The Whistling Bandit

In the annals of American crime, some nicknames conjure up an air of menace—“Black Bart,” “Pretty Boy Floyd,” “Machine Gun Kelly.” But among them, a more curious moniker once circulated the beat: The Whistling Bandit. And that was Fred Edgeller’s uneasy calling card.

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Early Echoes: From Missouri to Nebraska

Frederick Clarence Edgeller was born on April 14, 1902, somewhere in St. Louis, Missouri. But by 1910, his father had died and his mother Rebecca was remarried to a grocer named Stewart Moyer. Rebecca and Stewart, along with their baby son and the children from her first marriage, including Fred, were living in Omaha, Nebraska. By 1913, according to news articles in the local papers, Fred was singing in the Trinity Cathedral Boy’s Choir.

By 1920, at age 17 (listed as 18 in the census), Fred was still in Omaha—but curiously, without an occupation recorded. At that point, Fred was no small-town kid: his life was already marked by turbulence. According to newspaper stories, he had run away from home in Kearney, Nebraska, and served time in an industrial school for it. The crime trail, it seems, was already forming.

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Whistling to Work: The Lore of the Bandit

Edgeller’s notorious sobriquet, “The Whistling Bandit,” is rooted in a chilling theatrical flourish. Local accounts say he would stroll into oil stations—rare, exposed outposts in the 1920s—whistling casually before producing a weapon and ordering the attendant to hand over cash. This ritual gave him a reputation not merely as a robber, but as a figure of eerie stamina and brazenness.

It was said he committed multiple hold-ups of this sort in Northern California before law enforcement finally caught up.

He also used aliases—Edward C. Hazen and Clarence Watson—perhaps in attempts to throw the authorities off his trail.

Underneath the legend, the man seems to have been well acquainted with crime: in Omaha, records show involvement in auto theft; in California, reports tie him to boxcar burglaries.

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Final Curtain: January 27, 1926

Edgeller’s career of crime came to a dramatic end in San Francisco at the intersection of 2nd & Howard Streets, around 7:10 p.m. on January 27, 1926. Confronted by police, he was shot and killed by Officer T. Herring. The Oakland Tribune reported that a female accomplice of Edgeller’s who was waiting behind the wheel of a getaway car, drove off after the shots were fired. Police searched but never located her or the car.

Before he died at a nearby hosptal, he allegedly identified himself as “Clarence Watson.” Only later, via fingerprinting at the coroner’s office, was Fred Edgeller recognized as his true identity.

He was 23 years old.

His body was interred at Forest Lawn Memorial Park, Omaha, Nebraska.

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A Dark Legend

What survives of the Whistling Bandit is a blend of dry fact and dramatic myth. The whistling gimmick, in particular, elevates Edgeller above a run-of-the-mill desperado: it adds a psychological edge—a swagger, perhaps even a menace in its calmness. It’s easy to imagine an oil station attendant’s heart skipping upon hearing a whistle in the night, just before the robber steps out of the shadows.

Yet for all the flair, his life was steeped in desperation and crime. Alias usage, prior incarceration, and a trail of thefts point to a man for whom the performance was just part of a darker reality.

The Whistling Bandit may seem a relic of an earlier era—when roads were empty, night shifts left stations quiet, and law enforcement spread thin. But his story retains resonance: a curiosity in criminal folklore, a warning about glamorizing outlaws, and a reminder that real lives—even notorious ones, perhaps especially notorious ones—can end abruptly.

If you ever hear a whistle in the dusk of a deserted street, remember this: it may just be the ghost of Fred Edgeller, carrying a tale of swagger, crime, and a short, fatal curtain.