SHOT HIMSELF 4 TIMES, EH?
One look at the body would rule out suicide, but it still took N.J. detectives two tries to finally get the real story of grisly slay
Except for a recent rash of home burglaries that had townsfolk buzzing for weeks, not a lot usually happened in the sleepy burg of Palmyra, N.J. Especially not in the dead of winter.
So it was no surprise when every cop on duty, hoping to quell the boredom, rushed to a stately Tudor house on a frigid night in January 1933 after a neighbor said she heard shots being fired.
Police found the body of a young man in the living room, blood from a gunshot wound to the torso ruining his crisp white shirt and tailored suit. Clutched in his right hand was a .32 revolver.
The dead man was the homeowner: Bradway Brown, 28, scion of a well-to-do family and an executive at a printing company owned by his mother. He lived in the elegant house with his pretty wife and young daughter. Both were fortunately spending the night at a relative’s home and spared the grisly scene.
It seemed an open-and-shut case of death by suicide, and the only question was why a deep-pocketed fat cat with a cushy job, a dish for a spouse and seemingly everything to live for would want to check out in such an unseemly manner.
Then someone remembered exactly who the deceased was, and the swarm of curious cops and nosy neighbors was soon joined by a horde of reporters and photographers.
It had been four years since Bradway Brown’s name first appeared in newspapers from New York City to Philadelphia for his role in one of the most intriguing murder mysteries of the 20th century.
His death got the presses — and the conspiracy theories — rolling again.
In the summer of 1929, the genteel world of the South Jersey society swells was turned upside down with a sordid scandal tailor-made for the tabloids. On the night of June 1, Ruth Wilson and her fiancé Horace Roberts Jr., childhood friends and both recent graduates of Swarthmore College, were found dead in the young woman’s bedroom in Moorestown,
N.J., a short drive from Philadelphia.
Wilson had been shot in the temple while lying in bed. Next to her was Roberts, a .22 revolver near his hand.
He had taken a bullet to the head and died several hours later in a hospital. Both of them were nude.
The couple was found a little after midnight by the woman’s father, John O. Wilson, a powerful real estate developer and attorney. Roberts was from a wealthy Quaker family that owned much of the farmland in the area.
It was quickly declared a murder-suicide, and the tragic end of a rich, attractive young couple captivated newspaper readers for weeks. But it was for all the wrong reasons.
Official inquiries soon resulted in salacious details of their rocky relationship being leaked to the press. Though the vivacious Wilson had promised to wed Roberts, she had tired of the clingy, bespectacled milquetoast, friends and family told authorities.
When she ended their year-old engagement, he became despondent and depressed. He refused to eat, constantly wrote her letters and stalked the Wilson estate in vain hopes of a reconciliation.
Roberts also started to carry a small revolver, which worried his family and friends — a circle that included Brown, who had grown up with both Roberts and Wilson and was among those who told authorities that Roberts had often said that if he couldn’t have her, no one could.
What began as a clear-cut case of a jilted lover-turned-killer soon turned into a mystery thriller when autopsy details were made public. The official murder-suicide story was mostly put forward by largerthan-life lawman Ellis Parker, the chief of detectives of Burlington County famous for his crime-solving record.
But Parker and other officials who publicly agreed with him were widely ridiculed when news broke that Roberts had a total of four bullet wounds to the head — no small feat for someone who supposedly shot himself.
The prevailing theory among
the gossipmongers and armchair detectives following the case was that John O. Wilson, Ruth’s distinguished dad, had found the couple in the throes of passion that fateful night — he had initially told police they were fully clothed — and proceeded to shoot them in a fit of blind paternal rage. The murder-suicide ruling was an obvious coverup, people thought.
It also didn’t help authorities that in the years following the deaths, Brown was known to get loose-lipped after one too many glasses of bootleg hooch and tell anyone who’d listen that he knew who “the real killer” was.
“What was the use of answering questions at the inquest?” Brown reportedly told a friend. “It was an ‘open and shut case.’ But I have my suspicion; and I am not the only one who has them.”
Half a decade later, with Brown’s suicide pushing the Roberts-Wilson case back into the news, Detective
Parker was once again placed under a harsh spotlight. The veteran cop was mocked once more for declaring Brown died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound when it soon became apparent the young socialite’s untimely demise was a homicide.
Just like his old pal Roberts, Brown died of multiple gunshot wounds, coroners found. Four bullets had been fired from the .32 in his hand, but only two were accounted for — and the slugs entered his body from both sides of his torso.
Then there was the trail of blood leading from the garage to the living room, where Brown fell. Why would he shoot himself on each side of his body in his garage, then stagger into the house?
A careful search of Brown’s large garage provided the answers.
Investigators found one bullet lodged in the side of a small motorboat, though they never figured out where the fourth slug landed. They also discovered what proved to be a huge clue — two men’s hats were under the boat. One was expensive with the initials B.B. sewed into the lining. The other was well-worn, had remnants of blond hair and dandruff — Bradway had brown hair — and was several sizes smaller than what the victim wore.
Parker and his investigators now had to come up with a new scenario: Brown had driven home that evening from his office in Philadelphia, entered his garage and gotten into a fierce struggle with a gunman lying in wait. After he staggered inside, the killer put the gun in his hand and fled. Robbery was ruled out. Brown’s watch, ring and wallet were untouched, and nothing was disturbed in the home.
It looked like an obvious hit job likely meant to keep Bradway quiet over what he knew about the death of his friends years ago.
The truth wasn’t as nefarious as most people expected — or wanted — it to be.
Parker would redeem himself somewhat for supervising a team of gumshoes that doggedly pursued the few leads they had on the Brown case to apprehend his killers.
The revolver, which had been stolen, was eventually traced to the Midwest, where the names of two career criminals with New York City ties came up in court documents. They became the leading suspects behind the string of burglaries plaguing South Jersey at the time Brown was killed, and were picked up in Jersey.
Then came a break in the case that tied the pieces together. NYPD detectives arrested Solomon Lutz, a 21-year-old Bronx barber, on a robbery charge, and he quickly spilled that he’d rented his car to two New Jersey second-story men for $5 to use as a getaway vehicle — and they were the ones who’d shot
Brown after he’d come home and interrupted them breaking into his house.
In June 1934, Adam Scewczak, the triggerman who left his hat behind in the garage, was sentenced to life in prison. Accomplice Edward Adamski was hit with a 20- to 30-year sentence. Lutz was indicted but never served time.
In an unrelated twist, Parker died in prison in 1941 after being accused of kidnapping a suspect in the death of Charles Lindbergh’s baby son and trying to force a false confession.
Solving Brown’s murder was a classic case of old-fashioned detective work. But true crime enthusiasts hoping it would also lead to solving the Roberts-Wilson case were sorely disappointed. It remains unresolved to this day.
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