Cases

On the afternoon of Wednesday, July 1, 1874, two men steered a horse-drawn carriage to a stop near the stone mansion on East Washington Lane in Germantown, Philadelphia. They were not strangers to the children who lived there. Over the preceding days, they had made a point of lingering near the house, chatting with the boys, handing out sweets, making themselves into familiar, welcome figures. On this particular afternoon, they had something better than candy to offer: fireworks. Four-year-old Charley Ross and his six-year-old brother Walter climbed in. Only one of them would come home. The Charley Ross abduction became the first kidnapping for ransom in American history — a crime so without precedent that law enforcement had no framework for it, families had no language for its specific terror, and newspapers had no template for its coverage. It would remain the defining case of its kind for nearly sixty years, until the Lindbergh baby was taken from his crib in New Jersey in 1932. Christian K. Ross had built his reputation as a prosperous dry-goods merchant and was well regarded in Germantown, then a prestigious community within the corporate limits of Philadelphia. The family's stone mansion on East Washington Lane reflected that success. It was the kind of household that announced security and standing. What it could not announce — because no one had yet learned to fear it — was that prosperity made a family a target. Charley had been born on May 4, 1870, which made him four years old that summer. In the weeks before July 1, two men had gone to some trouble to befriend the Ross boys — offering candy on repeated visits, building the kind of easy, uncritical trust that small children extend to adults who give them things. It was a grooming technique that would become disturbingly familiar in kidnapping cases across American history, but in 1874 it had no name and no recognized pattern. The boys had no reason to be wary. On the day of the kidnapping, the men arrived with their most persuasive offer yet: a trip to purchase fireworks for the approaching holiday. The boys got into the carriage. Somewhere along the route, only Walter was returned. Within days of the kidnapping, Christian Ross began receiving letters from the men who had taken his son. The communications were postmarked from Philadelphia — the kidnappers had not fled to another city or state. They had a demand: $20,000, an enormous sum in 1874 and equivalent to hundreds of thousands of dollars today. The threat was explicit: pay, or Charley Ross would be killed. Christian Ross found himself navigating a crisis with no map. No American parent had faced a ransom kidnapping before him. There were no established protocols, no trained hostage negotiators, no legal framework developed specifically for this kind of extortion. The family's wealth, which had always signified security, had made them a target. Ross had to decide, without any guiding precedent, whether to pay and what leverage — if any — remained with him. The case drew intense national attention almost immediately. Newspapers across the country covered every letter, every police theory, every failed lead. The story of the missing Ross boy became one of the defining media events of the Gilded Age, demonstrating both the public's appetite for crime coverage and the power of the press to sustain national interest over months and then years. Law enforcement improvised without any established investigative model for a crime of this type. Walter's return to the family never led to Charley's. Despite sustained investigative effort and a national press campaign that kept the case in front of the public, Charley Ross was never found. What became of him — whether he died while in his captors' custody, was killed by them, or lived somewhere under a different name — has never been established. The original ransom note demanding $20,000 for a four-year-old boy's life survived its principals and was later sold at auction in Philadelphia, a document that had outlasted everyone involved. The case established a template that American criminals would follow for the better part of a century. It was the first kidnapping for ransom in the history of the United States, and it remained the most notorious of its kind until 1932. The Ross kidnapping forced a reckoning with a vulnerability that had never been clearly articulated before: that a family's wealth, far from protecting its children, could make them prizes. Stone mansions and social standing offered no defense against two men with a carriage and a prepared story about fireworks. One hundred and fifty-two years later, the date that was supposed to begin a holiday still carries the weight of a boy who never came home — and a mystery that no investigation, however sustained, has ever closed.

On the morning of July 16, 2020, Wesley Ira Purkey was pronounced dead at 8:19 a.m. at the Federal Correctional Complex in Terre Haute, Indiana. He was 68 years old. His execution by lethal injection made him the second man put to death by the federal government in a single week — and only the second federal execution carried out in nearly two decades. Purkey had been sentenced to death for the kidnapping, rape, and murder of Jennifer Long, a 16-year-old girl abducted from the Kansas City, Missouri area in January 1998. Court records established that Purkey took Long across state lines to Lansing, Kansas, where he raped and killed her. He then dismembered, burned, and disposed of her remains — post-crime violence that shaped how prosecutors and courts viewed the case for years to come. The interstate nature of the abduction brought the matter under federal jurisdiction. Purkey's connection to Long's murder came to light while he was already behind bars for a separate killing. In 1998, Purkey had also beaten 80-year-old Mary Ruth Bales to death with a claw hammer in Kansas City, Kansas. Convicted of that murder, he was serving a life sentence when he confessed to Long's abduction and killing — a confession that opened the door to the federal prosecution and eventually the death sentence that defined the remainder of his life. The road from that confession to the execution chamber stretched more than two decades. In the final days before his scheduled execution, defense attorneys raised an urgent legal challenge: Purkey, they argued, suffered from Alzheimer's disease and no longer understood why he was being put to death. The claim invoked a bedrock principle of constitutional law — the Eighth Amendment has long been interpreted to prohibit executing a person who lacks the mental competency to comprehend their own punishment. The legal fight that followed was chaotic. Courts issued injunctions; the Supreme Court vacated them. At one point, Purkey's defense team received notification that the execution would proceed via email, hours after the originally scheduled time had already passed. In the overnight hours before July 16, the Supreme Court cleared the final obstacles. The execution moved forward at dawn. Purkey's death came just two days after Daniel Lewis Lee was put to death on July 14, 2020 — the first federal execution in nearly two decades, and the one that broke the long pause in federal capital punishment. Together they marked the beginning of an unprecedented series of executions carried out in the final months of the Trump administration, after years in which the federal death penalty had sat effectively dormant. For Jennifer Long's family, the morning of July 16, 2020 brought the formal close of a case that had stretched across more than two decades. Long was 16 when she was taken from the street while walking home from high school. The man who killed her had gone on to commit another murder before confessing to hers, and the years between his confession and his execution had been filled with legal proceedings that her family was left to navigate from a distance. The questions the Purkey case raised did not end with his death. The propriety of executing aging inmates with possible cognitive impairments, the constitutional standard for mental competency in capital cases, and the broader legitimacy of resuming federal executions after nearly twenty years of dormancy all remained contested after July 16. For the families of Jennifer Long and Mary Ruth Bales, the date meant something more immediate: the formal end of a long ordeal, carried out at dawn in a federal prison in Indiana.