Individual Details

A tragic night for Wichita Falls police
Jessica Langdon Times Record News Sunday, May 11, 2008

Oma and Henry Hughes couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Something about the call that came in requesting a taxi late on this almost unbearably hot Tuesday night raised both brothers’ suspicions. The caller asked for a car to pick him up at Holliday and Smarsh streets, a somewhat isolated spot at the south end of a residential area. Oma Hughes had been driving for the Four Treys Taxi company long enough to know that things could take a bad turn in a hurry. He had lived to tell of two hijackings of his own taxis. Once, a bandit carried him across the state line into Oklahoma, and the second time, he rode into Wilbarger County. The brothers, both taxi drivers, didn’t want to chance a third time, so they rode together to the street corner late on the night of June 27, 1933. The gut feeling that told them to beware hadn’t failed them. Oma Hughes recognized the man standing near Holliday and Smarsh as the same one who had hijacked him several months earlier, and the brothers sped away. That area today would be about where the south end of the Falls Flyover sits, but on this night nearly 75 years ago, you would have found a bakery settled under the street lights at the corner. The brothers drove through again just to check out the scene once more, and didn’t see the man that time. They left, and about 11:20 p.m. not far from the bakery, they came across two police officers, a chance meeting that would soon change life as these men knew it in just a few explosive moments. Officer Charles Slay Carlisle, better known to his friends as “Doc,” and sometimes even “Smilin’ Doc,” was a popular officer. He had just turned 25 and had been on the force for about four years. Before that, he worked as a clerk at the Marchman Hotel. Officer Elmer M. McCord, a longtime barber, had joined the police department several months earlier. Both men had traded in their motorcycles for an hour that night to sit in the stifling heat of a squad car, covering so their comrades on the sparsely manned police force could take a dinner break. Ignoring the misery of the heat wave that had hit the city, bringing a solid streak of days during which the temperature had spiked above 100 degrees, the officers followed the Hughes brothers back to the bakery to investigate the men’s feeling that a man had his heart set on robbery that night. Not seeing anyone, the men split up. Oma and Henry Hughes headed into the bakery to inquire whether anyone had called for a taxi, and Carlisle and McCord left their squad car to walk around, scoping things out by the railroad tracks. A second cab, this one a Hamp’s taxi, eased its way into the block, and a passenger got out, went to the Four Treys car, looked inside, and finding it empty, returned to the Hamp’s taxi, telling the driver to go. That’s when the voice of one of the Hughes brothers, coming out of the bakery, shouted -- “That’s him!” The officers ordered the Hamp’s driver to stop, and instantly, gunshots erupted, transforming a tranquil night on this street corner into a war zone, with the bangs of larger caliber weapons interspersed with the rapid popping sounds of a smaller caliber handgun. Several people said the first shots came from the Hamp’s taxi, the young passenger who had asked to be picked up in another block of Holliday leaning against the driver to get the right angle as he pulled the trigger. Henry Hughes was the first to fall when a bullet pierced his side. Oma Hughes tried to pull his brother up, but Henry grabbed him and forced him to the ground, the two of them using their taxi as a shield as the officers kept up the fight. One after another, 20 shots rang out, the last probably coming from the wounded Officer McCord’s gun as he shot toward the fleeing suspect. The gunman ran away. Henry Hughes examined his own wound during the battle and realized it was minor. He worked with his brother and Jerry Burnett, the driver of the other taxi, to lift the wounded officers into a car to take them to the hospital. The officers, though both believed to be mortally wounded, found the strength to talk on their way. Carlisle, who had suffered two punctured lungs, didn’t want the name of the gunman to die. “That was Milton Furr, don’t forget,” he made sure the Hughes brothers heard. McCord, with a 17-inch bullet wound through his body, asked to go to the Clinic. As June 27 turned into the early hours of June 28, it appeared that neither officer would survive.

CARLISLE AND M’CORD SHOT BY LONE BANDIT ARE AT DEATH’S DOOR, a headline in the June 28, 1933, Wichita Daily Times reads.
The manhunt begins
As the two men fought for their lives, their fellow officers waged a battle outside the hospital, as every man available reported to duty to help hunt down the young man Carlisle and the Hughes brothers had named. The first word the police department got of the shooting came when people who lived within earshot of the gun battle called in, asking for someone to investigate. Not long after that, the hospital alerted the department about the two wounded men who had arrived. Officers who were at first called to the scene of the shooting were ordered to change course, and they headed instead to the hospital to track down descriptions of the suspect. Minutes turned into hours as officers turned over every stone, looking at any and every hide-out and watching all paths leading out of the city, but they still weren’t able to track down the 19-year-old Furr. They searched Weeks Park, the banks of Holliday Creek and other places they suspected he might turn up. About 2 a.m. Wednesday, police got a tip that Furr might be at a house in the 1600 block of Elizabeth, but as the officers converged on three sides of the building, the teen made it out the back door, slipping away again into the dark.

The death of an officer
Officer Carlisle’s father, C.T. Carlisle, a doctor in Dallas, made the trip to Wichita Falls when he learned that his son had been shot. At the hospital, he saw his son’s condition, and reported gravely on Wednesday morning, June 28, that the young officer “could not last 24 hours longer.” McCord’s wounds appeared to be even more serious. Hospital staff worked feverishly to nurse the two men back to health, hoping that blood transfusions would save them. Despite every effort, at 3:30 a.m. Thursday, June 29, Dr. Carlisle’s words proved true. His son, Doc Carlisle, died of his wounds. His death left his widow to care for her young daughter without her husband. Twelve hours after Carlisle’s death, friends, including many members of the law enforcement community from across the state, turned out by the hundreds, forming a crowd too large for everyone to fit into the First Presbyterian Church for his funeral services. Three of Carlisle’s fellow officers and three members of Wichita Falls’ fire department served as pallbearers. Motorcycle officers from Wichita Falls and the state of Texas guarded the funeral procession as it made its way from the church to Riverside Cemetery, where Carlisle was laid to rest. McCord, still critically wounded in the hospital, asked again and again for his brother officer. Not wanting to break the devastating news to him in his fragile state, those tending to him comforted him with the words, “Carlisle is all right now.” As weak and wounded as he was, McCord assured the city manager, V.R. Smitham, that he planned to hurry his recovery to return to work and help the short-staffed police department. McCord started to show some signs of improvement from Thursday into Friday, and doctors held out some hope for his recovery. At his request, the husband and father of two got to smoke a cigarette, and he was also served fried chicken. Furr, on the run, marked his 20th birthday within hours of the end of Carlisle’s life.

Closing in on the gunman
Meanwhile, Police Chief Dick Morris led the mission to bring Carlisle’s killer to justice, and Wichita Falls sent pictures and information to departments across the region, asking for help in the manhunt. County and state officers did their part, as well. While there was a growing belief that Furr had skipped town, police kept up every effort within the city limits. On July 2, the Wichita Daily Times ran a notice about the start of a reward fund to spur more help with the search. That same day, a breakthrough came in Tulsa, Okla., but more gunfire would explode before authorities would get Furr into custody. Wichita Falls Detective O.A. (Speck) Roberson discovered that Furr had been in Fort Worth, and went with District Attorney Sam B. Spence to investigate. They knew that Furr had an aunt who lived in Tulsa, and Roberson learned that a woman who was driving a car from Oklahoma had been asking about the young man. Realizing that she was probably his aunt, he urged police in Tulsa to be on alert. On the heels of that warning, Tulsa police got an anonymous tip that Furr was at his aunt’s house, and when officers arrived after daylight that Sunday morning, Furr saw them and jumped — barefoot — from a second story window to escape. He had been inside, cleaning one of his guns. When police spotted him, a detective aimed two shots from a shotgun toward the fleeing suspect. Three blasts from another detective’s Thompson machine gun followed. Furr disappeared around a corner and then came back, and a detective greeted him with three more bursts from the machine gun. Unscathed, Furr bolted, but when he hit another street, he found himself surrounded by detectives. The fact that his weapons were disassembled inside the home, officers said, most likely stopped another devastating shootout with police. It was the end of the road for Furr — at least for now. At police headquarters, he confessed to his part in the shooting, and signed extradition papers. The next day, he returned to Wichita Falls.

Lives shattered
Crime was on the rise in Wichita Falls in June, 1933. The police department’s roughly 50 members investigated 129 complaints — up 10 from a month earlier. Prohibition rallies, Bonnie and Clyde, Amelia Earhart Putnam’s air travel ambitions, Dizzy Dean and Babe Ruth were a few of the stories that made headlines in the local papers that summer, and for officers on the streets, thefts were keeping them running. There were 93 complaints of theft under $50 during that month, and two of theft over $50. There were also two burglaries during daylight and 20 under the cover of night. Six businesses were burglarized, and there were four robberies and two chicken thefts. All of it added up to a loss for citizens of $1,086.57. But no one could put a price on the loss that came the night of June 27. The shooting enraged people across the city, prompting fears for a short time of mob violence. The gunshots shattered several families, including Furr’s. His grandmother, J.M. Faubion, was at her home on Smarsh that night when she heard the guns go off. She ran to her door and saw the sparks from the guns and heard the men cry out. “But I didn’t see the officers fall. I’m glad I didn’t, and I’m sorry for those officers’ families,” she said. She worried about her grandson, who had been in some trouble, she admitted, but she believed him to be honest. She was relieved at the idea of a fair and impartial trial. Furr ran hot and cold, she tearfully explained to a reporter after her grandson’s capture. When something displeased him, it didn’t take much to enrage him, but he cooled himself off just as quickly. “Life has been hard on that boy of mine,” she said, describing his father — a cold-hearted parent — leaving the family to go fight with the U.S. Army in the world war. Milton Furr held down several jobs. For a while, he carried newspapers for the Wichita Daily Times. Most recently, he had worked as a mechanic.

First attempt to try
Furr, somewhat battered from his two-story leap during his failed escape in Tulsa, joked and befriended fellow prisoners in the Wichita County Jail as he awaited trial. A newly formed grand jury in early July indicted him on a count of murder with malice aforethought in Carlisle’s death. On July 8, a Saturday, he appeared before Judge Allan D. Montgomery of the 30th District Court and quietly pleaded not guilty. Attorneys for the state vowed they would seek the death penalty. The trial was set for July 19, less than a month after the murder. Furr said he could not afford an attorney, and Bernard Martin’s name was drawn from a hat. Despite the defense counsel’s protests that there hadn’t been enough time to prepare, jury selection started on July 19. Eighty-two of the 150 men called as possible jurors turned out, but after finding only two jurors out of the pool, the court moved for a change of venue. Wichita County could not provide a fair and impartial trial for either side because of extensive publicity in the newspapers as well as a “widespread prejudice” against police officers at the time within the community, Montgomery explained in his motion, dated July 20, 1933. A small envelope in Wichita County storage holds a few fragile pieces of paper, including the judge’s typed motion and the jury list, with check marks scratched next to some of the names. Montgomery ordered the trial to take place in Young County, beginning Aug. 7. As another 150 men were being assembled to serve as a jury panel in Graham, a jailer in Wichita County made a disturbing discovery in the cell Furr shared with two other men. Most of the weapons chief jailer Frank Watkins found were stashed under Furr’s bunk. There were spears, hacksaw blades, 10-foot ropes made from braided bed sheets and a bar of soap crafted to look like a pistol, shining black with shoe polish. This hadn’t been Furr’s first brush with the law. He was on a five-year suspended sentence he received in 1932 related to stolen cigarettes police found in the attic of his home. And he was wanted for another charge of burglary, but hadn’t been arrested on that when the shooting happened. “The shooting continued… I saw ‘Doc’ fall.” With 12 Young County jurors in place Aug. 8, the impact of the shooting hung thick in the air the following day when Elmer M. McCord, still showing signs of his fierce battle to survive, took the stand. He shared his memories in a gravelly voice, clearly having to work to get the words out. The bullet that entered near his shoulder nicked his vocal cords as it traveled more than a foot to stop at his liver. The two officers were on scout duty when they met the Hughes brothers that night, he testified. The brothers told the officers about a “suspicious call.” They walked around, and later heard one of the brothers yell, “That’s the man!” McCord said he saw the Hamp’s taxi with a driver and a passenger inside. When the car started moving, Carlisle shouted for its occupants to stop. The car came to a standstill, and the bullets started flying. McCord said he didn’t draw his gun until the shooting began, and he wasn’t sure when his partner drew his. “I leveled down from the side of the car on the man who was shooting, but because the driver was in line I held my fire,” he testified. “The shooting continued... I saw ‘Doc’ fall.” The gunfire stopped then, and the passenger offered to give up. When he raised his hands, a gesture McCord took as surrendering, gunfire exploded again. “His second shot got me. I fell,” McCord said. “The man ran from the car, and I pushed up to me knees and fired my first and only shot.” He remembered someone helping him into the Hughes brothers’ taxi, and he heard Carlisle say, “That man was Milton Furr; don’t forget.” The defense built its case on the foundation that the officers fired first, and provided several witnesses who testified to that, including Furr, himself. The testimony volleyed back and forth between the prosecution and the defense on what actually happened that night. Officer Carlisle’s widow, fighting to stay in control of her grief, took the stand for a few minutes. She said one of her husband’s fellow officers at the Wichita Falls Police Department gave her the gun Officer Carlisle had carried on duty. She gave the weapon to her father, Fred K. Smith, who had served as sheriff and constable in Wichita County. She collapsed in her father’s arms as she left the courtroom. An examination of the officers’ weapons indicated that Carlisle had fired his four times, and McCord once, which tied in with testimony for the state. With several days of testimony to weigh, the jurors began deliberating on a Saturday night. They took about 43 hours, coming back Monday afternoon to recommend a 25-year prison sentence for Carlisle’s murder. It was far shy of the death sentence the bitterly disappointed state wanted. Furr’s punishment actually turned into a 30-year sentence with the five-year suspended term for his prior charge tacked on. Prison records show that Furr also received five years for burglary.

Different paths
The story of the young gunman didn’t end when he went to prison for murder. Furr, who made a name for himself in 1933 by running from the law, tried one more run for freedom. On Jan. 14, 1936, he managed to wrangle up some civilian clothes, and he wore them out of the Eastham Unit in Lovelady, Texas. He rode off on a horse. The clothes and the horse turned up in Midway, Texas, and on Jan. 21, a week after Furr disappeared, the prison system got a telegram from Wichita County, telling of his capture. Furr returned to prison on Feb.9, and quietly served his time for almost three years. On Jan. 20, 1939, Furr, who had earned trustee status at Huntsville, left with a correctional officer to repair a truck. About 10 miles south of Conroe on Texas Highway 75, the two were involved in a head-on collision. The officer was hurt, but survived. The crash killed Furr. He was 25, about the same age Officer Carlisle was when Furr’s bullet ended his life. McCord recovered from his wound, and eventually traded police work for car sales, staying in that career for the rest of his life. In September 1963, a little more than 30 years after he and his friend together faced the terror of that June night in 1933, McCord was found in his car, dead of what appeared to be a heart attack. The brief newspaper report showed his picture, and the words flashed back to that fateful night. The belief is that McCord died with the bullet that matched the one that killed Carlisle still lodged in his own body, a piece of that night that always stayed with him. Carlisle’s name is the first of five that appear on the stone memorial outside the Wichita Falls Police Department at 610 Holliday. On Monday, police, members of other law enforcement agencies, city and county leaders and residents will gather to remember all the officers who have, like Carlisle, died in the line of duty. Each was someone’s child, spouse, parent, friend. Carlisle’s gravesite, which lies beside his father-in-law’s grave in a tree-shaded patch of Riverside Cemetery, tries to tell people a little bit about the life that was cut short on June 27, 1933. “He died a martyr, a hero, for you and for me.”

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Birth	30 Jun 1913	Texas
Death	20 Jan 1939	in an auto accident while on a prison road crew - Montgomery County, TX
Alt name		Milton H. FURR
Burial		Captain Joe Byrd Cemetery, Huntsville, Walker County, TX

Father	Living
Mother	Nora M. FAUBION (1895 - 1980)
Sibling	Raymond Houston "Ray" FURR (1915 - 1972)

Notes