fantastic. It could never have succeeded, but it could have created such a rei^n of terror as this country has never known.
Only two things prevented Rosario Borgio's scheme from being the forerunner of a nation-wide upnsing of the underworld against the forces of law and order. One was the treachery of a member of Borgio's own gang— a man whose name has never been learned. The other was the superlatively fine detective job done by Captain Michael Fiaschetti of the New York police. r-. „
This most bizarre of crime stories began on Christmas nioht 1917. in Akron. Ohio. Patrolman Ralph Sanders was taking a last look at the Christmas tree he and Mrs. Sanders had just decorated, before going out on his beat. The glow of the candles fell on his broad, honest face as he
said; , ...
•May, somehow I have a feeling I m never going to torget this minute . . . standing here with you in front of the tree the kids all in bed . . , just the two of us here . . . '
He was right. He never did forget that minute, for he V/2LS still thinking of it a few minutes later when he shut the door of his home behind him and went down the iceglazed sidewalk, humming softly to himself. He had gone only a few steps when out of the shadow of a tree he had just passed came a spurt of flame— another and another. In quick succession three bullets, buried themselves in his back, and he fell. He was dead before his wife, who had heard the shots, could reach him.
Illustration
by
Anning Alden
From the darkness behind Pofrolman Sanders came a spurt of flame. The killers had begun their work.
The Akron police could find no explanation for the killing, nor had they been able to find any clue two weeks aten on the night of January 11, 1918. On that night Patrolma" Joe Hunt and Patrolman Edward Costigan met at tne ^ tersection of their beats, and walked along together to few moments, talking. j^j
Both men were depressed and worried over the mur of Patrolman Ralph Sanders. The cold-blooded way > which he had been killed, and the absence of clues, set ^^.^ case apart from the ordinary hazards of a policeman ^
The night was one of the coldest of the year, and few people were out. The street on which Costigan and Hunt were walking was entirely deserted, and the)' were glad of each other's company. But it did them no good. Suddenly, from behind theni, two shots rang out— then two more. Both Hunt and Costigan were dead when they were found.
The fourth in the series of Akron killings came two months later, on March 16. Patrolman Gethin Richards was the victim. Once (Continued on page 56)