The police had arrested a couple for burglary and then suspected them in the murder of Albert C. Leonhardt several weeks earlier. True love won out and Hawkins confessed. One of the Star headlines said he was "willing to stretch" to save his family.
The man who was referred to as William Harkins when he was arrested and as William Hawkins when the Star reported that he was suspected of murder, was called Edward W. Hawkins when the Star reported his confession. Later that was to be changed again to Edwin W. Hawkins.
The Morgue Lady has been unable to discover the source of the name changes — she suspects poor penmanship on records and also supposes one cannot expect a suspected felon to correct such errors — but is reasonably confident the the articles all refer to the same man and that his last name is Hawkins.
Young Mr. Hawkins was 22 years old when he confessed to murder after a life of crime. He made the confession to spare his wife, who was pregnant.
As reported in the Arizona Daily Star, Feb. 29, 1908:
HAWKINS IS FORMALLY CHARGED WITH MURDER OF LEONHARDT, FOLLOWING HIS CONFESSION
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In Anxiety To Shield Enciente Wife, He Clears Up the Mysterious Assassination and Tells of a Life of Crime From Youth Up—Admits That He Is Holding Back Many Other Crimes—Robbed Stores, Churches and Houses, Committed Forgeries, Burglaries and Holdups, and Is Willing To Stretch To Get Sympathy For His Family
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THE MARRIAGE HERE LAST JULY TO BESSIE CHASE OF TUCSON
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Advances Claim that Leonhardt Insulted His Wife and Says "I Fought With Him and Shot Him As He Steooed Away From Me."—Story of His Trail of Crime Down the West Coast to Mazatlan and Through Sonora to Tucson
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D. W. Hawkins was yesterday formally charged with the murder of Albert Leonhardt, a young carpenter, on the night of Dec. 22, 1907.
As was announced exclusively in the Star yesterday morning, the police have had information for some [illegible word] which lead to a belief on their part of his guilt. He yesterday made a confession of the murder to the officers.
Hawkins, murderer of Leonhardt, convict from Folsom, professional burglar, strong-arm man, pickpocket, sneak thief, petty larceny crook, forger and degenerate, as he nonchalantly twirled cigarettes between his fingers at the sheriff’s office in the county jail yesterday afternoon, dictated to a stenographer at the request of the Star a complete and detailed account of the life of crime which he has led since his departure from his Chicago home seven years ago. Young, slight of build with light brown hair, weak blue eyes, a receding chin, and a pale, anemic countenance, he is anything in appearance but the hardened criminal that he confesses himself.
Appears Canny
In telling of all his crimes, even of the tragic death of the man whom he shot to death on Alameda street, he is cold-blooded and canny to a point that is almost unnerving, even to those who frequently hear such tales. But whenever he talks of his wife, who is now in jail with him, his voice quivers and his face takes on an expression of tenderness that is not hypocritical and that convinces one in spite of himself that it is his love for her, half-witted though he admits she is, and his love for the unborn child, that moves him to make a clean breast of his wild career and to place his neck in the noose, as is done by his confession.
The confession, which the Star prints this morning, is word for word as he gave it, but, at that, it is not a complete recital of his misdeeds. He admits that he is holding back because he wants to tell the rest first to his wife and get her forgiveness, and that then he will give it to the public as freely as he has done the crimes already told.
When the reporter for the Star went to the cell yesterday afternoon Hawkins did not hesitate for a minute in his consent to tell the whole story, with the one proviso that it should be stated that he sacrificed his own life to save his wife. That is the one idea he has in his mind amounting almost to an obsession.
Work of Officers.
The officers had been working for several days on the theory that Leonhardt was slain by the Hawkinses, as was exclusively announced in yesterday morning’s issue of this paper, and it was when he saw the noose tightening around his own neck and in the fear that the evidence might also tend to incriminate his wife, that he voluntarily admitted the murder.
A voluntary confession is evidence under Arizona law against a man charged with first degree murder and he will in all probability pay with his life for the story he has told. Whatever manliness there is in him is contained in the plaint that he reiterates “I am doing it for my wife and baby and because I want them to have the sympathy of the public. She is innocent of these things and as I am guilty and have suffered until it has become unbearable, I want it all over with.”
The credit for the detective work on the case, which resulted ultimately in the confession, must go to Sheriff Pacheco and Undersheriff Meyers. After the public had come to the conclusion that Leonhardt’s death would always remain a mystery, they still kept at work.
In his statement to a Star reporter yesterday, Edward W. Hawkins. Aged 22, said:
As the Star did in 1908, Tales from the Morgue now presents his entire confession. However, before the paper was microfilmed, it apparently had incurred some water damage. It will be noted where some words are skipped because they are unreadable.
"I left home in 1901, and some time in February I joined the navy as an apprentice boy, enlisting in Chicago. I went to Newport, R. I., and was in the training station there. I was there 13 months and was then transferred to the (unreadable portion). I was transferred to the Wilmington gunboat and was out there two and a half years cruising around. On account of the climate being so bad, I was discharged when I was still 18 years old.
"Then I came home on a (unreadable word). I went around 'Frisco. I did all kinds of robberies, forgeries, and one thing and another. That was the latter part of 1904. I was drinking then and would do any old thing; didn't do any work then. Started burglarizing there; that was where I was caught. After that I was arrested. They had about ten charges against me but put up only two and let me off. That was in the fall of 1904. I went up to Folsom prison on Feb. 11h, 1905. They gave me two years and I served 20 months, got out on good behavior. Then came back to Vallejo. The chief of ppolice told me I was a nuisance, so I thought I had better leave.
On Treasure Ship.
"I went over to 'Frisco. Then I shipped on a lumber schooner, up and down the coast for a couple of months. After that I did a little crooked work, then I went down on a treasure expedition on the schooner Arago, with Capt. Johnson. I shipped as quartermaster. Wanted to get the $2000 bonus for an abandoned ship that was washed away. I had my foot smashed by an 8 x 4 timber. After it was well I got my money and started out with two or three other stranded sailors from the 'Tropic Bird.' Then I came to Mazatlan and then, on New Year's, went to Guaymas and worked on the railroad a while, and went crooked down around Guaymas. From Guaymas I went to Nogales, then walked to Patagonia. When I got to Patagonia got work loading ore cars right away. Made quite a bit of money, $3 a day. A fellow there, who owns the saloon, Billy Powers, let me tend bar for three or four months. From there, about the last of April, I came to Tucson.
First Stay in Tucson.
"I laid around a while and then managed to pick up a few things on the quiet. Then Henry Till, who knew me down in Patagonia, recommended me as barkeeper at the 'Ramona.' They had fired a fellow by mistake and I attended bar just one night. He told me if he ever needed me he would take me back. I then went to work for Henry Till again. I already had put in an application to be put on the street car and got that job, knocking down all the time. I had a system of my own on the street car. It was arranged by myself, and of course the fellows that were in on it with me are gone. We had a system of transfers and would meet down on the corner of Congress and Stone and exchange transfers. Of course we did not have any transfer passengers at all, but we would put them on and no one would know the difference. If it was a good haul, 75¢ or $1, we managed (to) ring up half fare, so the passengers would not know the difference and would make out the thing was on the bum. I made an average of $3 and $4 a day. One time, I think it was December, I was extra man most of the time. I pocketed most everything I took in. Half the time I was conductor and half the time motorman. I was boarding and rooming with the superintendent and he did not want to fire me, although he had an idea I was knocking down.
His Marriage.
"I was married the 16th of July to Bessie Chase. I had known her a few weeks. We liked each other the first time we saw each other. Met her on the car, but did not speak much. Never spoke until one time she had a little girl with her and, when I would not take her car fare, she insisted, so we got acquainted. The superintendent was sore because I was going to leave his house, and he was watching me then and had every one else watching me.
"After I quit the car company I did not do anything. My wife had a sewing machine and piano and we sold them. I had a little over $300 and we realized $100 from the sale of the sewing machine and piano. Then I went to Los Angeles."
Q. "Do any crooked work?"
A. "Yes, I did some when I got broke."
Q. "Then, after leaving Los Angeles, you came back to Tucson again. How long after was that?"
A. "About two months later I cam back here."
Q. "When was it that your wife first learned that you were crooked?"
A. "Just here, when I told her about it. I told her when in jail."
Q. "Where did you live?"
A. "We lived at 110 East Tenth street. We left there on the 27th of Dec., then went to the Park View hotel."
Q. "Did you do any crooked work then?"
A. "I do not remember. I guess I did a little."
The Leonhardt Murder.
A. "One time my wife and I were out for a walk, Dec. 22d. I had been drinking wine and we had been sitting on the bed, playing cards, until 10 o'clock. My wife wished to take a walk, so we walked around until about 12 o'clock, then we came down to Stone avenue and turned off into Alameda. It was just as light as it is now. Then I saw Leonhardt coming down the street. We had passed Mariscal's store about 75 feet and he was walking right along, not noticing anything. I stepped behind my wife and pulled her off to the edge to let him by, and I overheard him say something about 'Hello, Kid' or 'Hello, Sis.' He said both things — I am pretty certain he did.
"So I got mad right away, you see, and don't know positively whether I said anything to make him sore or not, but I asked him for an apology just the same, and told him she was my wife. He mentioned something about thinking she was something else, I could not say what it was. Then he made a rush like. I hit him in the jaw, then we scuffled quite a while, and I saw he was pretty fly and I was pretty mad, so I reached for my gun to hit him. My wife threw her arm around me when she saw the gun. I do not recollect, but I think I pointed it at her and she ran up the street. The last I saw of her she was running up the street with her hands up, screaming. Leonhardt did not know that I pulled the gun, I think, but I had an idea that he had a gun on him for he had his hands in his pockets all the time he was coming down the street, and, while talking to me until I asked for an apology, and then he took his hands out and showed fight. Then Leonhardt tried to get away from me. He knocked me another tap on the breast and it got me good and mad. He made a break to run and when he did I ran after him to get him to stop. When he got about 20 or 30 feet away, he did stop. I do not recollect just what I did or said, or anything, but when I raised the gun he threw up his hands and hollered. I do not think I hit him. I pulled the gun down to my side and waited just a second. I did not realize what happened. I do not believe it yet, to tell the honest God's truth.
Fired the Shot.
"I raised the gun and fired right for his body but did not taky any particular aim. I did not see him fall down at all. I placed the gun back in my pocket. My wife had disappeared, so I ran to see where she was. She had been in a little alley and was so distracted that she did not remember what happened. There were some fellows coming down Toole avenue, and I was going to get a shot at them. I left my wife right there and walked across the street and said to her: 'You walk,' but she did not know what I said. I intended to run. I saw three fellows and was following them and kept hollering for them to stop, and he stopped when he saw my gun, but I waited until my wife came up and we walked across the track. Then I told this fellow to git, but he was afraid to run. He was afraid I would shoot him."
Q. "Did this man that you shot speak at any time after he was shot?"
A. "No, not after he was shot."
Q. "Did he fall down at all?"
A. "He staggered. I do not remember. We went home on Sixth avenue."
Q. "You did not go out with the idea of sticking anybody up? You did not stick him up?"
A. "No."
Q. "Have you done any sticking up work here in town?"
A. "No."
Q. "When you got home, did your wife think you shot him?"
A. "She did not think I killed him. I said I did. My wife suffered the most, of course. I suffered in silence, and we both agreed to forget it. I told her never to mention it before me or anybody else."
Q. "Did you read the newspaper accounts of it?"
A. "Yes, I did."
Q. "Did you or your wife see this girl that claimed she saw you running up the street?"
A. "No."
Q. "Did your wife laugh hysterically on the way home?"
A. "Yes, but when we got home she got quiet and would not say a word."
Other Crimes Committed.
"I registered at the Park View hotel on the 20th of Dec. I had trouble with her father. Her father was awful harsh to her. He was inclined to insult her and my wife seemed to go crazy in her mind when she met him.
Q. "Did you have any money when you went to the Park View?"
A. "Yes, I had money all the time, but did not let on."
The Burglaries.
Q. "How long was it after you went ot the Park View that you committed the burglarizing?"
A. "I could not tell you."
Q. "Some before and some after, did you?"
A. "I do not know what the first burglary was that I did. There was the Lowrie burglary. I got in there with a pass key to the door, and pushed the table over the first thing. I do not know what I went there for. It was merely for the excitement of the thing. I had left my wife home and went out to get some pop corn for her. It happened that the pop corn man was not there, so I took a little walk and saw her coming across the street. I threw everything away but the gun, a safety razor, a pair of lady's shoes, a card case and other things like that.
"That church over there, I just walked in there. The door was open. I did not intend to go in, but after I went in I took a look around and saw this typewriter. I took it to my wife and said she could have that. She used to pester me all the time for money for bromo seltzer. She would take a two-bit bottle every day or a four-bit bottle, if she could get it, so I said she could sell the typewriter and get money for bromo seltzer."
Q. "Where did you tell her you got it?"
A. "I told her: 'None of you business.' I told her that when she asked about anything. She would ask about everything I took home. She had an idea I was getting my money from home, and I let her think so, too, but I did get some money from home."
Q. "About this Fleming business. Were you in on that or not?"
A. "No; I bought some of the things, but I know who did it."
Q. "Did you ever tell your wife about it?"
A. "No."
Q. "Did you do any stick-up work or robbery of these stores?"
A. "No."
Q. "Did you do anyting else?"
Would Protect Wife.
A. "There are lots of things, but I have not told my wife all the things yet. I think she ought to be the first."
Q. "When did you first make up your mnind to confess all these things?"
A. "When I saw they were making my wife suffer so. As for me, I had a guilty conscience but did not care. But my wife was worrying all the time and it was terrible."
Q. "How are you fixed for money now?"
A. "Clean broke."
Q. "Enough to take care of her?"
A. "Nothing at all."
"I wrote to my folks but they threw me down. That is the main reason I confessed, for I wanted my folks to help my wife. I take all the responsibility on myself and the consequences, too."
Q. "Your confession is entirely voluntary, then?"
A. "Yes."
Q. "The condition that your wife is in and the fact that you are out of money and you want to shield her?"
A. "I wanted to do all I could for her. I realized that she was suffering, and when she suffers that is what makes me suffer."
Other Crimes Planned.
Q. "Did you have any more tricks planned?"
A. "You see, I could not get away from my wife to do these things, so I kept putting them off, but I had them all planned.
"One time I got good and drunk and made myself harsh to my wife and tried to forget my love for her, for I was afraid to do these things, or I would have done lots of other things, but I was afraid it would hurt her.
"I planned to rob some places later, Capo-Hohusen, Greewald & Adams, Black, Childs & Ginter and the Pagoda Tea company. This fellow I bought this Flemming stuff from, he put me wise to Child & Ginter's place. I intended to go in all of them and Goldring's. You know you can go through from Goldring's to Greenwald & Adams. I was thinking about going through Hauck's show store to Capo-Hohusen's.
Q. "Then you had a full kit of tools?"
A. "I had all I needed."
Q. "Did you bring them here to Tucson with you from Los Angeles?"
A. "No, I took them out of that tool chest of Mr. Chase's."
Q. "Then, it is your opinion that it is pretty easy to get into any of those stores on Congress street?"
A. "Easy! Sure it is easy — if a person has no responsibilities, like me."
Q. "What was your intention going into the jewelry store?"
A. "My intention was to get money to get out of town."
Q. "Did you have a fence here to dispose of this stuff if you got it?"
A. "No, not here."
Q. "When you were here making these raids, did you ever do any gambling?"
A. "No, none."
Wife Innocent, He says.
Q. "What does you wife think about you now?"
A. "She would not talk. She is crying and begging me to forget her all the time and asks to be forgiven. She has determination, but her mind is affected from the shooting and from everything else. You see, if I was not worrying so much I could talk a good deal better, but I am keeping back things now."
Q. "What is the use? You have told the worst."
A. "I want to tell my wife first. There are other reasons, too. There is no one I want to get onto this but myself."
Q. "As a matter of fact, then, your wife had nothing to do with any of this crooked work?"
A. "No; nothing until I told her the other day. Of course, she knew about the Leonhardt tragedy."
Q. "Was Leonhardt drunk?"
A. "He seemed to me drunk, but that is just my opinion. I think he was drunk, but I was full of wine myself."
Q. "You realize that this confession is liable to get you into a good deal of trouble?"
A. "I realize all the consquences, but I am willing to stand all these things in order that my wife shall get the benefit."
Q. "Then you are willing to take all the consequences of these things in order to help your wife and child?"
A. "Sure; that is all I am doing it for. The devil is in me, and has been ever since I was born."
Q. "Are any of the other members of your family crooks?"
A. "No. My father is in the insane asylum at Dunning."