Deadly Encounters: True Crime Stories of Alberta

Notes

Missing Links

There was a palpable feeling of anticipation in the air as Edmontonians left their classrooms, offices and shops on Thursday, April 19, 1962. In any far-north city, the early arrival of spring is a benediction, and just such a spring came to Alberta’s capital and its 350,000 citizens that year. By coincidence, Easter arrived at the same time, and so the bounty of an early spring was magnified by the bonus of a special long weekend.

As if all these happy events weren’t enough, some Edmontonians had other, more personal, reasons to smile. Frank Willey was an especially happy man that day. His mother and sister were arriving from Vancouver for a visit.

Frank would not have the weekend off work to enjoy their company but he really didn’t mind. He was one of the very few fortunate souls who truly loved their jobs. As the golf professional at Edmonton’s Riverside Golf Course, Frank considered his employment to be the crown of a satisfying career. He was involved with the sport he loved and he did not have the touring obligations. So, although the Easter weekend was promising to be a busy time at the course, Frank viewed the extra demands as privileges.

He and his wife, Paris, had recently bought a nicer-than-average house for themselves and their two teenage sons in their newly adopted hometown. The three bedroom bi-level suited the family’s needs well, and its location, high up on the south bank of the North Saskatchewan River, offered a panoramic view from the living-room picture window. Many folks thought $16,000 far too much to spend on any house, but the Willeys were not among them.

Of course, like most new home owners, there were many purchases the Willeys were anxious to make. Frank was a resourceful man, and, although his salary now was not as high as it had been when he’d played the pro circuit, he had found ways of enhancing his income.

Weekends are, of course, the busiest time at any golf course and Willey also knew that people almost always spend more money than they intend. In 1962 no one had ever heard of automatic tellers so Frank Willey was able to supply a valuable service. He rarely had less than three or four hundred dollars with him and often carried as much as a thousand. Golfers who found themselves short of cash had learned they could count on Frank’s cheque- cashing ability. The unwritten rules included an extra five percent to cover costs and a bank balance to cover the cheque.

Weekend banker was not the only additional role Frank played. As a golf pro he had access to sports equipment wholesalers. He would frequently take orders for clubs, bags, shoes or whatever else a player fancied. Frank would buy the item wholesale and charge the customer half way between his cost and the retail price. On top of the savings, he offered delivery to the customer, a beneficial arrangement for both parties.

The golfer/entrepreneur had received just such an order on Wednesday, April 18th. A man who said he’d recently moved from Vancouver called the pro shop. He was looking for a set of clubs for his wife. As usual, Frank had been glad to oblige, even though delivering them Thursday evening would interfere somewhat with enjoying his mother’s and sister’s visit. Fortunately the address he’d been given wasn’t far from either work or home. By early evening, the new set of clubs was in the back seat of Frank’s 1960 Oldsmobile. Dropping them off would only take a few moments.

Edmund Siperko was another happy Edmontonian. As a builder, Ed had been especially pleased with the spring weather. His sub trades were well ahead of the planned completion schedule for a house he was building in the southeast of the city. The ranch-style side-split was an attractive home and in a pleasant and fast-developing area. Siperko was sure he’d be able to sell the house for a handsome profit.

The prospect of financial gain wasn’t the only or even principal reason the house made Siperko happy. As a European craftsman, he was satisfied with nothing but the finest quality of workmanship. To this end he checked on his projects frequently, often twice a day, occasionally even more often. He was thoroughly content in the realization that this particular building was measuring up to his demanding standards.

On his way home from work on Thursday, April 19, 1962, Ed Siperko dropped off a load of plywood to the house. After noting the day’s progress with satisfaction, he secured the front door, locked the back one and left the site.

Around 11 p.m. that same evening, Ed was returning home from an evening out with his wife. They took a short detour to drive by the house once more. All appeared to be as he had left it a few hours before.

Appearances are often misleading, and that was definitely the case that night: all was most assuredly not well. But that fact would wait until the next day to be discovered. It was at roughly 10 a.m. on Good Friday that Ed Siperko’s composure was shaken in a way he would never forget.

Paul Osborne was not a man to be influenced much by spring weather or long weekends. The rhythms of his existence were not governed by commuting to work or by walks in the river valley. Osborne, alias Kyle Hadley, was a career crook. He had wandered across most of Western Canada alternately honing his skills as a petty criminal and cooling his heels in various jails.

On Thursday, April 19, 1962, Paul was living in Edmonton with a woman named Rose. Paul was quite fond of Rose and was relieved that she didn’t seem to object to his choice of friends. Two of the gentlemen he was friendly with had recently proposed a joint business venture.

Ray Workman had known for over a year that his Easter weekend would be neither routine nor joyful. The best he could hope for was to accomplish his goal as smoothly as possible. Achieving that aim would entail coordination of many variables. As Ray was only human, not all those variables were within his control. Those that were he’d rehearsed with care. For months he’d been planning details, checking with as many knowledgeable sources as he safely could, and working with a man he trusted. Despite all this effort, very little of Ray’s strategy was to pan out.

Because he knew he should, Ray arrived at his job as bookkeeper for Ed Siperko’s construction firm. His mind certainly wasn’t on debits and credits. He would be relieved when the day was over. Surely by then he’d have successfully realized his long-standing ambition.

That morning his dominant emotion was impatience – impatience with the passage of time. It seemed to Ray Workman that the day would never end. Positive that every conceivable contingency had been accounted for, all Raymond Workman, alias Gene Ray Blain, wanted now was action.

Frank Willey rushed up the walk of his home, anxious to see his mother and sister. He was greeted warmly by the two women. Frank was somewhat of a family favourite. Although he was neither the youngest nor the oldest in the family, Frank had won a special place in everyone’s hearts by his dashing good looks, his well-practised charm, his generosity and the degree of fame he had acquired in his chosen field.

Hugs and kisses were followed by a happy, noisy dinner which Paris served in the rarely used dining room. Shortly after the last dessert fork had been set down, Frank excused himself explaining he had a delivery to make.

Neither the elder Mrs. Willey nor her daughter expressed disappointment that Frank was going out again so soon after he’d arrived home. They never viewed anything Frank did as a disappointment. They did, however, think it strange when Paris asked her husband to remove his valuable diamond ring before he went out.

As the golfer pulled up in front of the address he’d been given, Frank was sure there’d been a mistake. He must have noted it incorrectly. This house was not occupied. It didn’t even look finished; but taking the sports equipment with him, Frank approached the house. Possibly he had been wrong. Windows in the house were open and he could hear voices from inside. Frank knocked on the door, ready to enquire.

It was the last voluntary act the esteemed golf professional ever performed. His last emotion was one of puzzlement: he stared directly into the eyes of his former friend, wondering why the man was in this unfinished house.

Seconds later this former friend landed a blow on the top of Frank’s head, but it didn’t knock the golfer out. Second and then third attempts were needed. By then, the 46-year-old athlete was not merely unconscious, he was dead.

Frank Willey (during a happier time) on the golf course.

(Photo courtesy the Edmonton City Police Service.)

When Frank was not home by 11 p.m., Paris Willey wasn’t particularly concerned. She was used to Frank’s very social nature keeping him later than he’d intended. The Willey’s sons and the weekend guests had turned in some time before, and Paris decided it was her bedtime too.

As the next day was Good Friday, the Willey boys were able to sleep later than they normally would have. Not seeing their father at the breakfast table didn’t strike either of them as being out of the ordinary. They merely presumed he’d left for work before they had gotten out of bed.

Neither Frank’s sister nor mother were protected by such an illusion, and after the youngsters had excused themselves from the table, Mrs. Willey, senior inquired, Is Frank at work already?

I guess so, Paris replied without any great conviction in her voice. I don’t think he came home last night at all.

Ellen Hall, Frank’s sister, gasped audibly. What should we do? she asked in a hushed tone.

Paris brought her cup of coffee to the table and joined the other two women. Her face was drawn and her lips pinched.

I’ve been thinking about that and I’m not exactly sure what would be the right thing to do. He’s likely at work. He may have spent the night there. I’ll phone over to the course and ask to talk to him, the lady decided.

She excused herself from the kitchen and went to the phone in the hallway. A few minutes later, pale and trembling, Paris Willey returned to the company of her guests.

Frank’s not there. They’re expecting him. The course is really busy and people are asking for him. That was Don Buchan, his assistant, I was talking to. Don was about to call here and see if maybe Frank had slept in. I’ve asked them to have him call home if he shows up there.

The three woman sat in silence for a time before deciding to get on with their day: sitting and worrying seemed entirely senseless. They filled their day with walks in the river valley, a couple of light meals and a lengthy afternoon nap. By 11 p.m., none of the three was able to contain her concern any longer. Paris Willey once again picked up the telephone. This time she dialled the Edmonton City Police.

Hello, she said into the receiver. This is Paris Willey calling. I’m phoning to report that my husband is missing.

The details of her call were duly noted on the police blotter by Constable Douglas Still. It followed two other, apparently unrelated, calls. Constable Clifford Tetzlaff had predicted a quiet weekend. That was about to be shattered.

One of those calls was from a concerned citizen who had noticed an unfamiliar car parked in front of his house all day. Constable R. S. Bacha responded. As the car in question, a two-door, brown, 1960 Oldsmobile bearing Alberta licence plates HC2841 had not been reported stolen and there didn’t appear to be anything amiss, he merely locked the previously unlocked vehicle and went on his way.

The other call had caused considerably more consternation. It had come from Edmund Siperko. While delivering supplies to a house he was building on the south side, he’d made a horrifying discovery. Blood was splattered about on the interior walls, tracked through sawdust on the unfinished floors and even pooled in puddles near a circular saw the carpenters had set up in the living room. Had Siperko checked the basement, he would also have found blood pooled there. It had leaked through from the living room.

Worried that one of his workers had been seriously injured, Siperko spent nearly an hour checking with each one of them. Finding none had been injured, he called the police.

Constable Clifford Tetzlaff shared the builder’s horror as he inspected the house. There was, of course, a chance that the blood was not from a human. Holding to this hope invited disappointment. Within hours, lab reports verified that the grotesquely splattered matter was of human origin. Worse, medical authorities confirmed that anyone who had lost that much blood would have died unless he or she received immediate medical attention.

Calls went out to all the hospitals and nursing homes in the city and surrounding areas. A serious case such as the police were describing had not been handled in any of them. By deduction, everyone involved realized there had been a death and quite possibly a murder.

As with all suspicious deaths, an investigation was started. This case was going to prove more challenging than a mere quest for the guilty party or parties. The victim, too, needed to be found and identified.

The news of Willey’s disappearance hit the media and brought responses that confused the issue even further. Several people had theories about what might have happened to Frank Willey or where he might be. Remembering an injury her son had suffered in a car accident the previous year, Mrs. Willey, senior, was sure her son was wandering aimlessly somewhere, a victim of amnesia.

When contacted in Vancouver, Frank’s brother, Percival, admitted that he had no idea where his brother might be but gave an Edmonton Journal reporter the following, perplexing statement, There’s much the police don’t know.

A friend of Willey’s, Tom Pink, then 76 years old, was positive he had seen Frank on Saturday, April 21st, at the main post office. He was quoted in the Edmonton Journal as saying, The police won’t believe me so I’ll say no more until they find him. There’s no mistake about it, it was Frank. The article went on to say that Pink explained that he had known Willey for years and played golf with him many times.

Only two people knew for sure where Frank Willey was or what happened to him – but they weren’t saying. Their involvement with Frank had caused both of them to have the worst weekend in their lives. They sincerely hoped that all the furore and investigation would just die down.

The next day (Saturday) the Willey household was understandably tense. Paris sent her teenage boys out to visit at their friends’ homes. When the phone rang it startled the already jarred nerves of the three waiting women.

Mrs. Willey? the voice on the other end of the phone line inquired.

Yes, the woman replied quickly.

It’s the police calling. We wanted to let you know that we have found your husband’s car, the man continued.

Paris let out a nervous gasp. It was not the news she’d been hoping for.

I see, Paris responded, not knowing quite what was expected of her next. Where is it? Do you have it? Should I come and pick it up?

The constable gave the woman an address to the south and west of her own.

If you have a spare set of keys for the car and a way of getting to the address where it is, you’re welcome to go and pick it up, the policeman explained.

Thank you, officer, she said quietly. I’ll do that. You haven’t heard anything about my husband yet, have you?

No, ma’m, unfortunately not, the policeman said and the two ended their conversation.

Paris immediately placed a phone call and made the arrangements to pick the car up. Within a few minutes, Ray Workman, Ed Siperko’s bookkeeper, was introduced as a family friend to Mrs. Willey, senior, and Frank’s sister. He had come to drive the distraught Paris to the address the police had given her.

The two picked up the abandoned Oldsmobile and drove it directly to the garage behind the Willey’s home. Workman then walked Paris to the door of her south Edmonton home.

Come in and have a cup of tea with us, Ray. You won’t be intruding. The boys are out with friends and the three of us are finding time heavy on our hands. I know I’d appreciate your company and I think my mother-in-law and sister-in-law would too.

Workman accepted her offer and briefly joined the three worried women. He was not an insensitive man and could feel the tension. Wanting to be helpful he suggested a drive in the country the next day. Initially hesitant to accept the man’s invitation, the three finally agreed that a diversion would be welcome.

Staff Sergeant Stanley L. Stevens, head of Edmonton City Police’s Identification section, was slightly taken aback when he was asked to report to an address on the south side. It was quite close to his own home. From my front porch I could quite clearly see the house where the murder took place, he reflected.

As a seasoned cop with a specialty in identification, Stevens was used to grisly scenes. Despite this, the blood-splattered rooms made a lasting impression.

There’d obviously been attempts to clean up the mess. You could see where someone had tried to mop up some of the blood. Still, though, it was everywhere, even splashed on the walls and ceiling.

His experience and training immediately told Stanley Stevens that if this was the blood of an Edmontonian, the population signs in town should be lowered by one. Knowing they were in for an exceptionally detailed investigation, Stevens and his staff began their analyses.

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