When the name John Dillinger is mentioned, most people think of a notorious bank robher. My memory is of an unshaven shadowy man who stood behind a dirty screen door and motioned to my father.

Daddy was a feature writer for an Indianapolis newspaper in 1933. His articles were almost always controversial. When you read a Robert A. Butler by-line, you knew the story would contain the unexpected, and a bias toward the underdog.

While other papers were running headlines about the many banks being robbed, all supposedly by Dillinger, Daddy was writing different stories. He tried to point out that the criminal couldn’t be in two places at once, that the distance between two banks was too great for Dillinger to have robbed them both on the same day.

Apparently Dillinger took note of what my father had written, for he asked to meet with him. Dillinger’s father lived in a farmhouse in Mooresville, Indiana, just seven miles from our home, and he invited my father to visit there. Most of Our neighbors knew when Dillinger was in town, and I can remember Daddy shaking his head and saying, “I saw John just last night, and here he is, supposed to have robbed a bank clear up north. He must have a look-alike.” We went to the farmhouse, my father and I, a nine-year-old left in his care for the day. We drove into the lane, which was empty except for a nondescript dog. We walked up the steps, and Daddy motioned to a porch swing. I sat down, making sure my skirt was where it belonged, and started the creaky chains in motion. After a moment, an old man, Dillinger’s father, joined me. I can recall little about him except that he smelled much like the barns I loved to visit.

We were lookouts, Daddy told me. We were to alert the shadowy figure I saw behind the screen if anyone drove close by. I could think of little to say to the old man, and my eyes continually strayed from the road to a swaybacked horse in the pasture. I was hoping to be invited to ride, and I know I must have hinted about it several times. That black horse was much more interesting to me than anything going on in the room behind me. But Dillinger’s father didn’t respond to my hints as we sat and watched the lane.

I don’t remember how long we waited while Daddy talked to Dillinger. Once, when a car came up the road, driving slowly, I hopped down ready to do my job. The old man shook his head and said that they were neighbors, not out to get John, and that we’d best not interrupt what was going on inside.

When my father came out, he tipped his gray felt hat to old Mr. Dillinger and motioned for me to go