The missing Kentucky girls no one was looking for – all found pregnant in their uncle’s basement
In March 1956, when deputies finally broke down the cellar door of the Haverman farm outside Hazard, Kentucky, they found six young women between the ages of 18 and 22. All six were in distress and required immediate medical attention. All six had been reported missing within the previous four years, and all six shared the same uncle.
The envelope arrived at the Perry County Sheriff’s Office on a Tuesday morning in late February 1956. Deputy Margaret Codle noticed it immediately while sorting the morning mail. Plain manila paper, no return address, postmarked in Lexington three days prior. Inside was a single sheet of typewritten paper, the words neatly typed by someone who had paid attention to spacing and margins.
Sheriff Raymond Kelch read it twice before summoning Codle to his office. The letter was short, almost clinical in its precision. It contained an address on Route 4, about eight miles northeast of Hazard. It listed six names: Ruth Anne Leadford, Barbara Jean Cornet, Sylvia May Woolm, Nancy Carol Duff, Linda Sue Meyers, and Paty Louise Kinser, aged 18 to 22, according to the writer.
All six were living in a basement at the given address. All six were pregnant. All were being held captive by a man named Dale Haverman. Kelch knew the Haverman property. Most people in Perry County did, at least by hearsay. The farm had belonged to Daniel and Opel Haverman until their deaths in a house fire in 1948. Their son Dale had inherited the property.
He lived there alone, as far as anyone knew. He kept to himself, grew a little tobacco, and showed up at church at Christmas and Easter. Nothing remarkable, nothing to attract attention. The letter ended with a single sentence that made Codedle’s hands go cold as she read it over Kelch’s shoulder.
“If you wait much longer, some of these girls will not survive childbirth.”
Kelch carefully set the letter down, as if it might catch fire. He’d been a sheriff for 11 years, dealing with smugglers, violence in the coal depots, and the occasional Saturday stabbing outside the bars on Highway 15. This was different. This was the kind of accusation that ended careers if mishandled. The kind that made a man second-guess every decision he would make afterward.
“Get all missing persons reports for those names,” he told Codle. “Go back five years if necessary, and check Breathitt and Knott counties as well.”
By late afternoon, Codle had assembled six case files on Kelch’s desk. Six girls reported missing between May 19, 1952, and September 1955. Six families who had come to the sheriff’s office with photos and descriptions, and with that kind of desperate hope that morphs into something else when months go by without answers. Six investigations that had stalled within weeks of the initial reports. The files were marked with notations such as “likely ran away” and “further pursuit declined.”
Margaret Codle had been a deputy for three years. She had learned to keep her opinions to herself and to ask her questions carefully. But as she read through these files, matching the names to the dates and circumstances, she couldn’t stop thinking about the word the anonymous letter writer had chosen. Not “kept” or “hidden,” but “captured.”
Margaret Codle spread the six files out on the conference table in chronological order. The oldest case concerned Ruth Anne Leadford, reported missing on August 14, 1952. She was 18 years old and was last seen walking home from a community festival in Buckhorn. Her mother had told the deputies that Ruth Anne had seemed troubled that evening and had left early without explanation. The note at the end of the first report read:
“The girl is considered moody. Her mother reports previous incidents where she stayed out after curfew and probably spent the night at friends’ houses.”
There had been another visit to the Leadfords’ house two weeks later. No further investigations followed. The file had been marked as inactive in October. Barbara Jean Cornet was the next to disappear, in January 1953. Nineteen years old, she came from a family living in a depression near Sassafras. She had told her father she was going to visit her grandmother in Hazard. Her grandmother never saw her. Barbara Jean’s file contained a single interview with her older brother, who mentioned that she had been acting secretively and had spoken of running away to Louisville or Cincinnati. The case file concluded:
“The person has a history of deception. No evidence of a crime.”
Codle noticed something in the Cornet file that she hadn’t seen on first reading. Barbara Jean’s mother had mentioned, almost casually, that Dale Haverman had driven Barbara Jean to the city for a dentist appointment three weeks before her disappearance.
“He was married to the girl’s aunt.”
She had explained it was family. The third disappearance occurred in July 1953. Sylvia May Woolm, 18, from Vicco in Knott County, had been visiting relatives in Perry County for the summer. One afternoon, she went to a neighbor’s house to return a borrowed cake pan. She never arrived. The neighbor lived a quarter mile down the road. The Knott County Sheriff’s Office initially led the investigation and then handed it over to Perry County. When it became clear that Sylvia had last been seen on their side of the county line, the handover took six weeks. By then, the case had already gone cold. The file noted:
“The temporary nature of the victim’s location suggests a possible voluntary departure.”
Nancy Carol Duff disappeared in March 1954. She was 20, from a family that attended the same Methodist church as the Havermans before her parents’ death. Nancy’s case file was thinner than the others. There was only a single interview with her stepfather, who stated that Nancy had been rebellious and had threatened to run away from home several times. The investigating deputy wrote:
“The home situation appears to be unstable. The person has likely chosen the option to leave.”
Linda Sue Meyers disappeared in November 1954, at the age of 18. She was walking home from school in the late afternoon. Three witnesses saw her accept a ride from someone driving a dark-colored pickup truck. None could identify the driver. Linda’s mother insisted that her daughter would never get into a stranger’s vehicle. The deputy who took the report noted:
“The mother’s judgment is questionable. Friends of the girl report that she frequently accepted rides.”
The case remained open longer than the others, but by February 1955 it too was marked as inactive. The last case involved Paty Louise Kinser, 18 years old, missing since September 1955. She had gone to help a family friend strip tobacco in his barn. When she didn’t return home at nightfall, her parents went to the property. They found the barn empty. There was no sign of Paty or the family friend. The friend, when located the next day, claimed Paty had never arrived. He said he had waited for two hours and then left to run errands. Paty’s file contained something none of the others had: a handwritten note stapled to the inside of the cover.
“Check Haverman estates.”
Someone had written it in pencil and then circled it. Below it, in a different handwriting, it said:
“Confirmed by H, not present. No grounds for a search warrant.”
Codle found Sheriff Kelch in his office shortly after 5:00 p.m. She placed a map of the county on his desk. Six red pins were already in place, corresponding to the locations where each girl had last been seen. The pins formed an irregular circle about 15 miles in diameter. In the center of this circle, she placed a seventh pin, marking the Haverman farm.
“Three of these families mentioned Dale Haverman by name in their initial statements,” she said. “He gave a girl a ride to the dentist. He took another family to church. He was supposed to meet the last girl for tobacco work, but claims she never showed up.”
Chalice studied the map without speaking.
“Someone wrote a note in the Kinser file saying that his property should be checked,” Codle continued. “Someone else wrote that they checked it and found nothing, but there’s no formal report of a search, no documentation.” “Who confirmed it?” Kelch asked.
Codle had hoped he wouldn’t ask that question, because the answer only made things worse. The initials under the confirmation note were RK, Raymond Kelch’s own initials. Kelch stared at his own initials for a long moment before replying.
“I remember the Kinser family coming in. The father was convinced that Haverman was lying about the girl not showing up.”
He paused and ran his hand over his jaw.
“I went there myself. October ’55. Haverman met me at the door. He let me look around the main house. Showed me the barn, the tobacco shed. Answered every question I asked.” “Did you check the cellar?” Codle asked.
The ensuing silence told her everything.
“He said the door had swollen shut after the spring rains,” Kelch finally said. “Hadn’t been able to open it for months. I could see the door had been painted over. Looked like it hadn’t been touched in years.”
He looked up at Codele.
“I had no reasonable suspicion to justify a search warrant, no evidence, just the suspicion of a father and a man who seemed genuinely confused as to why I was there.”
Codele retrieved the land registry records from her folder.
“Daniel and Opel Haverman died in April 1948. The fire broke out in the kitchen at around 2:00 a.m. Both bodies were found in their bedroom. The fire inspector’s report stated that the fire burned hot enough to cause part of the second floor to collapse.”
She slid another document across the desk.
“Dale Haverman inherited the property the following June. According to county records, he carried out significant renovations between 1949 and 1951. He rebuilt the second floor, reinforced the foundation, and ran new wiring throughout.” “You think he remodeled the basement during those renovations?” Kelch said. “The original 1912 house plans show an 8-by-10-foot root cellar, accessible through a door from the kitchen, standard for the time.”
Codele produced a building permit from 1950.
“This permit covers foundation stabilization and basement waterproofing. The listed contractor was Haverman himself. No inspections were ever carried out because the work was classified as maintenance, not new construction.”
Kelch studied the documents with growing unease. Dale Haverman had been 40 years old when his parents died, unmarried, and working sporadically in the coal mines near Hazard. After inheriting the property, he had stopped working in the mines altogether, living off the farm’s earnings and what remained of his parents’ modest savings. Neighbors described him as quiet, helpful when asked, someone who brought vegetables from his garden to church meals and helped elderly residents with repairs.
“I spoke with Ethel Begley last week,” Codle said. “She lives about a mile from the Haverman property. She mentioned that Dale helped her fix her well pump last summer. While he was there, she heard crying coming from his truck. When she asked about it, he said he’d brought some barn cats with him, and they don’t like riding in vehicles.” “Cats?” Kelch repeated. “She thought it was odd because the crying sounded more human than animal, but she didn’t press the issue. She said Dale had always been kind to her, and she felt silly thinking otherwise.”
Kelch retrieved the county census records. In 1950, Dale Haverman had listed his household as a single person with no dependents. The same was true in the 1955 agricultural census. He had reported a modest tobacco production, a few cattle, and some chickens. Nothing that would require significant labor or explain frequent trips to town for supplies. But bank records Codle had obtained that afternoon through careful investigation showed that Haverman was making weekly deposits from farm sales and monthly withdrawals that didn’t fit a solitary lifestyle. The grocery bills alone suggested he was feeding more than just himself. In December 1955, he had spent over $200 on canned goods, dried beans, and flour at the Hazard Food Market. The vendor remembered the transaction because Haverman had paid in cash and declined help loading the supplies into his truck.
“There’s something else,” Codele said.
She placed a church register from 1952 on the desk. Four of the missing girls attended congregations to which Dale Haverman had connections through his parents or extended family. He wasn’t a regular member anywhere, but he showed up at funerals, weddings, holiday services, always alone, always polite, the kind of man people remembered as being there without really remembering him. Chalice closed the files.
“Get Judge Winters on the phone. We need this search warrant by tomorrow morning.” “What reason do we give?” Codle asked. “We have an anonymous letter and a sample that looks suspicious, but proves nothing.” “We tell him the truth,” Kelch said. “Six families have filed charges. Six girls haven’t been seen in years, and I failed to search this basement when I had the chance.”
He looked Codele in the eyes.
“This ends tomorrow.”
By 8:00 p.m. that evening, Judge Harold Winters signed a warrant authorizing a full search of the Haverman property, including all structures and underground spaces. The warrant would be executed at first light. The convoy left the Perry County Sheriff’s Office at 6:15 a.m. on March 12, 1956. Four vehicles, with Kelch and Deputy Thomas Brewer in the lead. Codle and Deputy Frank Hoskins followed, then two more deputies brought up the rear. They had notified the Kentucky State Police, who dispatched a sergeant and a trooper. Dr. Samuel Garrett of Hazard Hospital followed in his own vehicle at Kelch’s request. No one said it aloud, but everyone understood why a doctor was needed.
The Haverman farm was at the end of a gravel road that turned to mud in heavy rain. March had been wet that year, and the vehicles struggled through ruts deep enough to scratch the undercarriage. The main house came into view shortly after 7:00 a.m. A white, two-story building with fresh paint and a porch that wrapped around the south side. Smoke was rising from the chimney. Someone was home. Dale Haverman opened the door before Kelch could knock. He was wearing clean work clothes and holding a coffee cup in one hand. His expression reflected more confusion than alarm at the number of police officers on his property.
“Sheriff Kelch,” he said calmly. “I wasn’t expecting any visitors this morning.”
Kelch handed him the search warrant. Haverman read it slowly, his face betraying nothing. When he had finished, he placed his coffee cup on the porch railing and stepped aside.
“Feel free to look around wherever you need to,” he said. “Although I’m not sure what you’re hoping to find.”
The interior of the house was meticulously maintained. Clean floors, minimal furnishings, everything in its place. The kitchen showed signs of recent cooking. More dishes in the dish rack than one person would use for breakfast. Codele noticed it immediately but said nothing. They systematically went through the first floor: parlor, dining room, pantry. In the pantry, shelves of canned goods stretched from floor to ceiling. Enough food to feed a family for months. The cellar door was where the original house plans indicated it would be, away from the kitchen and near the back entrance.
Contrary to Kelch’s description from his previous visit, the door showed no paint deposits or signs of disuse. The handle was smooth from frequent use.
“This door looks different than it did last October,” Kelch said.
Haverman shrugged.
“I repaired it over the winter. They were right that it had swollen. It took me a few months to get around to planing it down and reattaching it properly.”
Kelch pulled open the door. Wooden steps led down into the darkness. He found the light switch; a bare bulb illuminated rough stone walls and an earthen floor. The room corresponded to the dimensions in the original house plans, about 8 by 10 feet, filled with the usual cellar paraphernalia: jars of preserves, a few old pieces of furniture, and firewood stacked against one wall.
Deputy Brewer was the first to descend and shone his flashlight on every surface.
“Seems to be normal, Sheriff.”
But Codle studied the walls. The brickwork near the stairs looked older, the mortar crumbling in places. Towards the back wall, the stones seemed newer, the mortar fresh and even. She ran her hand along the seam where old met new.
“This wall was newly built,” she said.
Haverman’s voice came from the top of the stairs, still calm.
“The foundation had cracks. It had to be reinforced during the renovations.”
Kelch descended into the cellar and stood beside Codele. The newer brickwork extended about four feet along the back wall and disappeared behind a wooden shelf heavily laden with canned tomatoes and green beans. He grasped one end of the shelf. It moved easily, too easily for something supposedly capable of holding so much weight. The jars were empty. Behind the shelf, set into the newer brickwork, was a door. Not old wood like the cellar entrance upstairs, but newer lumber with a heavy bolt on the outside. The temperature in the cellar seemed to be dropping.
Kelch could hear his own breathing, the shuffling of boots on the floor. As more deputies crowded down the stairs, Haverman said nothing. Kelch pulled back the bolt. The metal scraped against the latch, a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the confined space. He pulled the door open. The smell hit them first. Unwashed bodies, human excrement, something morbidly sweet that Kelch couldn’t immediately identify.
Then the dimensions became clear. A corridor stretched back into the darkness, far beyond where the original foundation should have ended. Electric lights hung at intervals from the ceiling, their cables running along the stone walls. Codele reached for the first light switch. The corridor was illuminated in sections, revealing six doors, three on each side, all closed, all with locks on the outside.
A sound came from behind one of the doors, quiet at first, then swelling. It was a girl’s voice, hoarse and uncertain, as if she had forgotten how to call for help.
“Is anyone there? Please, is anyone there yet?”
Kelch moved toward the voice, his hands trembling as he worked the lock. The door opened to reveal a small room, perhaps 6 by 8 feet, containing a single cot, a bucket, and a girl sitting on the floor against the back wall. She raised one arm to shield her eyes from the light flooding in from the hall. Her other hand rested protectively over a swollen belly. Ruth Anne Leadford.
“Ruth Anne?” came Kelch’s voice.
The girl nodded slowly, as if unsure whether speaking would make the moment disappear. She looked much older than her actual age, her face gaunt, her hair hanging in matted strands over her shoulders. She wore a cotton dress that had been patched several times and now stretched tightly across her pregnant belly.
“How long?” she whispered. “How long ago?” “March,” Kelch said. “They have been missing since August 1952.”
Ruth Anne closed her eyes. When she opened them again, tears were running down her cheeks.
“Three years and seven months. I kept trying to count, but after the first year I lost track.”
Dr. Garrett pushed past Kelch into the room, his medical bag already open.
“Let me examine you, Miss. We’ll get you out of here.”
Behind them, the deputies opened the other doors. From each room came the same sequence of sounds: the scratching of locks, the creaking of hinges, then shocked silence, followed by soft weeping. Codle stood in the hallway, jotting down names in her notebook as each girl was identified. Barbara Jean Cornet, now 22, showed advanced signs of health deterioration related to captivity. Sylvia May Woolm, 20, was visibly fragile. Nancy Carol Duff, 19, her abdomen barely visible. Linda Sue Meyers, 18, was visibly weakened and in dire need of medical attention. Paty Louise Kinser, 18, was in poor condition and clearly distraught, the only one to scream when the door opened, and she huddled in the corner until Dr. Garrett spoke to her in a gentle, measured tone.
The rooms were identical. Each contained a cot with thin blankets, a bucket for excrement, and a small table with a washbasin. No windows, no daylight. The walls were bare stone, the floors concrete. Electrical outlets had been installed in each room, but no light bulbs. Haverman even controlled their access to light. Ruth Anne was the most coherent of the six while Dr. Garrett conducted preliminary examinations. She answered Kelch’s questions in a voice that sounded like it belonged to someone much older.
“He came to the village festival in Buckhorn,” she said. “He offered to drive me home because it was getting dark. I knew him from family gatherings. My mother’s cousin married his sister years ago. I thought it was safe.”
She paused and swallowed hard.
“He didn’t take me home. He brought me here instead. Told me I would help him start a family. That God had chosen me for this purpose.” “Did he hurt you?” Codele asked cautiously.
Ruth Anne’s laughter was bitter and brief.
“He abused us all, but he was careful not to leave any obvious traces. No traces in places that anyone could see if someone ever came looking for us, which no one did for a very long time.”
She explained the routine Haverman had established. He brought food twice a day, always at the same times, morning and evening, mostly canned goods, sometimes fresh eggs or milk. He spoke to them about Scripture, about their duty, about how together they were building something important. As the months passed, his visits became less frequent and his behavior more unpredictable. Ruth Anne had endured repeated periods of severe hardship. The consequences of her earlier, captivity-related conditions had been tragic. She was deep in another stage of health complications resulting from her imprisonment.
“What happened to the babies?” Kelch asked, though he dreaded the answer. “He took them upstairs,” Ruth Anne said emotionlessly. “He said he’d take them to good families, but I heard him digging outside the first night I came back down here after the second one died. There’s a patch of garden on the east side of the house. I could hear the shovel hitting stones.”
Barbara Jean Cornet spoke from her doorway, her voice calmer than her hands.
“I had a baby. She only survived for a short time. He named her Mary and said she was an angel returning to heaven. Then he brought me straight back down here and it all started again.”
The youngest, Paty Kinser, didn’t want to talk at all. She sat on her cot, staring at her hands and rocking slightly back and forth. Dr. Garrett estimated she had been malnourished for months, possibly longer. Upstairs, State Police Sergeant Morris had handcuffed Dale Haverman. Haverman sat at his kitchen table, calm and still, watching through the window as ambulances arrived. When Chalice emerged from the basement, Haverman looked up.
“They were certainly here,” he said. “Nobody was looking for them anyway. I gave them a purpose.”
Kelch didn’t dare answer. Instead, he went outside, where the morning sun felt obscene compared to the horror they had uncovered. Six girls, four years, and a family tree that had given Haverman access to each and every one of them.
The investigation into Dale Haverman’s family connections began that same afternoon, while the girls were being transported to Hazard Hospital. Deputy Codle spent hours in the county secretary’s office, tracing marriages, births, and deaths through decades-old records. What emerged was a web of relationships that explained how Haverman had brought himself close to each victim.
Ruth Anne Leadford’s connection came through Haverman’s late sister, Martha, who had married Ruth Anne’s mother’s first cousin in 1938. The marriage ended in divorce in 1945, but Haverman had maintained contact with this branch of the family, appearing at family gatherings and holidays. He had watched Ruth Anne grow up from afar, always present but never intrusive. The last family gathering he attended before abducting her was a picnic on July 4, 1952. Ruth Anne was there with her parents.
Barbara Jean Cornett’s connection was more direct. Her mother’s sister had married Haverman in 1946, a union that lasted only eight months before she left him, citing his strange views on family and religion. The marriage was annulled, but Haverman maintained a warm relationship with the Cornett family. He had helped Barbara Jean’s father repair a barn roof in 1952. He had driven Barbara Jean to her dentist appointment three weeks before her disappearance, just as her mother had mentioned in the missing person’s report.
Sylvia May Woolm was not related to Haverman by blood, but her family attended the same Methodist church his parents had belonged to before their deaths. Haverman showed up for Christmas services and summer tent missions, sitting quietly in the back pews. Church records showed that he had volunteered to help at the youth group’s 1953 summer camp—the same trip Sylvia attended while visiting relatives in Perry County. She had become separated from the group during a hike. Haverman was the one who claimed to have found her and brought her back to camp. Two weeks later, she disappeared while returning a cake pan.
Nancy Carol Duff’s family attended a different Methodist church, but her late mother had been engaged to Haverman in 1942 before breaking off the engagement to marry Nancy’s father instead. Haverman attended the funeral when Nancy’s mother died of pneumonia in 1951. Nancy was 18 at the time. Haverman sent the family a condolence card every year on the anniversary of her death. Nancy’s stepfather had mentioned during the missing person interview that Haverman had offered to help Nancy find work in Hazard. He said he knew people who needed domestic help. The stepfather had declined, but Nancy had told friends that she was considering it anyway.
Linda Sue Meyers represented Haverman’s most calculated acquisition. Her family had no connection to him at all until 1954, when Haverman began attending the same small Pentecostal church in Vayo Vest that the Meyers family went to. He had started coming in September, sitting near the family and offering them rides when their truck broke down. By October, he was a familiar sight. When Linda Sue accepted the ride in a dark pickup truck in November, three witnesses saw it. None recognized the truck as Haverman’s because he had borrowed one from a neighbor that day, claiming his own vehicle needed repairs.
Paty Louise Kinser’s connection led back to Haverman’s working past. Her father, Raymond Kinser, had worked alongside Haverman in the coal mines in 1947 and 1948. They had maintained a friendly acquaintance even after Haverman left the mines. When Haverman needed help stripping tobacco in September 1955, he called Raymond and asked if Paty could help for a few hours. He had helped her family before, Raymond later explained to investigators. It seemed a reasonable request.
Codle presented her findings to Kelch that same evening. The pattern was undeniable. Haverman had spent years building trust, appearing on the fringes of these families’ lives, making himself useful and unobtrusive. He had studied each girl, learned her routines, identified moments of vulnerability. Ruth Anne, walking home in the dark. Barbara Jean, traveling alone to visit her grandmother. Sylvia, separated from her camping group. Nancy, seeking independence from her stepfather. Linda Sue’s family, struggling with transportation issues. Paty’s family, needing extra help. He had been patient.
“Some of these connections go back a decade or more,” Codle said. “He positioned himself as trustworthy long before he even made a move.”
What troubled Kelch most was the realization that Haverman had likely been planning this since at least the mid-1940s, possibly even earlier. The annulled marriage to Barbara Jean’s aunt, the broken engagement to Nancy’s mother, his presence at family and church gatherings where young girls were present. He had been observing for years, waiting for the right circumstances.
State Police investigators found Haverman’s diaries in a locked suitcase in his bedroom. Page after page filled with observations about girls in different communities, their ages, their family situations, their vulnerabilities. Ruth Anne’s name appeared first, with entries dating back to 1949, recording early observations years before her disappearance. The last entry, written on the morning of the raid, read simply:
“The work continues. Seven would be better than six.”
Elizabeth Watts arrived in Hazard three days after the discovery. She had covered courts and crime for the Louisville Courier-Journal for eight years, but nothing had prepared her for the story unfolding in Perry County. While other reporters focused on the sensational elements, Watts went to the sheriff’s office and requested the original missing persons reports. What she found confirmed her worst fears. She laid the six reports out on a conference table and photographed each one, paying particular attention to the notes and follow-up investigations—or rather, the lack thereof.
Ruth Anne Leadford’s report contained a single follow-up note, dated two weeks after her disappearance:
“Mother states person is moody and tends to stay out late. No evidence of abduction. Case inactive until new information is available.”
No interviews with friends. No inquiries in the area where she was last seen. No contact with Dale Haverman, even though he had been at the same community festival that evening. Barbara Jean Cornett’s file was even thinner. The initial report mentioned that Haverman had driven her to the dentist weeks before her disappearance—a detail that would have at least warranted a conversation with him. Instead, the note read:
“According to the family, the person has a history of deception. Voluntary departure is likely.”
The case was marked as inactive within three weeks. Sylvia May Woolm’s report remained in jurisdictional limbo for six weeks while Perry and Knott counties debated whose jurisdiction it fell under. By the time Perry County officially took over the case, witnesses could no longer recall specific details, and the trail had gone cold. The last note:
“The temporary nature of the person’s summer visit suggests a return to their primary residence without notification.”
Nancy Carol Duff’s stepfather had filed the complaint, but the investigating deputy’s notes revealed a clear bias:
“Stepfather appears controlling. Person likely fled the home situation. Mother deceased. Unstable family situation.”
No search was conducted. No interviews were held with Nancy’s friends or community members. The case was closed within 10 days as a runaway. Linda Sue Meyers received the most attention, probably because three witnesses saw her get into the truck, but these witnesses couldn’t identify the vehicle or the driver, and the investigation stalled. What caught Watts’ attention was a note dated three weeks after Linda’s disappearance:
“Anonymous tip suggests Dale Haverman be investigated. Haverman questioned, cooperative. No reason for further action.”
The deputy who conducted this interview was Frank Hoskins, one of the men who had helped with the raid. Watts tracked Hoskins down to a diner in Hazard. He agreed to speak unofficially while his coffee cooled in his hands.
“I went to Haverman’s house in December ’54,” Hoskins said. “An anonymous caller suggested I look there for the Meyers girl. Haverman seemed genuinely surprised that I asked about her. He said he knew the family from church but hadn’t seen Linda for weeks. He let me look around the house, showed me the barn and the outbuildings. Everything seemed normal.”
Hoskins paused.
“He told me the cellar door was sticking. I could see it had been painted over. I didn’t press the issue any further.” “Why not?” asked Watts. “Because I had nothing concrete, no evidence, no reasonable suspicion, just an anonymous call and a man who was cooperative and transparent. If I had pressed harder without justification and turned out to be wrong, I would have harassed an innocent citizen.”
He looked into her eyes.
“I made the wrong decision. I will have to live with that.”
Paty Kinser’s file contained the most damning evidence of systemic failure. Someone had written “Check Haverman property” in pencil, indicating genuine suspicion. Sheriff Kelch’s initials were written underneath, with the note “Confirmed H, not present, no grounds for a warrant.” Kelch had visited the property, seen the painted-over basement door, and accepted Haverman’s explanation without question. When Watts published her findings in a cover story on March 18, the reaction was immediate and furious. The victims’ families demanded answers. Community members who had trusted Haverman felt betrayed and ashamed.
The harshest criticism, however, focused on law enforcement. The common thread in all six cases was clear: investigators had looked for reasons not to investigate, rather than reasons to follow up on leads. Girls from broken homes. Girls who seemed moody or rebellious. Girls whose families didn’t fit conventional patterns. Each of them had been dismissed as a runaway, as someone who had chosen to leave, as not worth sustained effort. Ruth Anne Leadford’s mother gave Watts an interview from her home in Buckhorn.
“I told them my daughter wouldn’t just run away like that,” she said, her hands trembling. “I told them she was afraid of something, that something was wrong. They wrote in their report that she was moody, as if that explained everything, as if that made it acceptable to stop looking for her.”
Three other families expressed similar frustrations. They had been told their daughters were runaways, problem teenagers, girls who made bad decisions. They had been advised to wait and hope the girls would come home on their own. Some deputies had suggested the families shared some of the blame because they didn’t have better control over their daughters.
“They looked at us as if we were the problem,” Barbara Jean Cornett’s father told Watts. “As if we had failed as parents, and that’s why our daughter had run away. Nobody wanted to consider the possibility that someone had taken her. That would have meant real work.”
The trial of Dale Haverman began on September 10, 1956, in the Perry County Courthouse in Hazard. The prosecution built a case based on physical evidence, medical testimony, and the diaries found in Haverman’s bedroom. Defense attorney Robert Thornton, appointed by the court when Haverman’s assets proved insufficient to hire a private attorney, pleaded diminished responsibility due to childhood trauma and religious delusion.
The courtroom was packed every day. The victims’ families occupied the first two rows on the left. They sat apart, divided by shame and grief and the knowledge that they had all been manipulated by the same man. Ruth Anne’s mother wouldn’t look at Barbara Jean’s father, whose sister had once been married to Haverman. Nancy’s stepfather sat alone, his hands clasped between his knees, while other families whispered about his failure to protect his stepdaughter. The prosecution, led by District Attorney James Felner, began with the physical evidence.
State Police investigators had excavated the yard on the east side of the Haverman house. They had uncovered evidence of earlier medical tragedies related to the girls’ captivity. Medical examiners testified that two of the babies appeared to have been stillborn or died shortly after birth. The third showed signs of having lived for several days. None had received a proper burial or death certificate. Dr. Garrett testified about the girls’ condition upon discovery: malnutrition, vitamin deficiencies, and infections due to inadequate hygiene.
Ruth Anne showed signs of previous physical abuse. Barbara Jean showed signs of repeated trauma. All six exhibited symptoms of ongoing psychological abuse, including difficulty making eye contact, hesitancy in speaking, and automatic submission to male authority. The girls themselves provided limited testimony. The judge ruled that their statements could be recorded rather than requiring them to appear directly before Haverman.
Ruth Anne’s testimony, read by a court clerk in a monotone tone, described her abduction and the subsequent years spent in the cellar. She explained Haverman’s religious justifications, his insistence that he was building a righteous family, his belief that the outside world was corrupt, and his belief that he was saving these girls from sin. Barbara Jean’s testimony focused on the babies’ deaths. She described holding her daughter for five days, watching the infant weaken without medical attention, and pleading with Haverman to take the child to a doctor. He refused, saying God would decide the baby’s fate. When one of the appointments ended tragically, Haverman took the body and later returned with signs that he had been outside.
The defense called a psychiatrist from Lexington who had examined Haverman in three sessions. Dr. Milton Greer testified that Haverman suffered from a delusional disorder centered on religious themes. His parents had been strict fundamentalists who had socially isolated him and instilled in him the importance of patriarchal authority and female submission. When they died in the fire, Haverman interpreted it as punishment for their failure to live according to God’s true plan. He had decided that he would succeed where they had failed.
“He sincerely believes he acted righteously,” Dr. Greer told the jury. “In his mind, these girls were lost souls he was rescuing. The pregnancies were part of building a pure family under his guidance. He shows no understanding whatsoever that his actions have caused harm.”
Thornton argued that Haverman’s ability to distinguish right from wrong was impaired by years of psychological conditioning and untreated mental illness. He pointed to the diaries as evidence of a sick mind, not criminal intent. He asked the jury to consider committal to a psychiatric facility instead of prison.
The prosecution’s closing argument lasted 40 minutes. Felner guided the jury through the timeline of calculation and planning: the years in which Haverman built trust, the careful selection of vulnerable girls, the construction of the hidden cellars, the systematic abductions. He held up photographs of the three graves, the locked doors, the rooms where the girls had been held captive for years.
“This wasn’t delusion,” Felner said. “This was deliberate. He knew these girls had families looking for them. He knew they wanted to go home. He knew what he was doing was wrong, and that’s why he built those rooms in secret. That’s why he lied to investigators. That’s why he hid the evidence of dead babies in his backyard. A delusional man doesn’t take those kinds of precautions. A criminal does.”
The jury deliberated for six hours. They returned guilty to six counts of kidnapping, six counts of serious unlawful acts and abuse, and three counts of concealing a death. The judge sentenced Haverman to six consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole. Haverman showed no emotion as the verdict was read. As the deputies escorted him from the courtroom, he turned and looked at the families in the gallery. His expression remained calm, almost bewildered, as if he still couldn’t understand why they were angry. Then he was gone, and the families sat together in the same room for the first time since their daughters had been kidnapped, united only by the immense scale of what they had lost.
Between April and August 1956, five of the six girls gave birth. Ruth Anne delivered a boy at the end of April in Hazard Hospital, her third pregnancy and her first surviving child. Barbara Jean had a girl in May. Sylvia gave birth to twin boys in June. Nancy gave birth to a girl in July. Linda Sue’s son arrived in August, three weeks early, but healthy. Only Paty Kinser suffered a miscarriage at the beginning of May. The trauma and poor health had taken their toll.
The state of Kentucky immediately petitioned to revoke Haverman’s parental rights. The revocation was granted in mid-June, and social services began arranging closed adoptions for all five infants. The state wanted new birth certificates with no mention of the circumstances, fresh starts for children who carried the burden of their father’s crimes. Ruth Anne refused to relinquish her son for adoption for two weeks. She had already lost two babies and had dreamed of becoming a mother for four years. Hospital staff found her every morning beside the infant’s bassinet, singing softly. When the social worker finally convinced her that she lacked the means to care for a child, Ruth Anne signed the papers without reading them. She never held him again.
Barbara Jean’s family wanted to raise the child, but social services rejected the application, arguing it would hinder her recovery. Barbara Jean was 22 when she signed the adoption papers. Her mother was present and wept silently the entire time. Sylvia’s twins were separated and placed with different families. The adoption agency believed it would be easier to place them individually. Sylvia was 20 and recovering from serious medical complications. The papers were signed by her parents on her behalf.
Nancy, the quietest of the six, asked to see her daughter before the adoption was finalized. She held the baby for three hours, memorizing her features. Then she handed the child over to the social worker and asked her to tell the adoptive family one thing:
“The baby’s mother loved it enough to let it go.”
Linda Sue’s case caused the most controversy. At 18, she was old enough to make certain decisions, but social services applied for guardianship due to her circumstances. Linda Sue resisted by refusing to name the baby. The birth certificate stated “Male Infant Meyers,” and the child was placed in foster care for three months before being placed with a family. Linda Sue left the hospital the day after giving birth and never inquired about her son again.
The girls themselves dispersed in the following months. Ruth Anne returned home but left again after six months for Lexington, unable to bear the gossip in the community. Barbara Jean stayed in Perry County, enrolled in a secretarial program, and found work at a law firm. She never spoke about the basement. Sylvia returned to Knott County, completed high school through correspondence, and moved to Cincinnati in 1958. She told people there she was from Ohio and fabricated a conventional childhood.
Nancy moved to Louisville with the help of a church charity. She worked as a waitress, attended evening classes, and legally changed her name in 1959. She married in 1962 and never told her husband about the basement or the baby. Linda Sue left Kentucky completely at the end of 1956. Social services lost contact with her in 1957. Over the years, occasional reports surfaced: sightings in Chicago and Detroit, working under assumed names and moving frequently. She never re-established contact with her family.
Paty Kinser stayed home. At 18, she found it difficult to look ahead, too traumatized to imagine escape. She lived with her parents until 1964, when she married a man 20 years her senior who believed he could save her. The marriage lasted three years.
Dale Haverman died on February 7, 1960, in the Kentucky State Penitentiary in Eddyville. Complications from untreated diabetes led to kidney failure. He was 47 years old and had served less than four years of his sentence. Prison medical records showed that he had refused insulin treatment for months, citing religious objections. By the time intervention became necessary, the damage was irreparable. No family requested his body. He was buried in the prison cemetery under a headstone bearing only his name and dates of birth and death. None of the victims’ families were present. Most learned of his death only weeks later when a reporter from the Courier-Journal called to gather their reactions.
Ruth Anne Leadford, who was reached by telephone in Lexington, said only:
“I hope he has found peace.”
Then she hung up. The anonymous letter that triggered the investigation was never solved. Sheriff Kelch received dozens of inquiries from journalists and law enforcement officials asking about the writer’s identity. He had no answers. The letter was postmarked in Lexington, typed on plain paper, without any distinguishing features. Handwriting experts examined it but found nothing useful. The writer knew specific details: names, approximate ages, the hidden nature of the cellars. Someone had known what was happening on the Haverman farm and had finally decided to act.
Over the years, theories arose. Some believed it was a relative who had grown suspicious. Others suggested a delivery person or postman who had noticed something amiss. A few thought it might have been someone from Haverman’s church who had overheard something disturbing during their conversations. The truth remained hidden, locked away with the one who had ultimately decided that silence was worse than disclosure.
Following Elizabeth Watts’ newspaper investigation, the Perry County Sheriff’s Office conducted an internal review. The report identified multiple shortcomings in the handling of missing persons cases but recommended no disciplinary action. Sheriff Kelch retired in 1958. Deputy Hoskins transferred to the State Police. Margaret Codle remained with the department and became the first female sheriff in Perry County history when she was elected in 1966.
In 2003, a journalist named Sarah Brennan tracked down Ruth Anne Leadford in Columbus, Ohio. She was living under her married name and working as a hospital administrator. She had never changed her first name and had never tried to completely hide it. When Brennan asked her why, Ruth Anne’s answer was simple.
“Changing my name would have meant that he would have taken that away from me too.”
The interview didn’t focus on her imprisonment, but on the 47 years that followed. Ruth Anne completed her secondary education in 1959, attended a nursing school, and married in 1968. She and her husband, who knew about her past and loved her nonetheless, raised three children. She had built a life that wasn’t defined by what had been done to her, but by the choices she made afterward.
“People want to know everything about the cellar,” Ruth Anne told Brennan. “They want details about the horror. But those were four years of a life that has now lasted 70 years. I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen. But I’m also not going to let it be the only thing that defines me.”
She refused to speak about the son she had given up for adoption, saying only that she hoped he had found a good family and a peaceful life. She had never looked for him, convinced that reopening that door would bring more pain than healing. When Brennan asked if she had ever learned who had sent the anonymous letter that led to her rescue, Ruth Anne smiled slightly.
“No,” she said. “But whoever it was, they gave us our lives back. That’s enough.”
The story of the missing Kentucky girls faded from public view over the years, becoming a cautionary tale of systemic failure and victims no one was looking for. But for those who witnessed it, the questions never truly disappeared. They lingered in quiet moments, in the faces of strangers who could be the children given up for adoption, in the knowledge that some truths remain buried even after the graves have been opened.
