Nearly 87 years ago, the hum of electricity silenced a name that once sent shivers across the Midwest and beyond.
Lester Warfel Brockelhurst Jr., a 23-year-old confessed serial killer from Peoria, Illinois, met his end in the electric chair at Arkansas’s State Penitentiary Tucker Unit.
At 10:17 p.m. on January 14, 1938, the switch was thrown, closing a grim chapter on a multi-state reign of terror that claimed at least three lives, including that of Victor A. Gates, a 52-year-old Little Rock automobile dealer whose only mistake was offering a ride to the wrong strangers.
Brockelhurst’s story is a dark odyssey of a young man unmoored—a tale of stolen cars, stolen lives, and a swift, unyielding justice that reflected the era’s unforgiving moral code. His execution wasn’t just the end of a killer; it was a moment that crystallized the fear and resolve of a nation grappling with the chaos of the Great Depression, when desperation often turned deadly.
Born in 1914 in Peoria, Illinois, Brockelhurst grew up in a working-class city battered by economic hardship. Little is known of his early years—neighbors later described him as a quiet boy, prone to sullen moods. By his early twenties, he’d cast off any pretense of stability.
In April 1937, alongside 18-year-old Bernice Felton, a runaway with a taste for adventure, he stole a car and set out on a six-week rampage that would leave a trail of blood from Illinois to Arkansas.
Their spree was marked by a reckless brutality. In Ohio, Michael Kooling, a mechanic, fell to Brockelhurst’s wrath, his life snuffed out for reasons never fully explained. In Pennsylvania, Ronald H. Proctor, a service station attendant, stared down the barrel of a shotgun, his face obliterated in a blast Brockelhurst later confessed to with chilling detachment. “I just did it,” he told police, his words devoid of remorse.
But it was the murder of Victor Gates that sealed Brockelhurst’s fate. On May 6, 1937, near Memphis, Tennessee, Gates, a genial family man known for his generosity, spotted the young couple hitchhiking.
Perhaps he saw two kids down on their luck; perhaps he simply couldn’t resist a good deed. Whatever his reasons, he pulled over, offering them a lift in his well-kept sedan. As they crossed into Arkansas, the mood shifted.
Near Lonoke, Brockelhurst drew a .32-caliber pistol, pressed it to Gates’s head, and fired. The dealer’s body slumped forward, blood pooling on the upholstery. Brockelhurst rifled through his pockets, netting a handful of cash, then shoved the corpse into a roadside ditch.
Two days later, a farmer stumbled upon the grisly scene, setting off a manhunt that would grip the nation.
For six weeks, Brockelhurst and Felton zigzagged across state lines, evading capture with a mix of luck and audacity. Newspapers dubbed them the “Killer Couple,” their exploits splashed across front pages alongside tales of bank robbers and dust storms.
But their luck ran dry on June 18, 1937, in Watertown, New York. Acting on a tip, police stormed a rundown hotel, finding Brockelhurst lounging with a cigarette, Felton at his side.
Extradited to Arkansas, Brockelhurst faced trial in Lonoke County for Gates’s murder. Felton, eager to save herself, turned state’s witness. Her testimony painted a damning picture:
Brockelhurst, she said, shot Gates without warning, his face a mask of cold indifference. “He didn’t even blink,” she told the jury, her voice trembling. Her cooperation spared her the gallows—she walked away with a five-year sentence for car theft—but it tightened the noose around Brockelhurst’s neck.
The trial was a spectacle. Brockelhurst’s defense leaned on a claim of insanity, pointing to his courtroom fainting spells—dramatic collapses that drew gasps from the gallery. But doctors at the State Hospital for Nervous Diseases saw through the theatrics, declaring him sane and culpable.
On January 14, 1938, after a deliberation so brief it barely warranted a coffee break, the jury returned a guilty verdict. Judge W.J. Waggoner wasted no time: death by electrocution. Governor Carl E. Bailey, unmoved by last-minute pleas, let the sentence stand.
Due in part to her cooperation by turning states evidence, Fulton was found guilty on minor charges out of Illinois for transporting a weapon across state lines and was sentenced to just five years in prison.
At Tucker Unit, Brockelhurst spent his last day under the watchful eyes of guards who’d grown weary of his antics. Reporters noted his eerie calm—no tears, no prayers, just a blank stare as he ate a final meal of fried chicken and biscuits.
At 10:17 p.m., strapped into the weathered wooden chair, he offered no parting words. The current surged three times, his body jerking with each jolt, until a doctor pronounced him dead at 10:25 p.m. A handful of witnesses—sheriffs, reporters, state officials—watched in silence, the air thick with the scent of ozone and finality.
In Little Rock, Victor Gates’s death had shaken a tight-knit community. A successful dealer with a reputation for fair deals and a warm handshake, he left behind a widow, Clara, who bore her grief with quiet dignity. After the execution, she declined interviews, though friends said she felt a weight lift when the verdict came down. “Justice was done,” she’d told them privately.
For Arkansas, Brockelhurst’s swift demise was a point of pride—a signal that hospitality wouldn’t be repaid with treachery. Nationally, his story fed into a broader narrative of lawlessness tamed, a reminder that even in hard times, order could prevail.
Today, Lester Brockelhurst Jr. is little more than a footnote, his name fading like the ink on yellowed newsprint. But in 1938, his end was a thunderclap—a warning to those who’d prey on kindness, and a somber farewell to a young man whose road led inexorably to that ditch in Lonoke, and the chair that waited beyond.
