ZACHARY STEPHEN BESSIRE ANKENY

11432 E Quicksilver Ave

Mesa, AZ 85212

480.452.7532

zankeny@hotmail.com

——————————————-

Researcher/writer — Jerome Historical Society WWW.JEROMEHISTORICALSOCIETY.COM

Born in Dubuque Iowa in 1982, Zachary Ankeny‘s destiny in the writing world was evident from an

early age. At the age of 3, and just after he‘d learned to read, Zach‘s father (Stephen B. Ankeny)

brought home an Apple II desktop computer for his thriving restaurant business. Though the com-

puter was to be used for calibrating payroll and inventories, Stephen also loaded the hard drive with

a few games including ―The Muppets‖ and ―Maze Frenzy‖.

Zachary, however, much more impressed by the fact that he could type words, sentences and

phrases into the DOS command prompt. For hours he would type long first-person narratives into

the black screen, highlighted with green words. Though the computer didn‘t recognize anything that

was being input, and would delete the command as soon as it was ‗hard-returned‘, it was (and con-

tinues to be) Zachary‘s favorite computer game.

Zachary‘s early exposure to technology is not the only element that decided his future as a writer;

additionally, Zach would spend summers buried in the shelves of books in his grandmother‘s book-

store in Sidney, Nebraska. His Grandparents, Bob and Joy Ankeny, were avid readers – so much so

that they had poured their life savings into creating the only bookstore in the small plains-town of

Sidney.

While a myriad of children‘s books were free to him, Zachary often opted for the more ‗adult‘ brand

of books, reading selection from authors such as Hemmingway, Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and –

his personal favorite – Mark Twain.

A quarter-Century later and Zachary is still writing, and still considers it his favorite computer

game. A quote from Zachary Ankeny (published in July2010) sums up his love for literature per-

fectly…

“Life is a very strange vessel. It can either take you to the height of your dreams or drop you vio-

lently into the depths of unhappiness. Still, I am glad it exists, and I believe my purpose in it is to

rip it open and see what makes it tick.”

The article to the right, ―The Forgotten Doctor,‖ took two years to

research. Upon its completion, it was originally published through

the Jerome (Arizona) Historical Society, and later earned a second

publication through the Arizona Historical Society at the Campus of

Arizona State University. The original manuscript and all of the re-

search materials acquired during the research phase are now con-

tained in the Winnie Ruth Judd exhibit along with the original photo-

graphs of the crime scene, all materials that the state gathered in

hopes of convicting Winnie Ruth, and the evidence collected during

her years as a fugitive.

According to Ronnie Roope, Lead Historian for the Jerome Histori-

cal Society and Professor of English, formerly at Northern Arizona

University, and more recently at Cottonwood College: ―Ankeny‘s

writing is not only intriguing and detailed, but his ability to research

the obscure and forgotten historical facts should be the envy of every

writer.‖

The Town of Jerome may have once been called ―The wickedest city in the west‖, but we residents and historians know

that it was mostly fluff. In fact, there are only records of 4 murders that took place within the city limits from 1875 to

1935 when the mines finally closed and turned the town into the world‘s largest ghost town. The most famous of the

few murders was the murder of Sheriff Johnny Hudgens, who was ambushed just off Hull Avenue in what used to be

referred to as the ―Mexican District.‖

One little known fact, however, is that the town of Jerome may have come very close to hosting the nation‘s most infa-

mous of murders. A murder case that was once called the ―case of the century,‖ not only by those who were glued to

the daily headlines regarding the case, but by Eleanor Roosevelt, the First Lady of our Nation.

The double murder actually took place in Phoenix Arizona on a hot October night in 1931. There were two victims of

this heinous act: Agnes Anne Leroi, and Hedwig ―Sammy‖ Samuelson. The victims – both in their early twenties – had

a flare for the underground Phoenix party scene. In the midst of the Great Depression and Prohibition, the girls were

known to frequent the local speakeasies and to be overly-flirtatious with the many men who also frequented the illegal

venues.

In August of 1931, Leroi and Samuelson acquired a new roommate: Winifred Ruth Judd, the husband of a doctor with a

reputation for prescribing more medication to himself than to his patients. Judd had grown tired of her husband‘s (Dr.

William C. Judd) addiction to opiates. Finding over a hundred bottles of Cheracol (an opium-based cough syrup) was

the last straw for her, and the couple decided upon a trial separation. Dr. Judd moved to the Los Angeles area to begin a

residency at a local clinic while Winnie stayed in Phoenix, moving into the small house shared by Leroi and

Samuelson.

With her newly found freedom, Judd fell into the life lead by Sammy and Leroi, carousing with men and drinking on a

regular basis. Though the scene was toxic for Judd, a small-town girl who was naïve about the alcohol and smoke-filled

nightclubs of the Phoenix underground, the dangerous nightlife is not what lead to the horrific events that took place on

October 16, 1931. The most dangerous element entered the picture only a few days after the three women began living

together…

John J. ―Happy Jack‖ Halloran was a local Phoenix businessman who had aspirations toward politics, was a handsome

and seemingly ethical man on the surface, but in the dark corners of the local speakeasies he had a reputation for wom-

anizing and debauchery.

Fate brought Leroi, Samuelson, Halloran, and Judd together in one such speakeasy in September of 1931. The four

drank heavily, laughed and socialized the night through. Days later, relationships began to develop between the four.

Halloran (a married man) began to see both Leroi and Samuelson on a regular basis, meeting for romantic encounters

day and night. Halloran had attained the love and lust of the two women with little effort, but he wanted more – he

wanted Judd as well. Dashing and irresistible, it wasn‘t long before Halloran attained a fourth point to his love-triangle

– Winifred.

During the long court case that followed the murders, Halloran testified that all three of the women knew that they were

all sexually involved with him and that they were content to ―sharing‖ him, a fact that Judd denied until her death in

1998.

THE FORGOTTEN DOCTOR By

Zachary Ankeny

And here is where the facts begin to get hazy. Dozens of books have been written speculating on motives, de-

tails and even conspiracies in the days leading up to the night of the murders. Judd testified in 1932 that Leroi

and Samuelson were having affairs with Halloran, but he was more infatuated with Judd and would rather be

with her than the other two. Halloran, on the other hand, testified that all three of the women were nothing

more than simple flings – a mistake he deeply regretted. The other two sides to the story were never told, how-

ever, because on October 16, 1931 both Agnes Anne Leroi and Hedwig ―Sammy‖ Samuelson were murdered

with a 25 caliber pistol in a nondescript neighborhood in Phoenix. The next day, Winnie Ruth Judd boarded a

train to Los Angeles, hoping to return to her husband.

Judd arrived in Los Angeles clearly shaken and nervous, but wouldn‘t say why. Dr. Judd met his wife at the

station and clearly noticed her nervousness, but chocked it up to the fact that their separation had left her fraz-

zled. The couple waited for Winnie‘s luggage to be unloaded. After nearly an hour of waiting, a man came by

and grabbed Winnie by the arm, saying ―Ma‘am, can you please follow me?‖

While Winnie and Willam Judd were waiting for her luggage to be delivered to them, the baggage handler was

digging through the piles of luggage in the cargo hold. When he came to Judd‘s trunk, he immediately was hit

with a foul odor, an odor that he recognized upon seeing the blood that had begun to seep through the corners

of the box. With the assistance of the local police, the baggage handler opened the trunk and found a repulsive

sight: two young women, naked and hacked to pieces.

Growing up in Phoenix Arizona, I had always heard my parents and family friends speak quietly about the

murder and subsequent trial of Winnie Ruth Judd under their breaths. Even though the years of hearing pieces

of the story had given me a summary of what an atrocity it was and what an infamous story it had become, I‘d

never paid much regard to it and it had almost become an obsolete memory when a chance-read brought back

all the memories.

In March of 2007, I was sitting in the headquarters of the Jerome Historical society, a pile of newspaper clip-

pings, books and records piled in front of me. I was researching The Great Influenza Epidemic of 1918 and its

heavy affect on the population of Jerome. Tired, overwhelmed and feeling foggy, I opened a copy of Herbert

V. Young‘s book: ―They Came to Jerome.‖ Perusing through Young‘s recollections of the epidemic, I came

across a sing sentence… ―Doctor William C. Judd – husband of the infamous Winnie Ruth Judd – was the

leading doctor employed by the United Verde Mine, and tended to the sick until their final passing.‖

Slamming the book shut, I walked to the Lead Archivist, who was busy digitizing century-old records, and

asked, ―What do you know about William C. Judd?‖

Confused, he responded, ―I‘ve never come across that name before in any of our records, who is he?‖

―That‘s what we need to find out,‖ I answered.

Two months later, a full search of all of the tens of thousands of records in the Jerome Historical Society‘s

archives turned up nothing. Not a single mention of Dr. Judd. I left my hotel room in the Connor Hotel and

returned to Phoenix feeling I had hit a dead end.

Months went by, the question of Dr. Judd and his connection to Jerome never left my mind. Finally, I decided

to call the Arizona Historical Society (housed in the Hayden Library on the campus of Arizona State Univer-

sity). I asked for any and all information related to Winnie Ruth Judd that they could drum up. Several weeks

later, a package of materials arrived at my door and I once again delved into the mystery of Winnie Ruth and

her forgotten husband.

After the first thousand pages of research, I came across a curious fact: Winnie Ruth Judd – convicted of the

murder and dismemberment of her two roommates – became embarrassed of her own reputation and changed

her name to Marian Lane in 1963, an alias she used during her first of many escapes from prison and mental

institutes. It immediately became evident to me that all the missing information in my research had to be filed

under her alias and not her given name. I switched gears and began searching for any information on this

Marian Lane, checking with sources I‘d originally inquired with under the name of Winnie Ruth Judd. Judd‘s

alias, however, turned up even fewer results than her given name.

It wasn‘t until I received a call from the University of California at Berkeley‘s Head Librarian. She told me

that she was recently digitizing the library‘s paper records and came across the phrase ―Winnie Ruth Judd‖ in

one of the library‘s manuscripts.

The Manuscript, titled ―The Mine Doctor‘s Wife In Mexico During the 1920‘s‖ and written by Eleanor Swent,

based upon a series of interviews that the writer conducted with Winnie Ruth Judd only years before her death.

In the only intimate interview she ever gave in her lifetime, Winnie Ruth Judd (AKA ―The Trunk Murderess,‖

AKA ―Marian Lane‖) opened up about her lifer surrounding the events, but never spoke about the events of

that night when her two friends were murdered and dismembered. For the first time in 78 years, the Town of

Jerome, The Jerome Historical Society, and those interested in the story behind the woman convicted of Ari-

zona‘s most infamous murders can hear Winnie Ruth‘s husband and his connection to our little town.

According to Winnie Ruth, she fell in love with William C. Judd the moment she laid eyes on him. Dr. Judd, a

middle-aged bald man lacking in classical good-looks, was a strange suitor for the young, beautiful and intelli-

gent Winnie. Still, Winnie knew that Judd was the man of her dreams. After a short courtship, Dr. Judd asked

Winnie‘s parents for their daughter‘s hand in marriage. A seemingly successful doctor, Winnie‘s parents leapt

at the chance for their daughter to marry the man that could assuredly provide her with a happy and provided

life.

At the time of their marriage, Dr. William C. Judd was working as a doctor at several mining sites, including

mines in Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico and Mexico. Judd‘s mobility between the mines had less to do with

his talent or notoriety of skills than it did with his addiction to opium (Judd would change job locations often

so that he could steal opium, laudanum and other opium-based medicines without arousing suspician).

When Dr. William Judd asked for Winnie‘s hand in marriage, he was living in Jerome Arizona, but was in

danger of losing his job. The United Verde Copper Company, his employer and essentially the owner of

Jerome, had noticed that their opium stockpile was dwindling and that their stock-records were being falsified.

Given that he was a dedicated and well-respected physician, the UVCC were willing to wink at Dr. Judd‘s

obvious addiction if he was willing to seek treatment. Dr. Judd agreed and invited his new wife Winnie Ruth

to Jerome to see where they would spend the rest of their lives. Upon arrival in Jerome, Winnie was appalled.

In her words, Winnie Ruth called Jerome a ―Filthy little mining town,‖ and she begged her husband to leave

the town immediately.

Though Dr. Judd was fond of Jerome, and wanted to stay on as the chief physician for the mining company, he

agreed to his wife‘s request and quickly asked for a transfer to a different mine. The mining camp that they

moved to was in Chihuahua Mexico. In a new town, where the company had no knowledge of Judd‘s addic-

tion, Judd slipped quickly into his old habits, on one occasion emptying the company pharmacy of every medi-

cine containing opium and going on a week-long bender ending with him curled up in the fireplace of a

neighbor.

Throughout my research, the story infected me. I have held the evidence used in the case against W.R. Judd, I

stayed in Dr. Judd’s old apartment in Jerome. The story became an infatuation when I saw the scene of the

crime; it became an obsession when I saw the crime-scene photos of “Sammy” and Leroi’s naked and dis-

membered corpses.

Now that the manuscript is complete, and the story is published, I feel content in the fact that I have officially

and successfully given attention to a hidden corner of a story that has been speculated about since before my

parents were born.

It is my hope that the materials and footage I have discovered will promote an awareness and yearning to

learn about this wonderful and terrible story.

The University of California at Berkeley over-nighted copies of the original manuscript to me and, upon arri-

val, I poured over it night and day. Here it was: the missing piece of the puzzle. I‘d hoped that the manuscript

would give me insight into who her husband (Dr. William C. Judd) actually was, and what was his connection

to Jerome? What I received, was everything I was looking for, from the voice of Winnie Ruth herself.

The article to the right was created as a review of the annual

―FearCon Festival.‖ The article was originally published on

―ScarySCARYscary.com‖ and was published again through the

FearCon website and the website belonging to Madcap Theaters.

A coincidence put this year‘s Phoenix FearCon on May 21st; the same day as the supposed rapture,

when we would all either be risen to heaven or left-behind as a snack for the impending demons and

imps who would be send to give us our final judgment.

We all know that the rapture never came… But you wouldn‘t have known that if you were on Mill

Ave. in Tempe, Arizona last weekend. Phoenix FearCon graced the campus of ASU on it‘s final

weekend of the semester and year. Zombies milled around outside of Madcap Theaters smoking ciga-

rettes and debated the most demonic horror films of the last 50 years, hearses were double-parked in

the roundabout in front of the box office, and even the geniuses behind Braindead Films were pre-

sent.

All-in-all: it was a very good turnout for such an ob-

scure event on the first hottest day of the year. The

event was put-on by local maestro Chris Mclennan

(Director of Phoenix FEARCON), and I would say:

the girl threw a damn-good party! Horror-actor Tiffany

Shepis made an appearance and even hung-out and

gladly chatted with any fan that came-by. The starlet

— who has appeared in nearly 100 horror films since

beginning her career in the very-early nineties —

wandered around the event and actually walked up to

groups of gathered fans, striking up conversations: a

move that had me nominating her for celebrity of the

year, in my own mind.

The festival wasn‘t without its faults, though. Nothing goes without-a-hitch…! This hitch — in par-

ticular — was quite a hindrance… On this particular day, with temperatures pushing the 100-degree

mark, the theaters were not air-conditioned. I am not sure whether or not the A/C was not working or

if the gauge was not turned-up to its full-potential; but the theaters were hot, muggy and nearly-

torturous!!! This is not the first time I have attended a festival at Madcap Theaters in these condi-

tions, so I lay-blame on the theater-owners. Myself and two of my guests, found it to be cooler out-

side of the theaters with the vendors, so we missed a good portion of the feature films being screened;

a decision that pained me — as I wanted to see the majority of films that had a limited-engagement

here in Phoenix.

Technical problems aside, the festival was a great event, filled with once-in-a-lifetime experiences

that made for a great weekend. The wonderful guests that were invited to the event: made it, truly, an

EVENT!!!!

For information on next year‘s FEARCON, check out the FEARCON website:

http://www.phoenixfearcon.com/

The article to the right was originally composed for

www.bakersfieldnewsmagazine.com, a well-respected

online publication reporting on local news and articles

from around the Bakersfield (California) area. Published

in July of 2010, this article garnered much attention in

both the City of Bakersfield and throughout the Pacific

Coast for its unbiased representation of crab fisherman,

who had been painted badly in other national articles

popular at the time.

―A fisherman doesn‘t own his traps – the sea owns them.‖ These are the words

of Tony Anello, a crab fisherman from Bodega Bay, California. With 37 years in the

industry and generations of fishermen sharing his family name, Tony can tell you the ins

-and-outs of crab fishing.

In an interview with Mr. Anello, I asked him about the possibilities of octopuses

being caught in crab pots. His answers gave me a new insight into the world of a crab

fisherman. ―Octopuses are elusive creatures,‖ he said. ―They are agile enough to get into

the pots, eat the crabs, and worm their way back out.‖ I asked if there was a way to keep

the octopuses out of the traps, to which, he laughed – ―You can’t keep them out…‖

No devices, chemicals or deterrents have been invented to keep other species of

aquatic life out of the pots, designed specifically, to catch crab. Instead, modern day

fishermen have employed their own elusive tactics to keep the little bait-thieves at bay.

Tony Anello and his company, Spud Point Crab Company, was a forerunner to the

safety practices that are now a law in most of our nation‘s waters. The company uses

biodegradable pots that disintegrate in the water – ensuring that: if the pot is lost, cap-

tured animals can escape the cage with relative ease. Today‘s crab pots are made of cot-

ton twine that will decompose after a minimum of 2-3 weeks. If a pot is lost, all of its

living contents (including the crab) can easily claw their way out of the cage and return

to the sea. Safety-release-pots are just one of the new technologies being used by to-

day‘s crab fishermen.

A source from the Alaskan Game and Wildlife Department -- Aleutian Islands,

(we will call him Alec, as he wished to remain anonymous), spoke with me about wild-

life preservation in detail. ―Mainlanders have been up-in-arms lately about the impact

that offshore trapping might have on the ecosystem of Alaska and other regions [of the

world]. Honestly, I worry more about the [game] animals on land. Laws that regulate

hunting/fishing in the seas have been around for ages, and they are working; while spe-

cies such as the polar bear, [because they are land-dwelling creatures and have no spe-

cific regulations to protect their habitat], simply slip through the legal loopholes that

make up our current Game and Fish Regulations.‖

In an era where the majority of our country is finding ways to give back to the

nature – in an America that aspires to be ―greener,‖ both Tony Anello, his Spud Point

Crab Company, and the crabbing industry, seem to be a step ahead of the curve. The

men that brave the sea to catch our food, not only have a deep respect for what they take

from the sea, but have a pride in what they give back as well. Like a farmer tends to his

soil, our world‘s fishermen are constantly on the lookout for ways to replenish the abun-

dant resources of the sea.

Sample taken from “The Atonement of Bryston Grey”

Mrs. Anathoth noticed him staring at the flowers that ran along the stream and

smiled, ―Beautiful aren‘t they?‖ The followers broke away from them and began lighting

candles in a grey marble shrine near the pond.

―I‘ve never seen flowers like that,‖ Bryston admitted. ―Those colors… I… I‘ve

never seen those colors before.‖

―The flowers,‖ she nodded. ―Another gift from our lord – you will never find any-

thing that compares to them outside these gates, Mr. Grey. You‘re quite privileged indeed

– most people can go their entire life without seeing one of the lord‘s miracles… The

flowers are one of his creations made solely for his own enjoyment. After the lord recog-

nized our devotion and love for him, he shared one of his greatest loves with us.‖ She

shifted from Bryston‘s left to his right and plucked one of the budding flowers. ―Here,‖

she handed the flower to him. ―Its fragrance is the real miracle.‖

Bryston dipped his nose into the bud and smelled it. Immediately he was hit with a

familiar aroma; familiar enough to know he recognized it, but he couldn‘t quite place it. It

reminded him of something from far back in his lifetime, his childhood maybe, but its true

origin escaped him. Pulling the flower away from his nose, he was hit with another sensa-

tion; his tongue and gums felt as though they had turned to sugar and a sweet taste ran

against the back of his throat. A sweetness that was not familiar, a taste sweeter than any

he had ever known or dreamed of. ―Oh my,‖ he tried to say, but his mouth was salivating

to the point of inhibiting any words.

―No need for words,‖ she said, the smile on her face growing wider. ―No words

can truly do it justice anyway.‖ A bell rang out from the top of the cliff and the flock pray-

ing at the marble shrine stood up, congregating at the foot of a broad set of steps carved

out of the bright red-rock mountain. ―Come,‖ the woman directed. ―There‘s more… Oh,

there‘s much more than you could ever envision.‖

The woman led the caravan of parishioners up the magnificent stairway, once

again locking her arm into Bryston‘s. The steps were polished smooth and swept up into

the rock wall. All along the ascending staircase, there were notches carved into the wall,

holding grey and black marble statues of patron saints. The statues were adorned with ro-

saries and some of the fluorescent flowers from the pond. The group continued upward –

their droning hymns leading the way – to where the stream hugged the outside of the

steps. In the stream, Bryston noticed shiny hunks of metal; through the rippling water, he

couldn‘t quite tell what the objects were, but they were innumerable and dotted along the

stream, gleaming in the sunlight.

Excerpt from “Witch on the Rail”

―You know, ghosts are the last thing you have to worry about out here on the

rail… It‘s the witches that can get you.‖ The man‘s voice waivered as he spoke. ―The

witches…‖ he mumbled again, his speech trailed off into a high-pitched inhale. ―They

love the rail…‖

The man gurgled and thin strand of blood and spit flew from his mouth and

dripped to his clumped beard. He slumped to his side, tipping off of his hay bale. Be-

hind him, though, came a short black figure, her features flickering in the spinning light

from the fire. Her eyes were as white as the hobo‘s: dead-white. A ratty black blanket,

covered in lint, draped over her from her head to her heels.

She smiled at us with a face so wrinkled; it was as if she were melting. ―They

love the rail,‖ the witch said in the hobo‘s voice, ―we love them.‖ She moved slowly,

staring directly at me. I couldn‘t move, hypnotized by the gloss of her frozen white eyes.

Dennie noticed her slowly stalking toward me; whatever power she had over us,

keeping her prey still, began to weaken on Dennie. He mustered the strength to raise his

right arm and dig it into his jacket, retrieving his bottle of whiskey.

The woman was face to face with me, her yellow skin and pale eyes only inches

from the tip of my nose. The crackling of the fire dulled to a cottony, mute silence, and I

felt my eyelids growing heavy—I was falling asleep, just as the hobo had.

Dennie stood up—the witches control gone from him—and sent the glass bottle

crashing over the top of her head. Glass shards scattered and the whiskey dripped down

her shoulders and down into the fire, starting a slow ignition that began at her feet at

quickly licked upwards, engulfing the blanket that covered her.

She stumbled backwards with a look of shock, horror and—above all—anger.

She howled as the flames went from silky blue to bright orange; she tore at the blanket,

trying to cast it off of her.

―Let‘s go!‖ Dennie yelled as he tried to pull me to my feet. ―We‘ve got to get out

of here!‖ I could hear him, but could still barely move. It was as if my entire body had

fallen asleep and the blood was slow to pulse through and wake it.

The witch recoiled into the corner of the car, tearing away the last shreds of her

smoldering cover. Now she was naked, her frail and emaciated body steaming and bub-

bling from her collar to her eyes. She screeched like a hawk, turning Dennie‘s attention

away from me and back to her. Dennie jumped over the fire and knelt beside the hobo‘s

corpse, trying to pull the booze from his stiffened grip. Freeing the bottle, Dennie gave

it a full forced toss, shattering it at her feet. He kicked the metal sign cradling the fire,

sending it across the floor boards and lighting the old woman up again. Now fully-

engulfed—and no clothes to cast off—she twisted around, floating off the ground and

out through the crack of freight door, disappearing into the night.