Tough Guy

He was left on the Sawicki doorstep in Chicago when he was three days old. The Sawickis christened him Bernard. He soon got a different name for himself--Knifey. "Bernie has always been a bad boy," said Anna Sawicki. "I'm sorry I ever took him in--he'd be better off dead." Once he told his foster mother: "Don't ever put a hand on me, or I'll knock your teeth out."

His foster father used to beat him regularly, but Knifey didn't care. He was a tough guy.

Three years ago, when the cops first caught Knifey stealing, they listed him as a boy of "superior intelligence." Knifey had a flair for mechanics. A home for wayward boys took charge of him, put him on a farm near Momence, 40 miles south of Chicago. There Knifey broke into the home of a neighbor, eccentric old Farmer Henry Allain, who was always pottering about with inventions. So they sent Knifey to St. Charles reform school for boys. A year ago he was paroled for good behavior.

One day last week 19-year-old Knifey Sawicki ran amuck. He turned up in Momence, walked out to Henry Allain's farm. He found the 72-year-old farmer working in a field. Knifey shot him dead, hid the body behind a pump. "He got me sent to St. Charles," said Knifey. "Put the finger on me, the stinking squealer."

Knifey hitchhiked back to Chicago, looked up a couple of pals he had met at reform school, Charles Kwasinski and Clarence Schwark. Standing on a street corner, Knifey suggested sticking up a hotel. "Nuts to you," said Kwasinski as he made a grab for Knifey's gun. Knifey let him have it, left him mortally wounded on the street. "They're punks," said Knifey. "I fired at the other goof too, but I missed."

He took an elevated train to Sherman Park. There he saw a boy and a girl sitting on the grass. The boy was 19-year-old John Miller, the girl was Mary Wodarczyk, another man's wife. Knifey held up Miller, shot him when he tried to resist. "He gets wise and starts scrapping," said Knifey, "so I shoot the guy."

Knifey spent the night at an all-night movie house, in the morning rode to Jackson Park. There a couple in a car picked him up. Knifey pulled his gun, stuck it at the man's head. The man saw a policeman and ran his car up on the sidewalk, shouting for help. Knifey shot the policeman. "Like all good coppers, he tries to get me," said Knifey. "That's his tough luck."

A few hours later, Knifey went home. Under one arm, in a box, was the target pistol with which he had killed four men. Under the other was a box of candy for Foster Mother Anna. The cops were waiting for him. They took Knifey up to the hospital room where young Charles Kwasinski lay dying. Said Knifey: "Hello, rat!"

Snapping his bubble gum between his teeth, Knifey told the cops: "Sure, I killed 'em. I shot 'em all. And I don't feel one way or the other about it, good or bad."

At the police station Knifey looked on as Joseph Wodarczyk, reconciled, kissed his wife. "Girls?" said Knifey. "Poison, that's what they are, poison. I first got to stealin' because of a girl. I was twelve and she was ten, and we were in love like a couple of grownup goofs."

Said Knifey, at the coroner's inquest next day: "I'd rather die in the chair than take a 99-year stretch. I never figured to live to be 21 anyhow."

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