The case of the stolen cabbage and other odd Alaska crimes

Part of a continuing weekly series on local history by local historian David Reamer. Have a question about Anchorage history or an idea for a future article? Go to the form at the bottom of this story.

History research often results in dead ends. Sometimes the documentation to prove a point does not exist or does not exist anymore. At the same time, I have come across several anecdotes by accident, stories that caught my eye while conducting completely unrelated inquiries. The three crimes discussed here are some of those random finds. And in their own way, they collectively offer a view on Alaska’s history with crime.

Early in the morning, Feb. 4, 1920, two men approached the door of the American Cigar Store on Front Street in Juneau. They carried tools and left footprints in the fresh snow. The street was quiet. Like the surrounding shops, the cigar store had not yet opened for the day. The men were confident enough to take their time. They drilled holes around the door, reached in, undid the latch and entered. The cash register held $15, which they took easily enough. Then there was also the store’s 500-pound — and locked — safe.

They lugged the safe out the back, tossed it onto the store’s small sled, and hurriedly made their way to the waterfront, to Willoughby Avenue, and to their cabin near the end of that road. However, the snow and heavily laden sled meant that they left a clear, unbroken track in their wake.

Within minutes of the break-in, police officer Al Forsythe was alerted to the crime. He followed the obvious tracks directly to the cabin, where he captured both crooks, Louis Perez and Ralph Ruiz. The safe was still sealed. On top of the open and shut case of the cigar store robbery, Perez was also wearing a coat stolen from the H.S. Graves clothing store a few weeks prior. Thanks to the trail in the snow, the entire incident lasted only about a half-hour, from drilling into the store to the arrests.

Ruiz served only a few months in jail. Perez was sentenced to four years at the federal prison on McNeil Island. After serving his time, he was deported.

A series of crimes in Anchorage 20 years later was more delicate in nature. In 1938, female residents reported a series of panty thefts. The clothes dryer was still years away from becoming common. So, clothes were often hung outside on a line to dry. The thief yanked them off clotheslines and, in some instances, even entered homes and apartments to find his targets. He was never apprehended.

Two years later, several women reported that another panty thief was making the rounds of area backyards. After several weeks of panty raids, the offender was caught silk-handed. The thief immediately confessed to his crimes and was arrested. Unlike nearly every other arrest in those days, the police did not provide the culprit’s name. He was also released without charges, though the police claimed that he was under frequent surveillance. It is possible that this thief was related to someone important, thus keeping his name out of the newspaper and ensuring his quick release.

Two days later, police busted another man raiding clotheslines for undergarments. A search of his car revealed evidence of multiple thefts. This time, the police did release his name: Alex Yakishoff. There were no further updates, so the unmentionable crime wave appeared to have been thwarted.

While the panty thefts violated several unfortunately targeted residents, the next crime could be considered as having harmed the entire city. For years, Anchorage had a distinct lack of in-town tourist destinations. A circa 1970 Anchorage tourist guide brochure spotlighted several exciting options for visitors, including the post office, dock, chamber of commerce and library.

Apart from heading out of town for the sights, tourist buses also stopped at many local home gardens. The familiar giant vegetables were part of the appeal. Still, there is the strong sense that visitors were shocked that there were gardens in Anchorage at all, given how poorly non-residents understood Alaska climates.

A longtime constant of these tours was Alene Strutz’s garden at the corner of P Street and Ninth Avenue. Another prominent garden was at the A.A. Hedla family home in Government Hill. The pride of the latter garden was a 40-pound cabbage, of which tourists frequently took pictures.

On Aug. 28, 1959, the Hedla cabbage was stolen along with cabbage and carrots from other nearby gardens. The contemporary coverage blamed a human thief, presumably a hungry one. It is within the realm of possibility that a moose ate it, but it is far more likely that the Hedlas could tell the difference between a human vegetable poacher and a moose who broke into a garden. The newspaper account also clearly described the event as theft rather than vandalism.

The cabbage robbery was front-page news. There was no follow-up, which suggests that the thief was never apprehended. The loss to the tourist industry was undoubtedly incalculable.

Decades later, the cabbage theft is a humorous anecdote. However unique in some aspects, the panty thefts and inept cigar store robbery illustrate that crime is not a recent import to Alaska and certainly existed long before the arrival of oil money. Next week’s column will cover a far more serious episode in Alaska history, the case of Edward Krause, Alaska’s first serial killer.

Key sources:

“500-Pound Safe is Stolen, Later is Found; 2 Nabbed.” [Juneau] Alaska Daily Empire, February 4, 1920, 2.

“Arrest Second Panty Suspect.” Anchorage Daily Times, October 4, 1941, 1.

“Flowers to Share Tour Spotlight with Vegetables.” Anchorage Daily Times, July 31, 1959, 3.

“Police Watch ‘Panty Thief.’” Anchorage Daily Times, October 2, 1941, 1.

“Tourists Are Disappointed; Cabbage Taken.” Anchorage Daily Times, August 31, 1959, 1.