The call—a child in need of services.

What I found was a child in need of love.

His house sat at the end of a hard-packed red clay path. It was a shabby structure—a notch below “shack” status— that was clad in random lengths of mismatched clapboard-siding. Shreds of tar-paper and rusted tin covered some, but not all, of a rain-blackened plywood roof. Four white, spray-painted cinder-blocks served as a front stoop.

The front door had no knob or lock, just a curved metal handle worn slick from years of pulling and pushing. A brick propped against its bottom held it closed. Someone, I’m not sure who, “locked it” when they left.

I knocked.

“Come in,” a little voice said.

I used the toe of my boot to push the brick to one side.

It was just days before Christmas. There was no tree.

No presents.

No food.

No running water.

No cabinets. No stove.

No refrigerator. No beds.

No drywall. No insulation.

Just bare studs and rafters.

And cold.

Lots of cold.

A small dented and soot-caked kerosene heater fought a losing battle against a brutal December evening. Two re-purposed milk jugs used for holding fuel sat near the splintered front door. Both empty. The heater’s gauge rested at one click above E. The weak orange flame would soon fade away.

The temperature outside was 20, and dropping. The wind persistently forced its way through cracks and holes in the walls, floor, and gaps around the door and windows.

The place was not much more than a garden shed, one cobbled together from scrap wood and discarded “whatevers.”

A tattered blanket and two patchwork quilts. Threadbare and slick from wear.

No winter coats. No hats, nor gloves.

Dirty window panes.

One missing, replaced by a square of cardboard.

Dish towel curtains.

A hardware store calendar, two years old, hung on a dingy wall.

A cooler with no lid.

Mom, passed out on the floor.

A bottle of bourbon, its contents long gone.

A pipe for crack smoking.

“Mama says daddy will come home … someday.”

A dog. All ribs and backbone.

Sad eyes and broken spirit.

The floor, bare.

No rugs, no toys. ­

A table.

Two chairs.

A book.

Three sheets of paper.

The boy, writing.

Cigarettes.

A saucer for ashes, overflowing with discarded butts.

A deck of ragged playing cards.

Roaches. Scurrying up, down, there and here.

Mouse. Unafraid.

An old quilt.

A squalling baby.

The bugs, they’re there, too.

The stench.

A tin lard bucket in the corner.

A checkered cloth on top.

A half-empty roll of Scotts.

The only bathroom indoors.

“You writing a letter?”

A nod.

“To your Dad?”

“No, to Santa.”

“Mind if I have look?”

He held it up for me to see.

“Your handwriting is very nice.”

A smile.

“Dear Santa,

Don’t worry about the bicycle I asked for.

Or the Tonka trucks and new coat.

And I don’t even like video games anymore.

Or DVD’s and toy trains.

I’m too big for those things now.

‘Sides, some men came and took the TV. Said Mama couldn’t pay for it no more. The ‘lectric neither.

What I’d really like is a warm blanket for my brother. He needs some milk too. And some medicine to make his fever go away. And could you help my Mom some? She needs to stop drinking and smoking. I wish you could make those men leave her alone too. They get all lickered up and hit her and do things to her that make her cry. Maybe you could bring my mom a coat for Christmas this year. She don’t have one and she gets cold when she walks down the street to get her cigarettes and that other stuff she smokes.

And if you don’t mind too much could you bring my daddy something to eat. He don’t never have no money. And if you see God while you’re up there flying around please tell him to say hi to my baby sister. And ask him to tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t make Mama wake up and take her to the hospital. If you can do all that, don’t worry about bringing me nothing. I’d like that just fine.”

Your friend,

Jimmy Lee Bailey

*Jimmy Lee Bailey was definitely in need of some love. So, when Christmas morning rolled around he got his Tonka trucks, a bicycle, and a new coat. He also enjoyed a nice meal before moving to his new home. All courtesy of the guys who patrolled the graveyard shift.

 

After serving 25 years in prison (a plea deal) for brutally murdering Tina Mott and mutilating and dismembering her body, Timothy Bradford was released this week into the public. Since he served his full sentence, he is free and without supervision by authorities.

Hamilton, Ohio – June, 1996

It was at 622 Minor Avenue, in the upstairs apartment, where Timothy Bradford slashed the throat of his girlfriend, Tina Mott, killing her.

Bradford claimed that he and Tina had gone fishing earlier in the day and after returning home the couple decided to play a game of Monopoly. At some point during the game, Bradford claimed Tina became angry and charged him. He said he tried to defend himself and while doing so accidentally killed her with a fishing knife he held in his hand.

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622 Minor Ave. I captured this photo from across the street while standing in the front yard of the Ruppert house, the scene of the largest family homicide in the U.S. Details of the Ruppert murders are below.

Then, after killing Tina, the mother of their young child, Bradford attempted to cover his tracks and conceal the identity of his victim by placing her body into the bathtub, where he slowly and methodically dismembered her, using a combination of 19 knives, a hacksaw, and a meat cleaver.

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Bathtub where Timothy Bradford dismembered and skinned the body of his girlfriend, Tina Mott. I took this photo during a walkthrough of the property.

He also used a pair of needle-nose pliers to remove the teeth. Bradford later scattered most of Tina’s remains in a nearby field and lake. He flushed some of the skin and internal organs down the toilet drain in their apartment.

Two young boys found Tina’s skull while fishing.

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Marks on the skull indicated the use of a serrated knife blade to scrape away flesh and tissue.

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Tina Mott

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While conducting interviews in the area, Tina’s former next-door neighbors told me that after her death they sometimes see her shadow pass by the windows of her apartment. Another neighbor firmly believed that Bradford consumed portions of Tina’s flesh after cooking it on a grill outside on the balcony.

The upstairs apartment where Tina lived and died burned in April 2020. The fire started on the balcony.

*Tina expressed on numerous occasions how spooky it was to live across the street from the Ruppert house, a place where several people were murdered.


Here’s part of Bradford’s confession to police.

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Per a negotiated plea agreement, Timothy Bradford was convicted of voluntary manslaughter and abuse of a corpse.

Bradford’s booking photo at the time of his arrest

He was sentenced to 12-25 years for his crimes—Voluntary Manslaughter, Misuse of Credit Cards (He used Tina’s credit card after he killed her), Theft, and Abuse of a Corpse. He entered Ohio’s state prison system on September 24, 1997, just over a year after he murdered Tina Mott. He was denied parole at all hearings

Bradford was mandatorily released on December 6, 2023, after serving his full 25-year sentence.

Timothy Bradford’s inmate photo.


The Ruppert Murders

Hamilton, Ohio – Easter Sunday, March 30, 1975

James Ruppert was an excellent marksman so there was no better way to execute his mother, brother, sister-in-law, and each of their eight kids than to shoot them point blank as if they were nothing more than a row of empty and discarded tin cans. And that’s precisely what he did, starting with his brother Leonard.

Next came Leonard’s wife, Alma, followed by James’ mother, Charity. And, before either of the children could escape disaster, James shot and killed each of them, including four-year-old John, the youngest of the Ruppert brood.

Charity Ruppert, the family matriarch—her midsection a mangled mess, fell to the cold linoleum floor, dead. Her right hand rested above her right breast. The left stretched above her head as if reaching for something just out of her grasp. Her slacks and dress shoes were painted in blood spatter. Her eyeglasses lay beside her on the floor, tangled in her wavy hair. Mouth gaped open. The expression frozen on her face was one of surprise and disbelief. Her eyes stared blankly skyward.

The massacre lasted no more than five minutes.

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Leonard Ruppert, his wife, Alma, and their children.

After slaying his family, James positioned his weapons throughout the house, staging the scene much as would a Realtor who carefully and meticulously places items in preparation of showing a house to potential clients.

Then, when he was satisfied that everything all was in order, James called the police and calmly stated, “There’s been a shooting.”

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Ruppert crime scene photo – living room

Officer Bob Minor was the officer who responded to the call. Officer Terry Roberts would arrive a few moments later, as backup.

Ruppert home

Officer Minor, no stranger to gruesome homicide scenes, had never witnessed anything close to the carnage he saw inside the Ruppert House—the once neat-as-a-pin living room cluttered with the corpses of Charity Ruppert’s precious grandchildren, and a kitchen so full of dead bodies that Minor couldn’t make his way through without stepping on an arm, leg, or a torso. There was so much blood, Minor later told me, that it had begun to seep through the floorboards, dripping into the basement.

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Ruppert crime scene photo – kitchen

James Ruppert was originally found guilty of eleven counts of 1st degree murder. However, on appeal, a three-judge panel found Ruppert guilty only of the murders of his mother and brother. They ruled him not guilty by reason of insanity for the nine other deaths.

Ruppert was sentenced to a minimum of 10 years to a maximum of life for each conviction. The two sentences were to be served consecutively. He entered the Ohio state prison on July 30, 1982.

Ruppert was denied parole at each hearing since the day his incarceration began. His next parole hearing was scheduled for February 2025, just shy of his 91st birthday. However, James Ruppert, inmate A169321, died on June 4, 2022

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James Ruppert inmate photo in 2015

James Ruppert inmate photo in 2020

*     *     *

I wrote about each of these murders and the story, Murder on Minor Avenue, was published in the true crime anthology, Masters of True Crime, Chilling Stories of Murder and the Macabre.

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Masters of True Crime is also available as an audio book.