AP Interview: Fugitive hid 40 years in plain sight
AP – Frank Dryman, aka Victor Houston, sits for an interview
with the Associated Press from inside the Montana …
HELENA, Mont. – The aging Frank Dryman, a notorious
killer from Montana's past, had hidden in plain sight for so long that
he forgot he was a wanted man.
In an exclusive jailhouse interview with The Associated
Press, Dryman detailed how he invented a whole new life, with a new
family, an Arizona wedding chapel business — and even volunteer work for
local civic clubs.
"They just forgot about me," said Dryman, in his
first interview since being caught and sent back to the prison he last
left in the 1960s. "I was a prominent member of the community."
That is, until the grandson of the man he shot six
times in the back came looking.
Dryman had been one step ahead of the law since 1951
when he avoided the hangman's noose, a relic of frontier justice still
in use at the time.
Less than 20 years later he was out on parole. Not
content with that good fortune, he skipped out and evaded authorities
for four decades. After a while he even forgot about hiding and signed
up for V.A. benefits from his days in the Navy in 1948.
Now the 79-year-old Dryman is back behind bars, likely for what remains of
his life.
He was caught only after his long-ago victim's
grandson got curious and started poking around.
Dryman was hitching a ride from Shelby cafe owner
Clarence Pellett on a cold and snowy day in 1951 when he pulled a gun
and ordered Pellett out of his own car and began firing.
Dryman does not deny the crime — just that he's not
the same man today. He has been Victor Houston for decades. At the time of the murder,
and after being discharged from the Navy for mental issues, he was
going by yet another name: Frank Valentine.
"That kid, Frank Valentine, he just exploded," Dryman
says of his crime. "I didn't shoot that man in the back. That wild kid
did. That's not me.
"Victor Houston tried to make up for it by being an
honor citizen."
Dryman says he served his time, which he did until
paroled. But a Montana Parole Board not accustomed to leniency on
those who walk away from supervision was not impressed with Dryman's
subsequent good deeds. Last month the board sent him back behind bars to
serve what remains of his life sentence.
Dryman said he disappeared from parole in California
to get away from a wife he didn't like. He said he's not sure why he
just didn't leave the wife and remain on parole.
But once gone, he said, he didn't look back. His new
wife and family knew nothing of his past. He put down roots in Arizona
City painting signs, a trade learned in prison, and performing weddings.
"I never thought I was a parole violator. I was
Victor Houston. I never looked over my shoulder," Dryman said. "I just
forgot about it."
On his birthday he used to get two cards from his
brother: one for Houston and one for Valentine.
"I thought it was cute. I had no fear," Dryman said.
He said the details of his past are just coming back: the shooting, his
original sentence and the cause he became for opponents of the death
penalty, and his first stint in prison.
"Only since I have been back here did I start to think about it," said
Dryman. "To be honest, I didn't even remember the victim's name."
Dryman understands he is not likely to get out again now. And he is not
kindly disposed to the victim's grandson, the Bellevue, Wash., oral
surgeon who became intensely interested in a piece of family history he
knew nothing about. Clem Pellett compiled reams of old documents and
tracked down his grandfather's killer with the help of a private
investigator.
"I can't blame him for what he did," Dryman said. "But I think it was so
wrong he spent so much money getting me here. I feel it is unfair."
Many in the Pellett family do remember the murder. A dozen descendants
showed up at the parole hearing when Dryman was rearrested to testify
against his release, saying the killing had forever changed the history
of the family.
They said as kids they lived in fear of hitchhikers — even in fear of
Dryman. Some remembered Dryman's courtroom outburst at his first trial
that resulted in conviction and a hanging sentence.
"He turned to the judge and said, 'I'm going to kill you,' he turned to
the jury and said 'I am going to kill you' and he turned to the crowd
and said some stuff like that," said Clem Pellett. "He was an angry
young man who felt powerless."
Pellett only learned the details of the case last year after cleaning out
boxes of old newspaper clippings. His own parents never talked about the
murder. He had never even really known the Montana side of his family,
where the pain of the killing still lingers.
Pellett, without even talking to those relatives, began a quest to learn
more, compiling old records, court transcripts, ancient arrest records
for Dryman's petty crimes prior to the shooting — all
of which he used to track down his grandfather's killer.
Pellett said he was driven by an intense curiosity, and would now like
to meet with Dryman to fill in holes in the story that he may chronicle
in a book.
Dryman doesn't think he will agree to the meeting.
He also denounces the allegation that he made a courtroom death threat,
which Clem Pellett said was confirmed through his research.
Dryman lives in a low security wing of the Montana State Prison, wears
prison-issue clothing and due to failing eyesight walks with a cane to
avoid tripping. Being interviewed in the same parole board room where
was he returned to prison for life, Dryman said of Clem Pellett, "He's
already got me here, he should be happy. I think they got their pound of
flesh, and I accept it."
One of the original prosecutors in the case also never forgot about
Dryman.
"It was a very notorious case, perhaps the biggest of the time," said
John Luke McKeon, now 85.
McKeon, a very young assistant attorney general assigned to the case
despite his own opposition to the death penalty, said the Montana Supreme Court threw out the hanging
sentence amid some of the most intense arguments over the death penalty
the state had seen.
McKeon wrote a letter to the parole board in late May asking for
leniency, telling the board he thinks Dryman has paid for his crime. But
it got there after the board made its decision.
The former prosecutor doesn't see any way out for Dryman this time.
"I don't think the governor's going to give him exoneration," he said.
"I think he is going to die in prison."
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